Today I am very excited to be part of the blog tour for No-One Ever Has Sex On A Tuesday by Tracy Bloom.
I would like to thank Rose at Arrow for inviting me to be part of the tour!
As part of the tour I’m pleased to share with you;
Katy knew that the night was a disaster waiting to happen the moment she caught sight of herself in the grimy mirrors of The Pink Coconut toilets last summer. Surrounded by the nubile bodies and fresh faces of the under-twenty-five-year-old clubbing set, she realised she looked utterly ridiculous dressed in a schoolgirl costume.
How on earth had it come to this, she thought angrily as she eyed her smeared fake freckles and tatty pigtails tied up with fuchsia pink ribbon. She’d accepted the drop in standards that was necessary to remain a part of the singles social scene after her friends got married, but it was totally unacceptable to have to plunge to these depths. Initially she had been horrified when one by one her friends began muttering the most depressing words any female can say when being asked on a girl’s night out.
“I’ll have to ask David.”
Or even worse…
“Only if Steve doesn’t mind.”
Or absolutely the worst of all…
“Only if Edward can come too.”
She had quite literally wanted to shake them with their pathetically apologetic faces. But rather than witness her friends’ descent into domestic hell, she had left them to it, seeing them only on special occasions when they exchanged awkward conversation as they drifted further and further apart.
Somewhat depressed at this change in her social life and finding herself with extra time on her hands, she had thrown herself into her career and scrabbled around for new buddies with no such ties. Eventually and with considerable effort she forced herself to learn to appreciate the company of some gym bunnies she had somehow fallen in with during a social event at her local Fitness Forever.
She was surprised to discover she could tolerate their perfect spray tanned bodies, their fresh as a daisy make-up after 90 minutes of Step and Thrust and even their incessant giggling every time one of the buff personal trainers came within ten yards of them. She suspected they only adopted her once they learnt she was an Account Director in advertising, assuming that she might one day invite them to audition for a shampoo commercial. Still, after a few Bombay Sapphires she could find them quite entertaining and certainly a step up from the utter degradation of being at home on a Saturday night.
That was, however, until things finally went too far. The gym bunnies had almost wet their gym knickers with excitement when their favourite nightclub had decided to do a school disco night. Katy had been dismayed but reluctantly agreed to go as it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility she might meet someone interesting, even if he did look like Billy Bunter.
On the night in question they arrived at her riverside flat, just outside the centre of Leeds, in a cloud of designer perfume, a cacophony of high-pitched, excruciatingly girly laughter and a noisy clatter of six-inch high stilettos. Katy winced as they all trouped in knowing full well she should have called with an excuse – like the neighbour’s cat was dead.
Within moments there were suspenders, stockings, make up, fake hair, fake eyelashes, straighteners, curlers, push up bras, plunge bras, create cleavage visible from space bras, you name it, all strewn all over Katy’s flat. She looked at her beautiful vintage 1920s coffee table, bought during a weekend away in Brighton with a guy who might have been called Jonny, and wondered whether it would ever recover from one of the girls sitting astride it and giving it six of the best with her headmistress’s cane.
After the obligatory group photo, which Katy insisted on taking to ensure there was no record of her participation in this very grim pantomime, they set off with Katy skulking at the back praying none of her neighbours would choose that moment to go out.
The gym bunnies of course went crazy for the attention they got in every bar they visited, not seeming to notice that the quality of the attention was of a particularly poor standard. Unless of course acne-ridden, overly cocky teenage boys or middle-aged men pretending they were still overly cocky teenage boys was your thing.
By 11 o’clock they were in the club and in the middle of a heaving mass of bodies on the dance floor. It was dawning on her that maybe she was getting too old for this when Christy, the most pert and bouncy of the gym bunnies, proclaimed as soon as Going Underground by The Jam came on, that it was utter shit and who the bloody hell were The Jam anyway? How could she be out with someone who had never heard of The Jam? Katy stopped, swayed slightly, then turned around and stormed off to the bar, aghast that she had got herself into this situation. Old enough to know better, dressed as a stupid schoolgirl with so-called friends who were virtually half her age and, to top it all, had said bad things about the God that is Paul Weller.
As she made her way through the crowd cursing to herself, she didn’t see the bloke backing away from the bar with three pints in plastic glasses balanced precariously in his hands until she was virtually on top of him. She grabbed his arm to steady herself which caused him to lose his grip on the wobbly glasses, two of which dropped like stones to the floor whilst the third did a quick somersault, soaking Katy’s white shirt. She stood there for a moment wondering if her life could get any worse as the cold liquid seeped through her shirt, then her bra to her skin. She dared not look down at the carnage, knowing full well that her shirt was probably now completely transparent, displaying her wares for all to see.
“Why the hell don’t you look where you are going?” Katy screamed at him.
“Easy Tiger. It could be worse, it could have been bitter,” said the guy.
