Read Online Dog Handling by Clare Naylor - Free Book Online

closely. “Night in alone, eh?” he asked sympathetically.
    “Yeah.” Liv confided, “Had quite a few of those lately. I was pissed on from a great height by the man I was supposed to marry.”
    “Never? But you’re gorgeous, darling. What was he thinking?” He pouted as Liv loaded her shopping into a plastic bag. This was exactly the kind of response she loved. Yeah, dumbass Tim.
    “That he could do better. Clearly. You know, I haven’t so much as kissed another man for five years.” Liv was beginning to know how people felt on
Springer.
Once you got into the habit of confessing the stuff of your soul to total strangers it was hard to stop.
    “You are kidding me?” He stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes lit up. “Well, fate could not have been kinder to you tonight, sweetness. We are going to a party.” He took Liv by the arm and led her out of the shop. “I’m Dave, by the way. Venture capitalist by day. Miss Pussy Whiplash
par nuit.”
He held out his Schiapperelli pink–nailed hand, Liv wasn’t sure if she was meant to shake it or kiss it.
     
    It wasn’t until several hours later that Liv realised that the sticky mess at her feet signalled the sad demise of her Rainforest Crunch. And as it was by now one in the morning and she’d been on the Orgasms for the last few hours, neither did she care. She was perched on a bar stool in a sweaty room surrounded by drag queens and the cutest taut-chested, high-bottomed men she had ever seen. And bar a few females who looked like they could be the bouncers, she was the only woman in the place. Not that this improved her chances of anything other than being able to shamelessly ogle the talent. Some men were dressed as devils, others glittered as angels, and one was Monica Lewinsky with attendant cigar and large hair. The floor show was about to begin and the lights dimmed in preparation for Dave’s entree.
    For Dave just happened to be the most spectacular live act this side of the opera house, and, having introduced Liv to all his friends and plied her with innumerable Orgasms (the alcoholic variety, he had reassured her when he offered her one and she looked dubiously at his frock), was now about to entertain her. Along with about five hundred gay men.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Pussy Whiplash. Please give her a warm hand.” The compere pouted as the strains of Cher’s “Life after Love” began. Dave exploded into the room and began to belt out his number. With sucked-in cheekbones he mimed his way through the song, and Liv couldn’t help thinking that if Cher were there she might be very flattered. Dave had the best set of legs this side of a
Sports Illustrated
calendar and all the men, and even the bouncer-women, were enthralled. As the audience whistled, Dave leaned across the bar and flicked one fake-eyelashed eye at the man standing next to Liv. Liv had already deduced this was Dave’s boyfriend, James.
    “Lucky you,” laughed Liv, and waved her hands in the air in what passed for a dance to the untrained eye. The last time Liv had moved to music with such abandon had been to “The Land of Make-Believe” by Bucks Fizz when she was eleven.
     
    “Ooh, baby, he was great. So, James, how long have you guys been together?” Liv asked as the lights went up again and Dave, alias Cher, clicked his heels backstage to disrobe, or whatever one does after a bout of Cher-ness.
    “Call me Greta, darling. I’m only James when the sun’s above the yardarm.” James smiled. He had arched eyebrows and a cigarette in a holder. “About eight years, which doesn’t seem to have been even slightly impaired by the fact that we work for rival city firms.”
    “Two investment bankers in one night.” Liv pondered. “So it is possible to work in finance and be interesting. Must just be me who isn’t.”
    “Oh, for sure.” James—sorry, Greta—smiled. Actually, James pronounced it “Greeter” with a heavy Aussie accent and it was a reference to his