“I really think so,” I assure her. I suggest she lets some of the other staff try the cake as well and they all comment on how delicious it is, putting Kirri’s mind at rest just like I knew it would. I spend a little longer with everyone catching up on news from the weekend and making a list of the stock I need to order first thing in the morning until I can feel my day catching up with me.
When I get back upstairs to the flat, I find Taylor just finishing up with his conversation. His face is like thunder though he does his best to smooth out his features when he sees me come up the stairs.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask Taylor, knowing better than to push him.
“Not right now,” he shrugs. “I need to get a few things straight in my head first. I think I am going to go for a run.”
“Cool,” I respond. Taylor seems to be running a lot these days and I sometimes wonder if he is nervous about Bean’s imminent arrival and using the exercise to blow off some steam. Today’s run though is probably more to do with Richard’s disappearance than how he is going to cope with a life full of dirty nappies.
With a nod, Taylor strides through to the bedroom and when he appears a couple of minutes later, he has pulled on a vest and some running shorts. I can’t help but admire his lean but muscular legs and his tight, firm arse as he heads down the stairs.
The Fourth
A shrill beeping noise interrupts my blissful slumber and I force my eyes open to see what could be the source of the annoying sound. It takes a couple of moments to register that it is, in fact, my alarm. I struggle for clarity until I remember that I have an appointment with my midwife first thing this morning. My back aches as I force myself out of bed and when I go to stand I realise how puffy my ankles are. Gah, pregnancy is so glamourous in the later stages, I think to myself with a wry chuckle.
A slow, hot shower helps to ease the aches from my body and by the time I step out from underneath the steaming jets I feel ready to face the day. I have the time so I spend a few minutes blow-drying my hair and putting some makeup on to disguise the paleness in my complexion and when I stand back to survey my reflexion I feel pleased with the results of making an effort for once.
My wardrobe choices, however, are limited; Bean seems to be on as massive growth spurt at the moment so the majority of my maternity clothes no longer fit over my bump. Fortunately, I can still get into a couple of my wrap dresses so I pull out one in a lovely forest green colour that always seems to make my eyes sparkle. A few moments later and I am slipping my feet into a pair of silver flip flops, the only kind of footwear I appear to be able to get on these days, and I am ready to go.
The drive to the private clinic where I will have Bean is mercifully short and I am glad Taylor has organised a car to drive me there; not being able to drive myself has been one of the major inconveniences of being so heavily pregnant. As I walk through the door, I am greeted by the smiling receptionist who lets me know that my midwife, Janet, is running a few minutes late. I take my seat and glance around at the other mothers-to-be. There are a couple of faces I recognise from my previous appointments and we smile in greeting to each other, along with a few new women with tiny bumps that I haven’t seen before.
Soon my turn is called and I make my way down to Janet’s room. As I enter, I can’t help but smile as I usually do at her wall of ‘fame’, a whole wall filled with pictures of the babies she has delivered. “Bean is going to be up there soon,” I say by way of greeting.
“I know,” Janet replies with a grin. Janet is a woman in her mid-forties with greying hair that she always has tucked up into the neatest bun I have ever seen; there is never a strand out of place. She is the most down-to-earth person I have ever met and has been an absolute rock throughout my pregnancy, answering all my crazy questions and putting my mind to rest of the impending birth.
“So, how are we both doing today?” Janet asks as she looks me over with a practised eye.
“Good,” I respond cheerfully. “I seem to be sleeping quite deeply but still getting up to pee through the night. I have the usual aches and pains, and my hands and feet are quite swollen, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good, good,” she responds. “Right, let’s go through the usual routine.” Janet indicates at the scales and we get started with the regular measurements. The last part of the appointment is my favourite; I get to hear Bean’s heartbeat. She hooks me up to the Doppler machine and a few moments later the silence is broken by the sound of galloping horses. I feel a smile stretch across my face; no matter how much movement I feel inside of me I always have this irrational fear that we won’t be able to find Bean’s heartbeat.
