The Pearl Necklace by Geraldine O'Hara Page B

Bob. Bob! You’re
so hard!
    “Bob?” He
frowned then shook his head. “Where are you going, by the way? I was told to
wait outside for you then escort you to studio four.” He moved to take out the
walkie-talkie sitting in the top pocket of his jacket.
    “Don’t,” I
said. “I just need to visit the ladies’ room.”
    “Oh right.
Wasn’t there one in the dressing room, then?”
    “Yes, but
I want to use a different one.”
    “Ah.”
    He smiled
sheepishly, a blush creeping into his cheeks—so damn cute—and I realised then
that he may well have thought that I didn’t just need a wee.
    “Sometimes
I just like to pee where I want to
pee,” I said, making sure he understood.
    “I see.”
    “Yes,
well, it’s the little things that please me.” I sighed. “And choosing where I
go to the toilet is one of them. I have to have some form of control
somewhere.” I huffed out a laugh. “Not that I get much of that. This is my life
now, and I just need to deal with it.” I smiled brightly and walked on, my big
toe throbbing. I wondered what his cock would feel like throbbing in my hand
then shoved the thought away. I could think about him later when I was finally
alone. Imagine his hardness, his balls of meaty goodness, all ready for me to
kiss and lick and suck and…
    I cleared
my throat, shook my head.
    “Something
wrong?” he asked, striding beside me.
    “No, no,
I’m absolutely fine.” I gave him another smile then turned left at the end of
the corridor.
    At last,
an open space much like an airport waiting area, where people sat on chairs at
round white tables sipping coffee or tea and munching on snacks. I spotted the
woman who’d appeared on that jungle reality show. She’d eaten kangaroo bollocks
in order to earn her group a treat to go with their bland rice for dinner. She
was tanned, blonde, and her make-up hid all the blackheads I’d noticed while
she’d been in the jungle in the confession shack. The camera had zoomed in
close and showed her natural look in all its basic glory. Oh, the miracles of make-up.
    I wondered,
as I walked towards a café hatch, if she felt the same as me, dressed up like a
Barbie by puppet masters, living a life where I had no privacy and everything I
ever did became front-page news the next day. Just last week there had been a
feature on her because she’d bought one of those dogs in a bag. You know the
kind, small animals that fitted snugly in your Yves Saint Laurent, carried
about as an accessory rather than a pet. I’d been urged by management to buy
one myself, although my little Pippa , a pug with
attitude, had become one of my best friends. She kept me company at night and
listened while I prattled on about not wanting to do this or that. I half
expected her to answer back and tell me to be bloody grateful for what I had.
    At the
hatch, I watched the young woman behind the counter in sympathy—and with more
than a touch of envy. She appeared harassed, mousy hair spilling out from
beneath her white cap, and looked as though she’d like to wrench the coffee
machine off the wall as it spurted hot steam into her face. What I wouldn’t
give to be her at this moment, a nobody that no one
gave a shit about. Bob stood at my side, his arm against mine, his scent— Joop if I wasn’t mistaken—wafting all over me. My hole
leaked a bit, and I had to take a deep breath to get myself under control. Damn
thing was like a faucet whenever he was around.
    She turned
and gave me a brilliant smile. “Oh! It’s you. The Pink Pill
Diet Woman.”
    Yes, it
was me, the bloody Pink Pill Diet Woman, a tag the newspapers had given me when
I’d first shot to stardom. Now, they called me Glamour Girl or other similar
names, which made me feel a bit daft because I was no
bugger’s dream girl.
    “Yes,” I
said. “Would you mind telling me where the ladies’ room is?”
    She moved
from the coffee machine to stand directly behind the counter, pressing her
hands to it and