by Lizzy Grey
“I wrote it on the tube yesterday. Hadn’t even read it through, wanted a bit of spontaneity. Don’t look so scared, Scotland isn’t too bad at this time of year, so I’m told.”
She just managed to smile. “No.”
“He’ll probably give you a lecture on Edward the Bruce or William Wallace, so you won’t be bored. Bring me back a sprig of heather and some tartan shortbread, won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
“Your husband’s coming, remember the dance.”
She nodded and saw Marcus approaching with a glass of champagne for her. “Thank you,”
“Our plane leaves at four,” he reminded her.
“I’m going to change at two.”
“Good. You do look lovely, Freya.”
When they left the reception, someone shouted a few sexually explicit suggestions after them, and Freya rolled her eyes. If only they knew that this was going to be the most unromantic wedding night in history.
They flew up to Scotland, arriving in Aberdeen in the early evening. Marcus drove them to Craigmore House from the airport and when they pulled up at the Gothic mansion, she saw to her consternation, that all the staff had been lined up to greet her.
Marcus made the introductions and she was greeted with either a bow or a curtsy. How much did they know about the Marquess’ marriage and his new wife, she speculated, as she was brought upstairs and shown into the huge bedroom set aside for her.
She had never been to Scotland before and, despite everything, enjoyed herself. They explored historical sites and spent a couple of nights at his mother’s townhouse in Edinburgh, but she was on honeymoon with a friend who just happened to be her new husband. The real test would be returning to London and trying to maintain their charade of a marriage.
“I’ve given you the Blue Room,” Marcus told her as they went up the London townhouse stairs a fortnight later. “I hope you’ll be comfortable there.”
“It’s a lovely room.” She went in and saw that her belongings had already been unpacked. “I’m sure I will be.”
“I’ve also had the morning room turned into a sitting room for you, complete with television and DVD player.”
“Thank you.” The morning room was at the back of the house, so no-one would be able to see her sitting in there on her own. She sat on the double bed and looked around. “I did enjoy Scotland, didn’t you?”
“Very much.” He came into the room and looked around approvingly before his eyes rested on her. “Dinner isn’t until six, I’ll see you then.”
The door closed after him and she got up and went into the dressing room. All her clothes were arranged neatly but she re-arranged a few items so they would be easier to come by. That done, she opened the bedroom window and the scent of freshly mown grass filled the room. Having nothing else to do, she re-arranged her belonging to her liking again before changing her clothes and going downstairs. Marcus was in the library and got up from behind the desk as she went in.
“I’m not disturbing you?” she asked.
“Not at all. I was dealing with some correspondence. There are two letters for you.”
“Thank you.” She took them from him. Both were addressed to ‘The Marchioness of Craigmore’ and she put them down on the desk.
“Your parents have sent us the wedding photographs.” He handed her the envelope. “Two sets.”
She went through the photographs. Her wedding day. Supposedly the happiest day of her life. Still, she didn’t look too nervous in them all. In that one, she was almost smiling.
“Would you mind if I had this one?” Marcus asked, picking up the photograph from the top of the set.
She looked at his choice. Herself alone in the garden. “Of course.” She tried not to sound too surprised.
“I’d like to frame it and have it here on the desk. We could put this one on top of the piano in the drawing room, and if you have some other photographs you’d like to put there, feel free. This will be your home for the next twelve months.”
“Yes. Marcus.” She watched him put his letters in a drawer. “Don’t you think we should discuss exactly what we expect from each other? Before we start off on the wrong foot.”
“Yes, you’re right. After dinner?” he suggested, she nodded, and he led her to the dining room.
While Marcus was at the decanters pouring them an after-dinner whisky, she tried to sort out what she would say in her mind but was overtaken as he handed her her glass.
