The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green Read Online Free PDF

her silk wrap dress so it tumbled to the floor to reveal she was naked bar a pair of midnight-blue couture French knickers and killer high-end heels. The memory of that pleasure made her flush all over again. But it was the afterwards that had left its mark. Because he didn’t cut and run like the others had. He never ever did. She was always the one leaving him. It made her feel in control – that what she was doing was temporary. She could give him up any time she liked. It was just sex: nothing more than the physical thrill of racing pulses of anticipation, heavy eyelids of lust and abandonment. With Lance, it was a very good substitute for the love she craved.
    He’d ask to stay over at hers but she consistently refused. It proved she wasn’t taking it seriously. And appeased the hideous guilt of having sex with a man who was a father, and taken. She didn’t want to let him into her cocoon either: her rented ground-floor flat, in the trendy area of Pontcanna with its bars, cafes and indie shops, was where she could repair her soul.
    The trouble was though, Lance talked as if she was the one who’d bail out; as if he was the victim. Reality became suspended when he’d imply he had no intention of calling it off. Every time she saw him, she braced herself for the ‘I think we need to cool it’ cold feet conversation. It never came. Instead he appeared to hang on her every word, laugh at her jokes and flatter her at every opportunity, talking about the future.
    But that would mean walking out on his girlfriend, his son – it was obscene. So she kept him at bay, she had to. He would only dump her as the others had done. Always unavailable, whether there was another woman or a career at a critical point.
    Why, at the age of thirty, was she putting herself through this yet again? she asked herself, applying moisturiser with her fingertips.
    Because he treated her nicely, asked about her day, opened doors for her. No man had ever done that and meant it. Not even her dad. His approval had been missing her whole life, that’s why she was such a sucker for it now.
    Like today in the car, Lance had been really chuffed for her when she told him the PR company had won a massive contract: okay, she was only a personal assistant but she’d done her bit, schmoozing the clients over lunch. Her boss had even thanked her personally and Letty hoped it meant he might finally fork out for the day-release course she wanted to do to get an industry qualification. Lance praised her people skills and bigged up her potential. But Letty was so lacking in confidence she believed Ross only let her wine and dine people because she was a bit of office totty. How she wanted to get in on the actual public relations bit, to have her own accounts and apply all the stuff she’d picked up in the ten years she’d been in the business. Bright young things with degrees had always pipped her at the post when she’d gone for jobs. She’d joined this company a year ago when the grapevine hinted at expansion and opportunities later down the line. But so far, no good.
    A sad smile came to her as she remembered how Lance had called her a drongo for being so negative. She’d dismissed him then. Work was work, it paid for her clothes, that was all she’d admit to. Again, there had been the denial of what she craved inside: recognition for who she was not what she looked like.
    Letty got up, wandered about her room, picked up her book, threw it on the floor then flopped on to her four-poster bed. The next man who sleeps here will be the real bloody deal, she told herself.
    If only Lance wasn’t with someone else: because she knew she could love him. Whatever she’d said about his crappy name for his gym. He wasn’t a bimbo, far from it. An all-rounder both physically and academically, he’d been selected for Olympic swimming trials before an injury cut short that dream. So he’d