by Orla Bailey
We do a lot of hung-over sight-seeing during the day, eat in fabulous restaurants and consume so much delicious Italian ice-cream I wonder if I’ll ever be able to squeeze into my wedding dress.
“I’ll have to roll you up the aisle on a trolley in your old bathrobe,” Libby suggests, sniggering less than helpfully, clearly agreeing with me that I’ve put on hundreds of pounds.
I groan in discomfort after the latest culinary blowout. “Jack will take one disgusted look and tell me he’s changed his mind.”
The girls all shriek with hilarity and zero sympathy while I tunnel my way down another too-delicious seven percent fat, double Bacio gelato.
At night we sample the Italian nightlife – some of us more unspeakably than others – and I try my frantic best to dance most of the calories I’ve consumed off, before we get back to the hotel. At least if I ignore the cocktails and Champagne I glug. Which I steadfastly do.
My girlfriends are astounded Jack has funded such an incredible trip for us.
“No way would my boyfriend ever let me loose like this, just before our wedding.”
“That’s because you’d end up working in a bar on the Amalfi coast, shacked up with some hunky bartender named Luigi.”
“Jack trusts me,” I boast.
They all turn and eye up the security team. “Yeah, right.” They think he’s a rich, control freak but they don’t know the down-to-earth Dublin boy that I do.
“You’re all jealous as hell,” I slur, drunkenly. I’m too happy about my lot to care.
“He’s probably on a strippers’ weekend in Prague,” someone teases.
“Followed by the mass annexation of a super-brothel in Stuttgart,” my so-called friends add. “Perhaps throwing his money at us goes a long way to assuage his guilt.”
I merely laugh at the notion. Trust grows in me like love.
Flowers and chocolates arrive at the hotel every day sent by Jack. They are always accompanied by a simple handwritten card which says, I love you. Be good.
A beautiful couture cocktail dress is left in the bedroom for me on my last night in the city.
“It’s a bit sexy, isn’t it?”
“Tight-fitting, short and flirty,” I squeal delightedly.
I believe Jack is showing how hard he’s working to overcome his need to control whilst letting me know exactly how much he trusts me too.
Several bottles of Champagne later I think differently. “Perhaps he is feeling bad about what he did last night,” I wail, swinging from one extreme to the other, as we wander our way back to the hotel, high-heels dangling from our fingertips. I’m working hard to control my baser instincts and I’m not sure if all the alcohol I’m consuming is helping or hindering.
“All brides-to-be say that.” My fears are dismissed as everyone plays devil’s advocate once more.
“You’re tripping,” Libby states, consoling me. I’m not sure who’s more drunk, her or me. “He loves you. Besides John would tell me if Jack was up to anything.”
I look at her as I’m not so sure he would. “Mr Blackstock is very loyal to Jack.”
“But I’m fooling around with him,” she gloats. “Nothing tops that.”
All I can think about is that I’ve refused to fool around with Jack in ages. I’m repenting my mistake already. He needs sex like I need Italian pizza.
Nevertheless, it’s a fabulous weekend. We laugh ourselves stupid and nothing can spoil it. I even enjoy my brief moments of misery. The only reason I’m so happy to get back on the plane home is to see Jack again. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed him.
We both desperately want missed you sex as soon as he collects me from the airport – especially when we detect Libby and Blackstock creeping away for precisely that purpose – but I just about manage to hold firm. Which is more than I can say for my little rounded stomach which Jack notices immediately and pats fondly, laughing at my acute embarrassment.
“Only a few more days and you’re all mine,” he warns, growling in heated frustration.
“All seven hundred pounds of me,” I groan, mortified.
“More to make love to.”
I take his desperation as a good sign of his weekend faithfulness and know I have just enough time to lose the excess pounds before he gets me naked again. If I forgo eating completely and do sit-ups until dawn.