“As my wife, you’ll be expected to liase with the housekeeper regarding menus, especially if we have guests… Freya, I think you know what is expected of a wife in general so we had better be more specific. I expect you to do nothing which would suggest that ours is anything but a happy marriage. Entertaining lovers either here or in Scotland, or anywhere, really, is out of the question.”
“I did read the document before I signed it. I do know that we both must remain celibate for the next year.”
“Good.”
“Well, if that’s it, I think I will go to my living room and watch some television.”
Taking her glass, she left the room and went along the hall to her sitting room. The morning room had been transformed. Two black leather sofas and a glass coffee table had replaced the desk, chair, and brown sofa. A huge widescreen television stood on a stand in a corner and she turned it on, picked up the remote control, and sat down on the sofa opposite it. Welcome to married life, she told herself.
It soon became clear that Marcus never had guests to dinner and if he did meet friends, it was elsewhere, because no-one ever called to the house and they never went out together. The housekeeper was frighteningly efficient and there was simply nothing for her to do in the house.
As casually as she could, she suggested to Liz and Amanda that they go out one afternoon and evening a week – either shopping, to the cinema, to the theatre, or to a restaurant. That day became Wednesday and she looked forward to the next one as soon as she got home.
After four months, Wednesdays were the highlight of her tedious week and the only thing she looked forward to. Visiting her parents on Sunday afternoons didn’t count, they were far too delighted to have a Marquess as a son-in-law to ever wonder whether his wife was content. Assuring them all how happy she and Marcus were, was becoming increasingly difficult, and soon she rarely mentioned him.
On her way home one Wednesday night, the prospect of another six evenings alone in her sitting room filled her with dread, so she stopped at an off license and bought two small bottles of vodka. She drank half of one of them in the cab home and downed the remainder of the bottle before she went to bed. She woke the next morning with a stinker of a hangover but decided to try ‘hair of the dog’ to blot it out and drank half of the second bottle just after breakfast. It did the trick and she finished the bottle off just after dinner, falling asleep in front of the television.
As Christmas loomed, Marcus approached her in the hall. He never came into her sitting room and she was able to drink in there without him noticing.
“We will, of course, be spending the festive season in Craigmore House.”
“Christmas and New Year?” She stared at him in dismay.
“Yes. My mother and your parents will be there, as well as other guests.”
She bit back a groan. Guests at long last, but the thought of entertaining his stately mother and her own parents over the festive season made her poor heart thump with dismay.
“Freya?” he added. “It would look very odd if I cancelled it all this year. I’ve ordered enough scotch to float a battleship. If things get tough, we’ll just get them all drunk. Okay?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Okay.”
Freya, her parents, and Marcus flew up to Scotland on Christmas Eve. The dowager marchioness was to join them that evening from her townhouse in Edinburgh.
The staff of Craigmore House had worked wonders as the huge gothic house wasn’t cold, there was an enormous Christmas tree in the hall, and what looked
like half a tree trunk was burning in the drawing room’s vast hearth. In her bedroom, she lifted a small bottle of vodka out of her suitcase, unscrewed the top and took a swig before peering out of her window at the snow. Hearing her bedroom door open, she jumped and hid the bottle behind one of the curtains.
“Is everything all right, Freya?” her mother asked. “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m all right. I just wasn’t too keen on coming all the way up here for a fortnight.”
“But it’s beautiful here.” Her mother went to the window and Freya’s heart leapt into her mouth. Don’t look down, she begged. The bottle of vodka was sticking out a little from behind the curtain. “Look at all that snow.”
“If it snows anymore, we won’t even be able to go out for a walk. I wish we’d stayed in London.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Mrs Thompson turned away from the snow and Freya relaxed. “There’s nothing you’d like to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“Are you expecting a baby, Freya?”
She just stopped herself from roaring with laughter. “No, Mummy,” she replied and saw her mother’s face drop. “I’m not pregnant. Do you think you’ll be comfortable in your bedroom?” she asked, changing the subject. “I can have you moved to a different one?”
