by Lesley Jones
I reached my brother and a couple of mates he was standing with at the bar, and he passed me a bourbon. I nodded a thank you and took my eyes from her, to meet his for a split second. When I looked over to where she was standing, she’d turned her back to me, but I positioned myself at the bar so I could watch her. I didn’t have a clue what the draw was; I just needed to see that face.
I chatted mindless shit with Rob, Tony, and Gary at the bar, but all the while, I took in her long legs and the fitted black dress she was wearing. She was skinny, a lot skinnier than most birds I’d been with … well, the ones I could remember anyway. I got this weird uncomfortable feeling in my gut at that moment, like, I don’t know. It just felt wrong to be thinking about other birds while I was looking at her.
My life was just getting back on track after the chaos that ensued after the death of my wife. If I were being totally honest, things had been spiralling out of control for some time before that. The drink, the coke, the women—I sampled them all to excess, and then after my marriage, the excesses became something of an addiction.
I’d married Elle out of a sense of duty and for the good of the family. Robbie was already engaged to Teresa, Josh just too young and irresponsible, and so it was left to me. I had felt the pressure to do right by the family business and marry Colin Turner’s only surviving heir and strengthen the King name by tying all of his businesses to ours.
Robbie was happy, we had strength in numbers and money coming in from all over the country. We kept our noses clean and our pockets lined. We didn’t step on anyone’s toes and didn’t encroach on anyone else’s manor. We didn’t need to. Life was sweet. But I was miserable. Chantelle had been around for most of my life. Our parents were friends, and so she was just there. Holidays, daytrips, family gatherings, she was there. She was pale and blonde and never wanted to join in any of our rough “boy” games when we were kids.
I didn’t like or dislike her as we were growing up. I just didn’t think much about her to have an opinion either way. As we got older and hormones started to play a part, things changed a little. She got boobs, so yeah, I noticed her more. She was still quiet and never wanted to sneak outside for a cigarette when we were together at parties and the grownups were drunk. She never wanted to get involved when we stuffed potatoes into the exhaust pipes of all the cars in her dad’s driveway during Sunday afternoon BBQs. She would never swim in the ocean when our families went to Spain together for holidays, opting to lie back on the beach alone and watch the rest of us from a distance instead.
She was a nice enough girl, but she just had nothing about her. No spark. No sense of adventure. Nothing. And yet, I still married her.
I regret that decision every single day of my life. If I had stood my ground and said no, she’d probably still be alive today. And this guilt I feel is exactly the reason why I understand the anguish in Georgia’s eyes when she cries over Sean. I totally get it.
I love my life. I love my wife and my kids and everything we’ve built together. I wouldn’t change it for the world. Does that mean I’m glad that Elle died? If she hadn’t, the life I have now wouldn’t exist. I couldn’t have this life without the death of another, and although I don’t wear my emotions on the outside like Georgia does, the guilt is still something I struggle with on a daily basis.
I didn’t love Chantelle, but I still think about her death and the death of my son every single day, so I can only imagine what Georgia goes through while battling her demons over losing Sean.
They died, we didn’t. It’s pointless beating ourselves up over it. It won’t change anything. I love her, and she loves me. We’ve been blessed with four amazing children, and since I’m not a religious person, I thank modern science, the wank bank, and my sisters-in-law for that.
While I’ve learned to accept all of this and move on, Georgia still struggles.
Georgia.
That first night I saw her at Kings, I’d watched and I’d watched, and then finally, she turned around. She’d moved to the other side of her friend that was sitting on a stool to let someone pass, and she hadn’t moved back.
She was stunning. Olive skin and the most amazing blue eyes.
The saddest eyes I’d ever seen.
I wanted to go to her and find out why she looked so sad so I could put it all right.
The two girls she was with were also both very pretty, but they had nothing on her …
“S’cuse me please, mate. Can I just squeeze in there so I can get served?” a voice asked from beside me in a strong Essex accent. When I turned my head, the blonde girl that was with Little Miss Sad Eyes was standing behind me.