* * *
I go alone down to Chelsea, to Phillipa Lepley’s Fulham Road boutique, for a final fitting of my bridal gown. No-one gets to see it before the big day except me. Such a brilliantly talented designer, Phillipa has made the most exquisite dress for me. I know Jack will be speechless as he watches me coming up the aisle. It’s designed to fit the contours of my body perfectly, which happily haven’t grown so out of shape with my mindless guzzling in Italy that it needs to be altered. The fact that I can’t eat a thing with nerves and hardly expect to between now and then helps tremendously.
I view the elegance of the sumptuous Italian silk bodice with its built-in corset from all angles in the fitting room mirrors. It shows off my figure amazingly, making me look ten times more beautiful and feminine than I really am. The hundreds of Swarovski crystals which adorn it make me glitter like a glow bug at a June ball under the spotlights. I feel as graceful as a catwalk model as I glide in it.
I especially love the delicate, pretty French-lace straps and I know Jack will go insane when he discovers it’s completely backless down past the waist with a row of tiny silk-covered buttons running midline below that. But by then it will be far too late for any objections. He will have put that ring on my finger.
I shiver in delight at the thought of his expression when he finally gets to kiss his new bride and his fingers make the delicious discovery of my naked spine. When he realises that the gasps of the congregation as I floated down the aisle towards him were not simply because I was a demure and charming bride, but because I was a daring one, he’ll be knocked out. A confident woman entirely capable of matching the elegant sophistication of the man she is marrying in every possible way.
I picture the shocked expression on his mother’s face and the delighted grins of his father, brothers and sisters but I am my own woman. Jack’s love for me has helped me to discover that.
I no longer dread the photographs which might appear in the newspapers nor what the media prints about me. I am proud of who I am and I’m the luckiest woman alive to be spending the rest of my life with the man I love. Jack is the luckiest man alive that he gets me too.
My daring entrance will give us something else to tell our grandchildren.
Best of all, it will torture Jack exquisitely. He has gone entirely without sex for the last two weeks. He’s desperate to have me beneath him but will have to endure the photographs and reception; the congratulations and the meal and cake and first dance and the whole endless, interminable delay of it all until he can get me alone and fit me to his desires again.
His fingers will constantly reach for the alluring promise of my bare flesh. He will resent every hand that touches me for a dance, that isn’t his touch, or kiss of congratulations that isn’t his kiss.
He will beg me to put him out of his sexual misery and I will delay him. For just a tiny little bit longer…
* * *
I’m still bathing in the afterglow of my sexy wedding dress fantasy when Jack and I meet for a simple dinner. This is the last time we’ll be together before the day.
“You look incredible.” He pauses and regards me with a profound intensity. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I laugh at him. Jack doesn’t miss a thing. “Plenty. But it’s all going to have to wait until another day.”
“Secrets, Tabitha?”
“This from the man who won’t tell me who is giving me away at my own wedding? This secret is my secret, Jack. To share when I’m good and ready.”
His eyes glitter with lust. He’s just about ready to eat me alive. “You do realise I won’t allow you to keep secrets fr
om me when you’re a married woman.”
“And I won’t allow you to keep secrets from me.”
“Haven’t you become rather the strong-willed woman lately?” He looks half-amused by the notion.
“A suitable partner for my strong-willed husband to be, then.”
“Perfect.” He feeds me another forkful of the rich, chocolaty Sachertorte he ordered but has been toying with ever since it was served. I didn’t order any dessert.
“Are you trying to fatten me up again?”
“I adore your curves.”
“And if I can’t fit into my wedding dress and have to be wheeled down the aisle in a bathrobe?”
“Easier to undress you afterwards.” He’s really not bothered. He has only one thing on his mind. The thing I have denied him for two entire weeks. Fourteen interminable days.
“My God, you’ve got it bad,” I laugh.
“Bad? I’m thinking out a strategy for coming over the top of this table right now and taking you in front of all these decent people out for their evening meal. To hell with them.”