“It’s a lovely room, Freya, thank you.”
Her mother didn’t mention babies again, much to her relief, and Freya floated through Christmas and New Year on what she was starting to call her marchioness auto-pilot mode but what was, in reality, a sea of vodka.
They returned to London on January 3rd with only seven months to go until the divorce.
“Freya. Freya?” She looked up from her third double espresso one Wednesday afternoon in early February, hearing Amanda’s voice growing more irritated. “Are you listening?”
“Sorry, what?”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“It doesn’t matter. Freya, are you depressed?”
“Depressed?” she repeated.
“Every Wednesday, you seem more miserable and out of it than the Wednesday before.”
“I’m sorry. It’s probably the winter blues or something like that.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Liz asked.
Freya dug her nails into the palms of her hands before answering, “No.”
“Oh.” Amanda looked and sounded disappointed. “I thought you and Marcus would have been at it like rabbits over Christmas and New Year up in Scotland.”
“No. We weren’t. We had to play the amiable host and hostess the whole time. I was exhausted when I got back.”
“And you still look tired,” Liz told her unhelpfully. “You must look after yourself.”
Freya gave her a little smile. “I’ll try.”
On her way home, she stocked up on vodka. A litre bottle for her sitting room and two smaller bottles for her bedroom and handbag. By the time she went to bed, she had drunk half the litre bottle and drank a further quarter before breakfast. She would have to go shopping again. Choosing a larger handbag, she went to the off license and bought two litre bottles. She drank a quarter of the bottle in the alleyway which ran down the side of the shop before going clothes shopping and buying three dresses she didn’t even like. On her way home, she went into the alleyway at the off license again. There was a scruffy man at the far end drinking what looked like whisky and he gave her a grin. Turning her back on him, she drank a quarter of the bottle before buying another, just in case.
The following Wednesday, she pulled off an Oscar-worthy performance by downing five double espressos in three different coffee shops before deeming herself sufficiently sober and meeting Liz and Amanda at their favourite restaurant. She only had two glasses of wine with the meal and congratulated herself on her restraint in front of them. She got into a cab and waved goodbye to them before telling the driver to just drive until she told him to stop. She sat in the back of the cab, swigging vodka and ignoring the driver’s disapproving glances at her in the rearview mirror, before finishing off the bottle and telling him to take her to the hotel she had had her hen party in. She gave him a hundred pounds as she got out.
Making a beeline for the ladies toilets, she went into a cubicle and took the leather dress out of her bag and unravelled the litre vodka bottle from it. Gulping from it, she changed into the dress, before tucking a further one hundred pounds into the top of her stockings and bringing her makeup bag to the mirrors. Putting on a little too much makeup, including a bright red lipstick she had never dared wear before and a vast amount of eyeliner, she stared at herself in the mirror before smiling, taking another gulp of vodka, and returning the bottle to her bag.
Leaving her bag and coat with the cloakroom attendant, she went into the nightclub, and straight onto the dance floor. The agreement stated that she wasn’t allowed to entertain any lovers for the year-long duration of the marriage. That ruled out Jamie and his beautiful cock, but it didn’t rule out casual cock and, God, she needed to be fucked. She began to dance, shaking her skirt with her hands, and revealing her stockings. Within seconds, there were men around her.
“This one’s looking a for a good time,” one commented, and she felt the palm of a hand on one of her buttocks, squeezing then slapping it.
“Dance with me.” She felt two hands on her waist and she was pulled back against someone who gyrated his hips against her and she automatically gyrated her hips against him.
“She’s gagging for it.”