“You can squeeze right in here if you wanna, sweetheart,” Gary told her. She looked at the space he’d made for her and then at his hands.
“You touch my arse, and I’ll knock you the fuck out, Grandad.” Robbie spat his beer, Tony threw his head back and laughed, and even I smiled. Gary just stared at her open-mouthed.
“Who the fuck you calling Grandad, you cheeky little cow?”
Gary was close to forty but told everyone he was thirty-two. He was a good-looking bloke and had no trouble whatsoever pulling the birds, so why he lied, I have no clue.
“You. You gonna move and let me get served or d’ya need your Zimmer frame first?”
“I’ll give you fucking Zimmer frame …”
“Gaz!” I interrupted him. “Give the lady some space,” I ordered.
“What lady? There’s no lady around here,” he said, probably thinking he was clever.
I never even saw her hand move, but I heard the crack as her palm made contact with his cheek. I stepped between them before he could react.
Great, just what I needed. For the first time since getting out of rehab, I finally see a bird that stirs my interest, and Gaz goes and insults her mate.
“You, fuck off with the insults,” I told him over my shoulder. “And you, blondie, keep your hands to yourself.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I kept going. “Now, what would you like to drink? It’s on me.” Her mouth closed and her face softened.
“Thanks, good to see one of you has got some manners. We’ll have a bottle of wine please. White, make it decent, none of that Liebfraumilch shit.” That comment left me standing there with my mouth hanging open. That girl had more front than Tesco and nothing had changed in all the years I’ve known Ash.
I gestured to Keith, my barman, and ordered a bottle of wine and a bottle of Moët. I placed the bottle of wine in blondies hand.
“You got an ice bucket on your table?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me.
“I might be from Essex, mate, but I’ve got some class. I do not drink my white wine warm.”
“That’s good to know,” was all I could think to say. This girl was like a mini tornado blowing through.
“Take this to your table, too. I’ll send someone over with some glasses and have them cork and pour it for you.”
She looked from the bottle of bubbly to me before taking it. “Cheers, mate, you’re a diamond,” she said with a wink, sounding just like something from a Dickens’ novel.
“And you, mate, are a complete tosser,” she called out to Gary, who I assumed was glaring over my shoulder at her.
She headed off back to her table and her mates, while I asked Keith to go over with some champagne glasses. I ordered myself another drink and turned back around just in time to see Rob, Tony, and Gaz raise their glasses towards the girls.
I looked in the direction the boys were, and my eyes met her blue eyes, and fuck me if her stare didn’t do things to my dick.
At that moment, something—I have no clue what, but something—passed between us. I knew, in that instant, I knew I had to have that girl. I had to know her, and I had to have her. Not in my bar. Not in my bed. I had to have her in my life and by my side. For good.
Oh, if only it had been that easy.
CHAPTER 7
Cameron
I walk out of our bathro
om and towards our bed, where my wife is now lying naked and sleeping soundly. I watch her for a while, debating on whether to wake her, to slip inside her from behind while she sleeps, or to leave her be. Neither of us slept well Friday or Saturday night but it would seem I’ve managed to catch up by sleeping all of Sunday away.
Georgia’s lying in her usual recovery position, on her stomach, left leg bent out to the side, both her arms crossed under her pillow. Her long hair is spread everywhere, and I take a few seconds to brush it back from her flawless face.
We argued about her getting Botox the week before I went away. She thinks she needs it. I don’t. Jimmie and Ash have both had a little help over the last few years, I even paid for Ash to get a tummy tuck after she carried our twins for us, but now Georgia is feeling left out and wants to get crap pumped into her pretty face when there is absolutely no fucking need for it.
