CHAPTER 17
I’D REHEARSED THIS routine so many times before. Strip, shave my armpits and my legs, then check my bikini-line wax was still good. Take a shower. Moisturise and put deodorant on. Blow-dry my hair. Brush my teeth. Do my make-up. Make sure I had condoms and lube in my purse.
I could have done it in my sleep.
So why, tonight, did it feel so awkward?
The girl staring back at me from the mirror as I brushed on mascara wasn’t looking forward to going out, and when she touched up her lipstick, she didn’t relish the thought of somebody else sucking it off.
What’s wrong with me? This was what I did. This was how I got through my life, from one week to the next. It was my drug, my fix.
Why wasn’t I craving it like the lifeblood it was?
On my way through the living room, I paused a