“Want some cock?” the first voice asked and she nodded. “She wants cock,” he laughed. “Come with me.” Taking her hand, he led her off the dance floor and in the direction of the gents toilets. Pushing open the door, he leant her against the wall while he inserted coins into the condom vending machine. Pulling the packet out of the slot, he ushered her into a cubicle, and he sat down on the toilet. He opened his trousers and pulled out his cock. “Impressive, eh?” He laughed as he rolled a condom on. “Come and have some cock.” Grabbing her hips, she had to quickly pull her panties to one side before he kicked her feet apart and pulled her onto him. He was big, but not as big as Jamie, and she groaned with disappointment. He mistook it for pleasure, clamped his hands on her hips, and pulled her up and down. “Ride me, for fuck sake.”
She did as she was told and rose and sank onto him, trying desperately to find release. It wasn’t until he spat on a finger and rubbed her clit that she jerked against him, screaming with pleasure.
“Not bad,” he said and slapped her behind. “Not bad at all. You like a bit of decent cock inside you, eh?”
“Big cock,” she slurred. “I like big cock.”
“I have a big cock.” Someone began to hammer on the door and she got up and opened the door, finding a man holding his cock in his hand for her inspection.
“Get a condom,” she instructed him and went into the next cubicle. He followed her a couple of minutes later, turning her around while pulling her panties to one side, and kicking her legs apart. He thrust hard into her and she cried out, making a grab for the wall to steady herself. “You love that, don’t you?” He grinned as he thrusted. “You love my big cock in your cunt, don’t you?” All she could do was moan and he laughed. “My big cock,” he chanted as he thrust into her before groaning and shuddering against her. “Fuck, that was good,” he gasped and slapped her behind.
Turning around, she watched him leave the cubicle. For all his big cock boasts, he hadn’t made her come. She sat down on the toilet and kicked the door closed, gasping for air. Her mouth was dry. She needed a drink. Extracting a twenty-pound note from her stocking, she got up and opened the door. Apart from two men at the urinals, the toilets were deserted.
She tottered to the bar and asked for as much vodka as the twenty pounds would allow. The barman passed her a half-full glass and she felt him watch her as she gulped it down.
“I
think you needed that.”
“Yeah.” She passed him the glass. “I’ll be back for another later.”
“’You sure?”
“Yeah. I need to dance first.”
“Whatever you say.”
She pushed herself away from the bar and tottered onto the crowded dance floor. Throwing her hands in the air, she gyrated her hips before they bumped into someone who pulled her back against him, pulled her skirt up and thrust a hand down her panties. She groaned as the hand began to massage her clit.
“You like that, don’t you?” the voice whispered in her ear and she pressed herself back against him. “Want to fuck?”
She nodded and he grabbed her hand, almost dragging her behind him as he brought her to the gents toilets. He led her into the cubicle furthest from the door and lifted her onto the cistern. Opening her legs, he pulled her panties aside and began to attack her clit with his tongue.
“Oh, God,” she hissed then moaned as his tongue slid from her and he quickly put a condom on. With one foot on the toilet seat, he thrust up into her. “Make me come,” she whimpered.
“I’ll make you come,” he assured her. “You cheap drunk slag.” That made her gasp but he just laughed and began to rub her clit hard with his fingers. She shuddered against him, crying out something unintelligible and he jerked hard against her and she cried out again. “Drunk slag,” he said again and withdrew from her. He pulled off the condom and flushed it away before pulling up his trousers and leaving the cubicle without giving her a second glance.
She sat on the toilet cistern for a few moments before sliding off it. She wobbled and had to grab the door. It was time to go home. Retrieving her coat and bag from the attendant, she zigzagged her way out of the hotel and went to find a cab. Three drivers refused to take her and she had to offer the fourth driver an extra twenty pounds before he allowed her to get in.
“Good night, was it, love?” he asked but she didn’t reply. Her pussy hurt and she was dying to rub it, but he kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
She asked to be dropped off two streets away from home and she hoped she would make it there without falling flat on her face. She tottered along the pavement, occasionally having to grab onto railings to steady herself, before inserting the house key into the lock on the third attempt. She crept into the house and up the stairs, taking the vodka bottle from her bag as she went.