I’ve learned over the years that saying no to Georgia is a pointless exercise. So, rather than arguing with her and worrying that she would go off and do something drastic to herself while I was away, we cut a deal. She wouldn’t have any work done until she was at least fifty, and I would grow my hair back to how it was when we first met. And as easy as that, it was all sorted. Happy days.
I pull the quilt over my wife’s naked back and leave her to sleep. She’ll keep till morning and my hard-on definitely isn’t going anywhere.
I head downstairs in search of food. Since my body clock is shot to bits and my belly has no clue what time zone it’s on, my stomach is growling loudly at me.
I hunt through the fridge for food, steering well clear of anything Georgia might have made. I love my wife to distraction but she can’t cook for shit. She tries. She’s spent endless hours with her mum and Marian, watching and taking notes, but nah, none of it helped.
I think Georgia just has too many things going on in her head at once. She bakes a cake and forgets if she put sugar in. She puts something in the oven and forgets that it’s there. I’ve come home before to find the timer on the oven will be bleeping. When I ask George, “What ya cooking?” her response will be, “Nothing, why? ... Shit, I wondered what that noise was.” As if the house filling with smoke and the burning smell weren’t clue enough.
Fried egg sandwich, that’s the only thing she doesn’t mess up, but that don’t help me or the kids out because she won’t let us eat fried food at home.
We had a few months of misery when Marian hung up her apron, living on burnt offerings and takeaways before Georgia finally conceded and we got a new housekeeper. Her name’s Christine and she comes in Monday thru Thursday. She cooks the dinner, vacuums, mops, irons, and cleans all of the bathrooms except the kid’s.
The kids are in charge of their own bathrooms and have worked out their own little routine for clearing the table, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and getting in the washing if it’s been hung out on the line to dry.
Our kids have grown up privileged, but we’ve made sure they aren’t spoilt in anything other than love and attention.
I make myself a cheese and tuna toasted sandwich and open a beer. Heading into my office, I open my laptop and read through my e-mails, reply to a few, and then decide to go watch some telly.
All the time I’m doing this, I’m acutely aware that all I really want to do is go into Georgia’s office and read some more of those letters.
Those fucking letters that are causing so much tension between us.
I don’t care if she reads them and they make her cry … much.
I just wish she’d hurry up and get it over with.
I just care about how upset it’s making her. My telling her not to feel guilty is pointless. Nothing I say will change how she feels, so the sooner she gets them read, the sooner we can move on with our lives.
In the meantime, I just wanna have a little read through them, so if there is anything in them that’s too upsetting for her, at least I’m prepared. That’s what I tell myself anyway as I head out of my office and into my wife’s, grabbing another beer from the fridge on my way.
I sit at her desk with just a lamp on for light. It looks like two bits of rusty metal with a bare light bulb hanging from it, “industrial” Georgia calls it, scrap metal is more like it.
The first stack of letters I come to are in envelopes but have no stamps or address written across the front. They just say “Gia” in what I now know to be Sean McCarthy’s handwriting.
I open the first one, lean back in the leather chair, and take a swig of my beer.
-
Gia,
I’m watching you sleep as I write this. D’ya think that’s creepy? I don’t care if you do. I’ve been away from you for two whole weeks while I worked. I wanted you with me, but I understand your reasons for not wanting to go back to the States. Everyone there remembered us announcing the pregnancy on New Year’s Eve, and everyone was offering me their condolences and sending you their love and best wishes. It was painful, and it was hard to hear on my own. I wanted you with me, but at the same time, I was glad you stayed home and didn’t have to listen to it all.
We’ll never forget Baby M. We’ll always make sure he’s a part of our lives. I know we don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty positive he’s a boy.
I can’t begin to tell you how fuckin happy I am right now, you coming to the airport to surprise me and the fact you waited for me to get home before you took the pregnancy test.
Pregnancy.
Pregnant.
We’re pregnant, G. We’re gonna have a fuckin’ baby.
My cheeks ache because I’ve smiled so much over the past few hours. Things will be good this time. I just know it.