“That all sounds good and healthy,” Janet remarks as she makes a few notes and then hands me some paper towel to wipe the gel off my belly. I sit up feeling enormously relieved at her words. Rationally, I know that Bean could be born now and be perfectly okay; she is thirty-eight weeks exactly. But there is this niggly part of me, I guess the ‘mother’ part, that wants to make sure she stays put until she is absolutely ready to come out.
We chat for a few minutes more but I am conscious of the other women waiting to see Janet so I tell her I should get going. She gives me some final instructions and demands that I pack my hospital bag, something that I seem to keep putting off though I am not sure why. I reassure her that I will do it as soon as I get home and leave the room with a final wave.
As I step outside the clinic, the sun is shining down brightly on my head and I decide that I am not ready to head back to the flat so instead I ask the driver to take me to Genevieve’s home. I have been talking to her daily on the phone since the funeral but I want to see for myself how she is doing.
It is not long before the car is pulling up on the gravel in front of Genevieve’s large home. The hanging baskets are overflowing with large colourful blooms in all shades of red, orange and yellow and I can see that it won’t be long before the fragrant wisteria that covers the frontage will be in bloom.
I have barely made it out of the car when I see the front door open and Genevieve steps out to greet me. She is immaculately presented; her dress is pressed, her makeup is flawless and not a hair is out of place. In fact, if it weren’t for her bloodshot eyes you wouldn’t think anything was wrong.
I walk across to her and give her a warm hug. “I hope you don’t mind me popping over,” I say as I pull back, “I just finished at my midwife’s appointment and thought I would come and see you before heading home.”
“Not at all, my dear. It’s lovely to see you. I trust everything was as it should be?” I see a flash of concern cross Genevieve’s face and I’m quick to reassure her that everything is okay.
“Everything is fine. Just a routine appointment for measurements and hearing Bean’s heartbeat,” I say with a smile to alleviate any concerns she may have.
“Oh I’m pleased to hear that,” she replies with a genuine smile. I feel an enormous sense of relief when I see that spark of happiness, even if it is just for a moment. “Let’s get the kettle on, shall we?” she says ushering me through the front door. I check with the driver if he wants to come in but he insists he is happy waiting for me in the car. Apparently he is halfway through the latest Dan Brown audiobook and wants to find out what happens next. I give him a thumbs up and then follow Genevieve through the spacious hallway down towards the kitchen.
As Genevieve puts the kettle on the stove to boil we chat a little about how she is doing. Her voice is so sad as she talks about Harold and I can only imagine the pain she must be feeling. I am not even completely there yet but it doesn’t seem right that a parent should outlive a child.
She goes on to tell me that Harold’s will is going to be read tomorrow, something I wasn’t aware of, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of can of worms that will open. I let out a sigh at the thought of more drama but quickly cover it up when Genevieve looks at me questioningly.
I watch as Genevieve’s hands shake as she po
urs the now boiled water into the teapot; her grief is palpable. I ask if I can help but Genevieve insists she is fine so I take a seat at the wooden table in the window where she has set up two cups and saucers. We have just taken a sip of our respective cups of steaming Earl Grey when suddenly I hear a great big bang come from the front of the house. Before I can even struggle into a standing position to go and investigate Gillian comes flying into the room.
The sight of her is truly worrying. Her usually immaculately coiffured hair is dishevelled, she is wearing no makeup and her shirt doesn’t match her skirt. The moment she sees us she starts yelling, “How dare you? You over-bearing bitch. I always knew you were evil but this just takes the cake.”
For a moment I think she is talking to me but as her gaze narrows in on Genevieve, I realise that for once I am not the focus of Gillian’s wrath.
“You poisoned him. You poisoned my own husband against me and now I am going to be destitute. I am going to be left with nothing. How dare you? My children will be homeless and it’s all your fault. I knew you never liked me, that you hated the fact that Harold married me, but I never thought you would stoop so low.” Gillian eventually runs out of words and breath and spends a moment panting like she has run a marathon.
