Eighty Days Yellow by Vina Jackson

Rightly, he would say now.
    I stood at the crossroads outside the station, traffic racing by and pedestrians jostling in all directions, and considered what to do. I hadn’t really made many friends in London, other than the couples with whom Darren and I had spent time, going to various dinner parties and gallery openings, and pleasant though they were, they were all his friends, rather than mine. Even if I had wanted to contact any of them, I didn’t have their phone numbers. Darren had organised all our socialising, I just tagged along. I took my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through the numbers in my address book. I considered calling Chris. He was a musician, he’d understand, and he’d be angry if he discovered later I hadn’t called him, but I couldn’t face sympathy, or pity. Either emotion might break me, and then I’d be useless and unable to fix anything.
    Charlotte. From the strip club.
    I hadn’t seen her for a year and hadn’t heard from her during that time other than a few Facebook posts, but I was confident that if nothing else, Charlotte would cheer me up, and take my mind off the violin catastrophe.
    I pressed ‘call’.
    The phone rang. A man’s voice answered, sultry, sleepy, as if he’d just been woken up in a very pleasant way.
    ‘Hello?’ he said.
    I struggled to hear over the rush of traffic. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I think I have the wrong number. I’m looking for Charlotte.’
    ‘Oh, she’s here,’ said the man. ‘She’s just a bit busy at the moment.’
    ‘Can I speak to her? Can you tell her Summer is on the phone?’
    ‘Ah . . . Summer, Charlotte would be happy to speak to you, I’m sure, but her mouth is full.’
    I heard giggling and a scuffle, and then Charlotte’s voice on the phone.
    ‘Summer, darling!’ she said. ‘It’s been for ever!’
    More scuffling, and then a soft moan through the receiver.
    ‘Charlotte? Are you still there?’
    Another moan. More scuffling.
    ‘Hang on, hang on,’ she said, ‘give me a minute.’ The muffled sound of a hand over the receiver and, in the background, a man’s deep, throaty chuckle. ‘Stop it,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Summer’s a friend.’ Then she was back. ‘Sorry about that, darl,’ she said. ‘Jasper was just trying to distract me. How are you, honey? It’s been too long.’
    I imagined the two of them in bed together and felt a pang of envy. Charlotte was the only girl I’d ever met whose sexual capacity seemed to rival mine, and she was so open about it, something I had never been. There was a ready aliveness to her. She had the energy of the air after a tropical storm, all damp heat and ripe lushness.
    I remembered when we had gone vibrator shopping in Soho a few hours before she’d interviewed at the strip club near Chancery Lane. I had felt a little embarrassed and stood at her side uneasily, watching her confidently pick up dildos of all shapes and sizes, and rub them against the soft skin of her inner wrist to check their sensation.
    She had even approached the bored-looking man at the counter and asked for batteries, slipping the AAs inside the base of two similar but slightly different Rabbits with a practised wrist. One of them had a flat nose, and the other was split at the end into a sort of prong, designed to encircle the user’s clit as it buzzed. She ran one pulsating toy up her arm gently, then the other before turning to the man standing behind the counter.
    ‘Which one do you think would be better?’ she asked him.
    He stared at her as if she were an alien, arrived in his store from another planet. I felt the earth move beneath my feet and hoped it was the ground about to swallow me up.
    ‘I. Don’t. Know,’ he said, pausing between each word in case she didn’t understand.
    ‘Why not?’ she replied, not at all dissuaded by his surly tone. ‘You work here.’
    ‘I don’t have a vagina.’
    Charlotte pulled out her credit card and bought both, figuring that she would