“A sexy floor show?”
He groans deep in his throat. Begging. “Please let me come home tonight, kitten. Just for an hour.” His voice is soft and hard at the same time.
“Sorry,” I whisper. I stop teasing. Knowing Jack and his inexhaustible needs, I know this is hard for him.
As we climb into the back of the Bentley for Blackstock to drive us to our respective residences and he pats my rear end, I tell Jack, “If you so much as touch me in the back of this car I’m sitting up front with Mr Blackstock the rest of the way.”
“Kitten, you have soft fur but very sharp little teeth.” His voice is tight.
“Meeow.” I see Jack look to check Blackstock is wearing his earbuds.
“Do I need to send Blackstock for a walk up the road?” The implication is clear. He’s referring to the occasion of the ball when he delivered me a fast orgasm in back of the car.
“Not necessary, Jack.” And yet…
I haven’t had sex for two weeks either and frustration is making me catty for sure. Just the memory of Jack’s firm fingers running over my body gets me so hot and bothered I want to jump him right here. To hell with my traditional resolution of chastity before the wedding night. God only knows what it’s doing to Jack in his state. I keep my eyes straight ahead and don’t move a tempting muscle.
“Pity.” He says the words through clenched teeth.
“Touching was supposed to be your way of calming me down.”
“Tonight, it might calm me down.”
“Are you sure about that?” Even the thought is having quite the opposite effect on me. Tension crackles between us.
“I’ve seen the benefits first hand.”
Slowly I look over my shoulder at him. He’s holding up that hand, no doubt imagining what it can do. And where. His eyes drift up to examine mine as his lips twist ever so slightly. I grin too. I can never stay mad for long when I’m around Jack and it would seem he feels the same.
I lean in close and place my hand flush against his chest. His heart is beating fast.
I whisper close enough to his ear so as not to let Blackstock hear. “I’ll let you touch me as much as you want when we’re on our honeymoon.”
The heat flares in his darkening eyes. “Bury me now.”
“Where did you say we were going again?”
His scowl becomes more pronounced. “I didn’t and you’re one smooth operator, madam.” He stops talking as his lips twitch minutely. “You know it’s meant to be a surprise.”
“I forgot.” I try to look innocent but my expression must be tinged with pure manipulative guilt. I can’t subdue my amusement any more than he can.
“And you’re going to get quite another surprise in a minute if you don’t manage to remove your sexy little body from this car in the next few seconds.”
With perfect timing Blackstock sweeps the car to the kerb outside Belvedere.
I distance myself from Jack before we both cave in completely to our base desires. My limbs move and I scramble to get out the door before Blackstock even has a chance to open his. But Jack grabs me round the hips and heaves me back inside where I fall helplessly onto his lap. I lie willingly imprisoned in his arms as he kisses me thoroughly, invading my open mouth with his hot muscular tongue; sliding, biting and suckling at my flesh. His hand skims up my thigh and I flood instantly with the intensity of passion he arouses in me.
He drags his greedy lips away far too soon, resting his forehead against mine for a moment to recover, yet issuing a dull moan to suggest his disinclination to do so. Up-righting me, he shoves me gently but firmly out the open door onto the pavement, slamming it defensively between us. I spin round just in time to lip read the order he gives to Blackstock.
“Drive.”
The Bentley veers away up the road leaving me standing, knowing I’ve come within an inch of my resolve being overwhelmed. Only Jack’s self-control protects my wishes from this all-consuming force of desire between us.
The walk inside, alone, is pure agony.
Chapter Twenty-One
On the morning of our wedding, Libby – my Maid of Honour – and I head to my new favourite beauty salon, The Beauty Lounge, and hairdressers, Taylor, for a complete make-over.
I grit my teeth and endure another Bollywood just to surprise Jack on our wedding night. This time I go for a tiny single heart vajazzle picked out in glittery red jewels. I figure as a contrast to my virginal wedding gown and bare flesh it will have maximum impact when he strips me naked.