I turn to look at Genevieve and she looks as incredulous over Gillian’s outburst as I am. Very slowly and deliberately, like she is talking to a young child, Genevieve responds, “Gillian, I have no idea what you are talking about. Nor, why you think it would be appropriate to burst into my house in such a manner.”
“My accounts,” Gillian wails, “They have been frozen and I can’t access any of my money. It’s all your fault, you insufferable bitch. I know you persuaded Harold to write me out of his will, they told me it has been changed.”
I can’t believe what I am witnessing. Gillian is becoming completely unhinged. I struggle to my feet feeling uncomfortable facing Gillian from my seated position. “Don’t you dare talk to Genevieve like that,” I defend. “I have no idea what your issue is but you have no right to come in here and start making accusations.”
“I’m not talking to you,” she snaps at me.
“Clearly,” I respond as calmly as possible not wanting to let her see any weakness. “But that doesn’t mean I am going to let you come in here and behave like a toddler throwing her toys out of her cot.”
I catch a movement over Gillian’s shoulder and I see Tony, my driver, has made his way into the house; no doubt all of Gillian’s screeching has interrupted his audiobook. He looks at me questioningly and I shake my head slightly while holding up a finger to signal him to give us a minute.
“Gillian,” Genevieve says in an icy tone. “I have no idea why your accounts have been frozen. I have no idea what has been written in Harold’s will. As for poisoning my son, the only person who's responsible for that is you, Gillian. Now I will encourage you to turn around and leave my house before the nice you gentleman behind you escorts out. The decision is yours.” Despite Genevieve’s mild words, I can see the iron will in her demeanour and I want to applaud her for remaining so calm in the face of Gillian’s wrath.
Gillian whips her head around and catches sight of Tony, a six-foot-six wall of pure muscle and a face like thunder. Her face visibly pales as I watch the cogs turn in her head. It takes a couple of moments but then she comes to a decision, turns on her heel and marches towards to doorway. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she throws over her shoulder towards us as she barges past Tony rudely. A moment later, the front door slams loudly and we let out a collective sigh of relief.
“Are you ladies okay?” Tony asks us both.
“I am fine thanks, Tony. Thank you though for coming to our rescue. You certainly made her think twice about making any more threats,” I respond feeling hugely grateful that he has come to our aid.
“Yes, thank you for your assistance, Tony,” Genevieve adds. “Please join us for a spot of tea,” she insists and seems relieved when Tony agrees and joins us at the table. I notice him pull out his smartphone and tap out a quick message.
“Henry?” I query knowing that this little ‘incident’ will probably be one of the many reported daily.
“Yeah. Sorry, Abby, I have to let him know,” Tony responds with an apologetic look on his face.
“That’s no problem,” I respond with a weak smile knowing that Tony is only doing his job and would probably get a strip torn off him if he didn’t report it and either Henry or Taylor found out about Gillian’s erratic behaviour.
“What on earth was her problem?” I wonder out loud and look at Genevieve to see if she has any answers.
“I haven’t got a clue, darling,” Genevieve responds quietly. “Though, if the police still suspect that Gillian has been helping Richard with his disappearance, they may have frozen her accounts so that she cannot give him any money,” she muses.
“That sounds about right,” I say. “Doesn’t give her the right to come crashing in here though and making accusations,” I continue angrily, feeling upset on Genevieve’s behalf.
Genevieve closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath before responding evenly, “I may not like the woman much but we need to remember that she has just lost her husband, one of her sons is in prison and the other one wants nothing to do with her. Her world is unravelling around her and she is probably feeling like she is losing control over things. Her erratic behaviour is simply a manifestation of everything she is feeling inside.”
I suddenly feel a little abashed at Genevieve’s words. Gillian’s world is crashing around her. I am not sure I could be as magnanimous as Genevieve but I guess we should all be cutting Gillian a little slack at the moment.