A wisecrack was the last thing she needed. What she needed was to let rip. And so let rip she did.
“You have just topped off nicely the most depressing night of my life. Not only am I way too old to be dressed as a bloody schoolgirl, I am here with a crowd of Barbie bloody bimbos with not a brain cell to share between them, who don’t even know who The Jam are, and think that this song – yes Going Underground – is shit.”
“My night is worse,” he said calmly.
“Look this isn’t a game. My night is utter crap and no-one is going to take that away from me.”
“Oh but I so can,” he challenged her.
“Bollocks you can,” she retorted. “Did I mention that a sweat monster from hell asked me how I liked my eggs in the morning?”
“Clearly desperate,” he nodded.
“Wow, thanks, I’m not that old,” she said in dismay.
“I didn’t mean you,” he said quickly. “I meant desperate if he had to use a line like that.”
“Really,” she said sarcastically.
“No honestly,” he said. “Anyway I like older women. They’re good for conversation.”
“I wouldn’t call this a conversation,” she said angrily. “This is you chucking beer all over me and then insulting me about my age.” She turned to go.
“No, please don’t go,” he said, catching her arm. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s all coming out wrong. You see I really am having a bad night. I’m a teacher, so a school disco is my idea of hell. My mates who dragged me here think it’s all dead sexy and I am like no, no, no, this is bad. I can’t look at a woman in school uniform and think it’s sexy.”
Katy turned back to face him, surprised to find herself wondering what he thought of her dressed the way she was.
“Besides I don’t get it,” he continued. “Tell me who wants to be reminded of their school disco days anyway? Crap music, crap dancing, sober and no way on earth you were ever going to snog who you wanted because they were way more popular than you.”
“Well I guess you have a point,” she said eventually. “But at least you’re here with mates, not lipsticks on legs.”
“There is that I suppose. But all that still isn’t the main reason why my night is worse than yours.”
“Go on then, put me out of my misery,” she said, noticing the look of mischief in his eyes and trying very hard not to like it.
“OK then,” he paused and drew breath. “I went to the men’s and the bloke next to me stared at my you know what and said, “Shame about the ginger pubes.””
Katy couldn’t help but giggle. Just like a schoolgirl.
“But surely you knew you had ginger pubes before you came out?” she said feeling a blush starting to emerge to her horror.
“Of course, but to have a total stranger point them out to you during what should be sacred time is wrong on so many levels.”
He looked genuinely upset which caused Katy to burst out laughing. He started laughing too, obviously pleased he had at last won her over.
“I’m Ben by the way,” he said, offering her his hand still sticky from spilt lager. “So now we are united in misery I can either offer to buy you a drink or we can make a run for it, and go really up-market and grab a kebab?”
Before she knew it she was sitting on a cold stone step outside Gonads’ Kebab House spilling chilli sauce on her black stilettos, knowing this was probably the highlight of her evening.
Talking had been surprisingly easy. She was relieved that he hadn’t offered any embarrassing chat-up lines or false flattery. There was no sob story of a wife who didn’t understand him or a tricky divorce, which seemed to be par for the course with the older men she had been attracting lately. He didn’t even ask her what she did for a living. He just talked utter nonsense about anything and everything which made a refreshing change to the “I’m more successful than you” conversations she was used to with the image-obsessed men she met through work. In fact she realised for the first time in a long time she was with a man and not worrying about what she said or how she looked.
Before long he finished his kebab, licked his fingers one by one then, screwing up the greasy paper, announced he had better be off.
“Football tomorrow,” he said. “You OK to get yourself a taxi?”
He turned to go and then at the last minute he looked back.
“Fancy a drink one night?” he asked.
She hesitated. She had enjoyed his banter but she didn’t want to give the poor lad false hope.
“OK, but just a drink, that’s all.”
“We’d better go out on a Tuesday then,” he said seriously.
“Why?” asked Katy.
“Because no-one ever has sex on a Tuesday.”
They had met for a drink on a Tuesday, then the following Thursday, then the Monday after that, then finally they had had sex on the Saturday.
“You see Tuesday is such a nothing day. Sunday you have end of the weekend sex. Monday you have – bloody hell I need something to cheer myself up because it is still the start of the week sex. Wednesday you have maybe post scoring nine goals at football or boring night on the telly sex. Thursday is the new Friday so you go down the pub and then have – oh dear, aren’t I wild and crazy I’ve had too much to drink on a school night sex. Friday you have – thank Christ another week survived at work sex. And Saturday. Well Saturday is – it’s bloody Saturday I should have sex, sex.
“But Tuesday you see is tricky. What reason on earth is there to have sex on a Tuesday? You ask everyone. I bet you no-one can remember the last time they had sex on a Tuesday.”
Now you’ve read Chapter 2, how would you like to read more?
Thanks to Rose, I have a copy to giveaway to one lucky person in the UK.
The winner will be drawn at random on Monday 28th of April.
To enter, just leave a comment below