We’ll see the doctor Monday and make sure you get the best of care.
You can moan all you want at me, woman, but I will be waiting on you hand and foot. Hand and fucking foot. No lifting, stretching, and definitely no horse riding.
A baby, G. I’m so fucking happy (did I say that already?) and so proud of you. I’m so glad this year has turned around for us. It started off so fucked. I was so scared, G. So fucking scared I was losing you. So many thoughts were going through my head, you’ve no clue, babe. No fuckin clue about the dark place I was in. I was thinking all sorts. Convinced you were leaving me.
And now, here we are, out the other side, still going strong. Sean and Georgia. Georgia and Sean. The way it’s meant to be, except now it’s gonna be Sean and Georgia and baby Beau.
I know you’re gonna shake your head when you read this, but mark my words, gorgeous wife of mine, that’s another boy I’ve put in your belly, and we will be calling him Beau. No girls for us until she has at least two or three big brothers to look after her.
I love you. Please don’t forget that. You’re not just my wife and lover, you’re my best friend as well, so just remember that and please don’t shut me out.
I know you’re gonna be nervous after what happened last time, believe me, I know. I’m fucking shitting myself, but I want you to talk to me, please? If you’re worried about anything, share it with me. He’s my baby too, remember? Which means I now have the both of you to worry about. That’s my job, though. It’s my role in all of this. You keep our little man tucked up safe and warm in your belly till he’s big enough to meet us, and I’ll do all the worrying for the both of us. Deal?
Right, my eyes are getting heavy. This is my fourth time zone in three days. I love ya, G. I think I’m the happiest bloke on the planet right now, but I need to sleep. Night, G. Night, Beau. Love ya both xxx
P.S. Just in case I’m wrong and you’re a Lilly not a Beau, don’t worry, I’m your daddy and it’ll be my job to protect you till we get you some brothers x
My head pounds as I finish my second beer. No wonder she loved him so much. Fuck, if I were a woman, even I’d— Nah, let’s not go there.
I could never compete with that. I love Georgia and my kids just as much as he loved her and their kids. I would just never be able to put it into words as e
loquently as he does … did.
I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. A doodle of a cock and balls is a about my limit, I might add pubes and spunk squirting out the end if I’m feeling particularly arts and craftsy, but that’s where my artistic flair ends.
Georgia, on the other hand, has her own fashion line that’s sold exclusively through Posh Frocks, and she’s been hands on with every design. She refuses just to put her name and face to it and now draws and sketches her own ideas and is on board throughout the entire production, even modelling some of them for magazines herself.
She can sing and play guitar and she has designed a couple of custom-made pieces of furniture for our home when she couldn’t find what she wanted in the shops. Even this office, she knew exactly how she wanted it to look and feel and worked with the decorators to get it to how she wanted it. No wonder she left me and went back to him.
My chest feels tight when I think about one of the worst moments of my life. So much so that I know I need something stronger than beer. I go into my office and grab my Laphroaig and a whisky tumbler.
I set them down on Georgia’s desk, pour the whisky from the decanter and into the glass, and take a sip.
When Georgia left me and went back to Sean, I really never saw it coming. I honestly thought we were on the same page. We were spending a lot of our days and most of our nights together, and I really believed we were ready to move in and start to make a life together. Never in my life have I gotten something so wrong. I’d lost my wife and unborn son but nothing hurt like losing Georgia when she left me for Sean McCarthy …
Our argument that Thursday night at dinner had been over something so petty I can’t even remember what it was. I know I was in a shitty mood. I said something, she said something back, I replied, and she got up and left.
I should’ve followed her. Instead, I ordered another drink, sat, and drank it, thinking I was giving my angry Kitten time to calm down. I knew Benny was outside in the Jag, and I fully expected to find her sitting out there waiting for me when I finally paid the bill and stepped outside. Biggest. Mistake. Of. My. Fucking. Life.