“You are right, Genevieve. Gillian is grieving and losing a husband would be incredibly hard for anyone. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if I lost Taylor.” I offer Genevieve a sad smile which she returns. “I guess this is going to make things interesting tomorrow when the will is read,” I quip and I am relieved when Genevieve chuckles lightly in response.
We chat for a little longer until the exhaustion creeps over me and Genevieve insists that I head home for a rest. I give her an extra tight squeeze when we say goodbye and I make a mental note to tell Taylor that Genevieve has lost weight; she feels almost fragile in my arms these days.
With a final wave, the car pulls out the drive and I lay my head back against the headrest, staring out of the window as I try to focus my jumbled thoughts.
The Fifth
The front door lock clicks and I find myself freezing, my hands stilling from the pastry I am currently making. The tread on the stairs tells me everything I need to know; today has not been a good one for Taylor. I quickly wipe the flour off my hands using my apron and then pull it off over my head before leaving it on the countertop. My pie can wait.
I have just rounded the kitchen island when Taylor emerges for the stairwell. His expression is a carefully-set expressionless mask that means something is definitely wrong. I barely have a chance to greet him before I am wrapped up in his embrace, his arms pulling me into his taut frame while his lips plunder mine in an aggressive kiss that I know is going to leave my lips bruised and sore.
Taylor’s hands are like pythons winding their way around me, pulling me tighter and tighter against him until an almighty kick from Bean lets him know that enough is enough in a ‘Dad, give me some space’ kind of way. Taylor loosens his arms slightly and instead turns his attention to my mouth. He nips at my lower lip and I let out a gasp giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. It is a battle of wills as the kiss grows more and more frantic, like Taylor is trying to exorcise some kind of demon through his kiss. Eventually, though I am gasping for air and have to force my hands between our chests to get him to stop.
“Bad day then?” I ask quietly as I look up at Taylor whose chest is heaving. He avoids my eyes and my question and instead sets to work at kissing my neck, nipping my earlobe and running his fingers throu
gh my hair. Before I know what is happening he is walking me backwards, his fingers fumbling with the tie at the front of my dress. I feel the dining room table nudging the small of my back but I am so distracted by Taylor’s kisses that I barely notice until I suddenly find myself seated up on the cool wood.
Suddenly Taylor releases me and takes a step back, surveying me with hooded eyes, the lust written across his face. I am breathing heavily from the delicious assault on my senses but I get the feeling that Taylor is just letting me get my breath back. I am right and no sooner have I gulped in a couple of lungful’s of fresh air than Taylor’s lips plunder my own. I feel Taylor’s fingers shifting the loose fabric aside, exposing my large breasts encased in my most unattractive, functional bra. Taylor seems to have no qualms though as he begins to palm them through the plain cotton fabric. My nipples pebble under his touch begging for more attention.
I squirm under Taylor’s touch, the ache in my pussy growing. “More!” I demand as I begin to grind my crotch against Taylor’s thigh to gain some relief. Taylor’s mouth moves down my chest, his teeth teasing my hard nubs through the soft material of my bra. As he bites down gently on one of my nipples, I feel the sensation pierce through to my core, a bolt of lightning that has me begging for even more. A moment later I feel Taylor’s fingers tugging at the fabric of my panties. I can feel him trying to manoeuvre them down my hips but when they get stuck, he just rips them off before plunging his fingers inside of me.
A low moan escapes my mouth as the sensations begin to build, the friction of his palm against my clit sending sparks through every nerve ending in my body. Taylor captures my mouth again in a fierce kiss that leaves me panting when his finally breaks away. I am about to pull Taylor back into another kiss when he suddenly drops to his knees and spreads my knees wide. In a position that we have managed to perfect over the last couple of months, Taylor begins to massage my clit with his tongue while plunging his fingers in and out of my wet pussy.
Book Four: Thirty Days, Book 4 Page 3
