The Personal Shopper by Carmen Reid

calling to her from the sitting room.
    ‘Hello, sex bomb!’ he greeted her as she stepped into the room. ‘How did it go?’
    Connor was sprawled right across her sofa, effortlessly gorgeous as always: hair in a messy Elvis-ish quiff – that was new – wearing rumpled jeans and a cuddly rollneck. Two empty beer cans and a family pack of cheese and onion crisps were on the table beside him. He had the remote in one hand, a late night chat show on low volume on the telly.
    ‘Snog!’ he said, holding out his arms.
    Annie leaned over and kissed him on the lips, feeling his arms hug her in tightly. He pulled her down onto the sofa on top of him.
    ‘With or without tongues?’ he joked, pecking at her lips again.
    ‘I think without . . . what with the cheese and onion, but thanks for the offer,’ Annie said, coming up for air. ‘Nice to see you.’
    She tucked her head against his chest and smelled, beneath the pungent crisp breath, comforting manly scents of shaving cream, beer and well-worn jumper.
    ‘So, how did it go?’ he wanted to know. ‘Did you meet Mr Perfect?’
    ‘Yeah right.’ She rolled off and budged Connor over a bit so she was snugly sandwiched between the back of the sofa and his warm body. Ah, the comfort of a gay man. You could use their body for all the huggy, snugly stuff without risking any misunderstanding.
    Then she gave him the story of the evening, blow by   blow, leaving in as many stupid details and silly moments as she could.
    When she’d finished, Connor wriggled a comforting arm around her.
    ‘I do need to find someone,’ she confided. ‘I’m in danger of getting dodgy. I’ve realized I’m paying men to touch me.’
    ‘What do you mean?!’
    ‘My hairdresser’s a man, my chiropractor, my dentist, my doctor . . . it’s when I realized I was really quite enjoying my breast examination, that’s when I suspected I’d turned into a dirty old woman.’
    ‘Don’t mess about, baby, book yourself in for a full gynae exam right now,’ was Connor’s advice.
    She dug an elbow into his ribs.
    ‘You need a hunky male personal trainer,’ Connor suggested, ‘or the suburban housewife’s tried and tested: a tennis coach.’
    ‘Oh , I would . . . but not in the current economic climate.’
    ‘Aha.’
    ‘Anyway, how were the children?’ she asked.
    ‘They were fabulous,’ he assured her. ‘Lana’s still awake in her room I think, listening to her iPod, Owen is probably playing the guitar under his covers to impress his music guru.’
    ‘You met Ed?’
    ‘Oh yes, I’m nearly as impressed with Edible Ed as your children are.’
    ‘Ha. Edible Ed?’ She wondered how anyone could find Ed remotely edible, unless they were a dust mite.
    ‘C’mon,’ Connor insisted. ‘You’ve got to admit, he exudes a certain old school charm . . . but the “gaydar” says he’s not one for the boys.’
    ‘No . . . school rumour is he’s something of a ladies’ man, but I find it hard to believe. How’s your love life anyway?’
    ‘Oh, same old, same old,’ Connor assured her. ‘Absolutely nothing to report. Why does no-one want me?’ He pulled a tragically sad face which earned him another dig in the ribs.
    ‘So The Manor ’s policeman remains “the most eligible bachelor in showbiz” then?’ she teased. ‘I dunno, Connor. You’re gorgeous, you’re on TV, you’re loaded –   maybe people are frightened by the curse of Hello! Maybe they don’t want to wake up and find themselves being interviewed by Heat magazine?’
    ‘Oh very funny.’
    She looked at his handsome chin. She’d inherited Connor. He’d been Roddy’s best friend, but when Roddy exited stage left, he’d come over to her side.
    Connor and Roddy had met on some low-budget film set in Romania. They’d been there for weeks, even though they were bit parts, first and second prince on the right or something. They’d hatched a plan to leave their noble, badly paid film and theatre careers, which didn’t