In at the Deep End
‘Every woman should own a copy of this book’ Erin Kelly author of He Said/She SaidUntil recently, Julia hadn’t had sex in three years.But now:• a one-night stand is accusing her of breaking his penis;• a sexually confident lesbian is making eyes at her over confrontational modern art;• and she’s about to learn that she’s been looking for love – and satisfaction – in all the wrong places.Frank, filthy and very, very funny, In at the Deep End is a brilliant debut from a major new talent.#ImInAtTheDeepEnd
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The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Kate Davies 2019
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Ros Roberts/Getty images
Kate Davies asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events or actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008311346
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008311360
Version: 2018-12-13
To my one true Spud
Table of Contents
6. A SEXY, WORDLESS TONGUE CONVERSATION
11. WHIPS ARE VERY TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY
14. TEFLON-COATED BY HAPPINESS
16. NO ONE STARTS WITH JUST ONE JUGGLING BALL
17. I CAN REALLY SEE THAT YOU ARE A MAMMAL
19. ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASKET
21. THE WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION
22. GIMP MASKS AND WAGON WHEELS
23. NOT THAT KIND OF MARRIED PERSON
24. I HOPE YOU’VE BROUGHT YOUR PYJAMAS
27. THIS IS WHERE THE MAGIC HAPPENS
28. A VERY ATTRACTIVE CAR CRASH
33. SAVING CONTENTMENT FOR MY RETIREMENT
40. LEMON DRIZZLE v BLUEBERRY TART
One Saturday morning last January, Alice pointed out that I hadn’t had sex in three years. I knew I’d been going through a dry patch – I’d been getting through vibrator batteries incredibly fast, and a few days previously I’d Googled penis just to remind myself what one looked like – but the full force of how much time I’d wasted not having sex hadn’t hit me till then.
The last time I’d had sex was nothing to write home about either, let me tell you. He was a twenty-one-year-old editorial assistant from Alice’s office with an unusually large forehead, and it happened after a terrible house party that left our flat stinking of pastis. I tried to take him to my room, but a couple were already in there, dry-humping on top of the duvet, so we did it on the fake leather sofa in the living room. I kept getting stuck to the sofa, sweat pooling in the gap beneath my lower back. I don’t think he’d ever fucked anyone before, so it was a bit awkward and thrusty, and he cried and hugged me for too long afterwards. It comes back to me in flashes all the time – I could be boarding a bus, washing my hair, or sitting on a particularly squeaky sofa when suddenly I see his clenched red face or his sweaty pubic hair and flinch involuntarily. Enough to put anyone off sex for, say, three years.
To be honest, I’d always preferred the idea of sex to sex itself. In my imagination, I was experimental, confident, uninhibited, a biter of shoulders, a user of words like ‘pussy’. I could think about sex in the filthiest terms and speak frankly about it to friends – but when it came to actually doing it, or talking to someone I might do it with, I clammed up. I struggled to think of myself as sexy when I was with another person. I struggled to say sexy things with a straight face. It all felt performative to me, ridiculous, too far removed from the way I behaved in a non-sexy context, like I was playing a part in a porn film, and playing it badly. I couldn’t even flirt convincingly, certainly not when I was sober. Which might go some way towards explaining why it had been so long since I’d fucked anyone.
Alice and Dave, on the other hand, did have sex. A surprising amount of it, actually, considering they’d been going out for five years. The Friday night before that Saturday morning, I was alone in the living room, trying to ignore the sex noises coming from their bedroom. Our flat had incredibly thin walls, so it was almost as if I were there with them. How can something that is so much fun when you’re doing it (though not always – see previous note about sweaty sofa sex) be so repulsive when overheard? I didn’t mind living with a couple; having three people in the flat brought the rent down. Also, Dave had several Ottolenghi cookbooks and some very tasteful mid-century furniture, so we were better fed and more stylish than we would have been without him. But sex-noise-wise, I’d had enough.