We take separate taxis after as Libby needs to pop home to collect her dress. She will return to Belvedere later, to help me get changed into mine.
As the elevator door opens, my mind speed-rushes through everything that’s happened since the first time these doors admitted me into Jack’s world. My heart does a happy flip as I’ll never have to leave my special place again. I take a quiet moment to reflect and calm my nerves.
A movement catches in the corner of my eye and I whirl round to see Amanda stepping out of Jack’s bedroom.
“What the..?” The words dry on my lips when I see the knife clutched in her purple claws.
“What the hell am I doing here?” she mocks. She takes a step forward as I take one back. “Did you think I’d be in jail by now? Safely locked up and out of your scheming little way?”
Her skin is pallid and clammy. Her hair’s flat. She’s definitely nowhere near as well-groomed as she normally is. I note haunted, dark circles beneath reddened eyes and know she’s not in a good place.
My voice emerges as a whisper. “Amanda, you shouldn’t be here.” How long has she held a set of keys to Belvedere?
Any words from me are the wrong ones. She raises the knife, pointing the tip directly at my face. “It’s you who shouldn’t be here, you little bitch. This is mine. Jack’s mine. What the hell makes you think you can take him from me?”
I don’t intend to antagonise her. Not with that disturbed look on her face, the weapon in her hand and the fact she’s standing solidly between me and the elevator doors. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I didn’t expect things to end this way.” My meaning is vague enough but true.
“You tried to steal him the very moment you saw what a good thing we had together. A man like Jack couldn’t possibly want a pathetic little rodent like you.”
Her perception is so skewed I know nothing I say will change her mind. She’s beyond reason. “Do you want to talk to Jack? I’ll phone him; get him over here to speak to you.” I slide my hand into my bag.
“Drop it!” she screams. She rushes at me, snatching the strap from my grasp. I barely avoid being scarred by the tip of her knife as I propel myself deeper into the room.
My breath is staccato, uneven, but I fight to control it. If I let panic get the better of me, I’m done for.
She smirks watching me struggle to breathe. “No-one to fetch you water now, is there?”
<
br /> Her scowl deepens for a moment, until she finally locates my phone and removes it dropping it to the floor. Flinging the bag back at me she grinds her heel into the glass, every line of her hatred for me, etched upon her skin.
She studies me contemptuously until I almost wish my hair wasn’t quite so beautifully dressed; my make-up so exquisitely perfect, right down to the lush slick of lip gloss I insisted upon to drive Jack wild in his need to sweep it aside and kiss me at the altar. Against my simple day dress, it must look like I’m trying too hard.
“See the way the little tramp dresses to try and steal my lover.”
I know her words come from a place of denial. A place of pain. “I’m not your enemy, Amanda. I know how hard this must be to accept but I’ll help you.”
She screams and I recoil. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Enraged, she steps closer. “I’m not a fool like you. You never did know when you were out of your depth.” She laughs spitefully as I slowly retreat, trying to increase the space between me and that weapon. Her hands shake in temper. “You always were stupid. Always underestimating me.”
“Call Jack. Tell him to come to you.” Tell him to come to me. Tears spark in my eyes and my legs quake violently.
“It’s too late for that. You’ve turned him against me. Jack won’t speak to me. I’ve tried. He refuses to take any of my calls.” She emphasises each word with an erratic, up-and-down motion of the knife. “You’re the one to blame. And there’s a price to pay for being a man-stealing little whore.” Her voice drops an octave. “He won’t want you after he sees what I’ve done to you. No man will ever want you again.”
My attention fixates on the blade as she slashes it back and forth before her. It’s one of Jack’s Sabatier kitchen knives. She didn’t arrive armed with a weapon. Perhaps she came with no intention of inflicting harm. I try to draw a little comfort from that. I inhale and exhale steadily, the way Jack would direct me to, if he was here. Why isn’t he here?
