Page 6 of Groom Gamble

I’m a master at weaponizing silence, and I do it now.

I raise one eyebrow and allow her to fill in what my thoughts might be about what she has written. In particular: five children.

Ohyes. Why stop at five?

3

SOPHIA

The blood drains from my whole body like I sprung a leak in my foot. I might faint.

My boss read myperfect husband list.

The list I wrote as I daydreamed about him, and describes him right down to age, facial hair choices, and eye colour.

“I’m so sorry.” I go to snatch it from his hand, but he whips it out of my reach.

My mind reels through what he must have read.

Oh god. Now would be a great time for me to spontaneously combust. In fact, I think that’s what my cheeks are doing. My body is so embarrassed it’s trying to burn down the office. Perhaps smoke will pour from my burning limbs, the fire alarm will go off, and I can run away down the emergency stairs, out into London, never to be seen again.

“You wrote this?” he asks, with the absolute calm that I both hate and love and admire him for.

“That’s not what it says it is.” I squirm, but the lie is out of my mouth instinctively. Mr Streatham knowing about my pathetic crush on him is too awful. He’s so out of my league he’s practically on a different planet. “I was brainstorming. I was about to change half of it.”

His eyes narrow, and for the smallest moment I think I see disappointment in his face. Then he’s all grumpy arrogance again. He looks down, and reads aloud.

“Black hair. Grey eyes. Good teeth. Nice smile. Over forty. Perfect hygiene.”

That’s not too bad. That’s normal.

There’s a pause and he taps his forefinger on the page as though counting the other points.

Big hands.

I should have added that to the list, but in my defence, I didn’t know that strong hands with a scatter of dark hair and square wrists were such a turn-on until I met my boss.

“Large penis.”

I try not to breathe. Can I become invisible through sheer willpower? Probably not, with the heat emitting from my face.

I wrote penis.

My boss readpenis. Not even a good word like cock or dick. Not a discreet, deniable word like length, staff, or magic sword, because I crossed out “staff” like an absolute muppet.

Actually, I think “staff” is worse. It makes me sound like a girl in a Regency romance about to shock everyone in high society by taking a glove off or something.Oh Mr Darcy! Ladies mustn’t indicate the girth of a gentlemen’s staff with their hand!Combined with my replacing it with penis—the official least-sexy word for cock, except perhaps weenie or beef whistle—gives me all the sophisticated sex appeal of an armadillo putting on lipstick.

My poor cheeks. As Mr Streatham regards me, I’m a neon sign. I could be part of the red-light district.

Armadillo. Lipstick. Trying to be a slut.

Nailed it.

And yet, I know there’s worse to come. Literally.

Mr Streatham regards the paper, his eyebrows reaching about halfway down his nose. I stand utterly still, attempting dignity in this situation of day-time-Japanese-gameshow level of humiliation.

“High sperm count,” he says, slowly enunciating every word.