by Grace Lowrie
I was on my own to receive the news this time; Bay wasn’t there to hold my hand as he was when the radiologist announced my pregnancy three and a half years ago. But I only have myself to blame. Nowadays our relationship is based on trust and honesty rather than secrets and lies, but old habits die hard. To protect Bay, I kept this particular appointment from him and attended it alone.
Inserting my key in the front door I hear shrieks and squeals coming from inside, making me smile. Hanging my scarf, coat, and bag in the hall, I take a deep breath before pushing open the door to the living room.
Despite the Victorian splendour of our London home, the reception rooms are reminiscent of Bay’s old apartment with its high ceilings, exposed brickwork and bare floorboards. But his vast, wall-mounted oil paintings lend a rich sumptuousness to the rooms, and I’ve furnished them with colourful furniture to provide a family-friendly atmosphere.
With a roar, Bay rises up from the middle of the floor; a small, pyjama-clad boy dangling from each tattooed arm. Ryan and Reece giggle hysterically, clinging like monkeys as Bay – aka the Big Bad Wolf – stalks around the rug barefoot, growling and pretending to shake them off. Their obvious happiness makes my heart swell almost painfully in my chest.
‘Mummy’s home!’ Reece spots me first, detaching himself from his dad and barrelling head first into my shoulder as I crouch to catch him in a hug. His twin is never far behind, and I hold them both close, savouring their soft, milky warmth as they chatter about their day.
It’s good to be home.
After only a couple of minutes they are off again – Ryan chasing Reece across the room and under the dining room table; a den full of cushions and toy cars. As I straighten up, Bay draws me into his arms and kisses me. He smells of wood smoke and baby shampoo and tastes of chocolate ice-cream.
‘Mmm, you boys have had your tea, I take it?’
He smirks. ‘We saved you some dessert. Where are all your bags? Don’t tell me you spent all afternoon shopping and didn’t buy anything.’
‘I did get something, but I’ll show you later.’
‘That sounds promising.’ He nuzzles my earlobe but before I can respond there’s an almighty crash. We part to find one of the dining room chairs pushed over on its side and the twins looking startled and sheepish.
‘He did it!’ Reece says defensively while Ryan hides behind a cushion.
‘OK, bedtime,’ Bay says, righting the chair and chasing the boys towards the stairs. ‘Whose turn is it to choose a story?’
As the stampede of feet recedes upstairs I collect up various toys that lie strewn across the floor, deposit them in a toy chest and draw the curtains against the icy night. In the kitchen I start off the dishwasher, wipe down the breakfast table and then pour two glasses of wine. Taking one with me I leave through the back door and pick my way across the moonlit garden to where two out-buildings nestle side by side in the shadow of an oak tree.
What with being a mum, working part-time as a choreographer, and having a book published, I’ve never been busier. My ‘Guide to Late-night London’ is selling in airports and bookshops across the globe. A personal, and often tongue-in-cheek, take on the city, it reads more like a blog than a guidebook, but if the Amazon reviews are anything to go by, people appreciate my informal style. Mel, my publisher, is pushing me to write more books on different cities around the world, something I’m keen to do if I live long enough.
But I’ve not yet found time to utilise my beautiful dance studio. The single-storey brick-built building was habitable enough when we bought it, but Bay has had extras installed: a fully sprung floor, a mirrored wall, a barre, frosted windows, a surround-sound music system, a changing room, and even separate secure access to the street behind. The project was his gift to me – as if his companionship, twin sons, and a whopping great multi-million pound home weren’t enough. My intention is to teach; to run a variety of dance classes and workshops and bring the space to life, but in the meantime it sits waiting in readiness.
By-passing my studio completely I let myself into Bay’s instead, curious as ever to see what he’s been working on. The converted garage retains a raw industrial feel, but the same comforting aromas that I always associate with Bay surround me as I warm my hands in front of the wood burner. Switching on a lamp and pressing play on his music system, I’m pleased when the languid strains of Portishead emanate out into the space. On the daybed in the centre of the room I sit down to view his latest canvas – a riot of colour, texture and movement that will almost certainly resolve into a picture of the boys at play.
Bay’s portraits always have an abstract quality and an edginess to them – a sense of his mood or that of the subject, or both. But thankfully his work has lost the disturbing melancholic darkness that used to haunt it. The faces he paints are almost photographic in their accuracy, and his professional services are permanently in demand. Felix has endless lists of patrons eager to commission Bay to immortalise them on canvas; he need only name his price. But Bay is Bay; it isn’t about the money. The sale of his office block to The Madderson Corporation has left us more than provided for, and he’ll only ever paint people he likes.
With the dawn of fatherhood, Bay has finally been lured into the daylight. He still, on occasion, stays up all night and then sleeps the morning away like in the old days, but it’s rare, as he hates missing out on time with me and the boys. Bay’s new wild and uncompromising passion is simply being a family man.
‘If I have to read ‘The Three Little Pigs’ one more time, I’m gonna start smoking again,’ Bay says, ducking into the studio and closing the door behind him. Despite the chilly conditions he’s barefoot, with a glass of wine in one hand and a baby monitor slung at his hip like a gun in a holster.
I smile. ‘Did they go down OK?’
‘Yeah, they’re pretty knackered; they’ve had a busy day tearing around the park.’
A low murmur of nonsensical chatter drifts out of the monitor and Bay unclips it and sets it down on a cluttered table top. Crouching down he opens the door of the stove and chucks in two extra logs. They hiss and flare as they catch light, and I gravitate closer. Straightening up, Bay pulls me into his arms and I hold him tight, resting my head in the hollow between his jaw and his shoulder, closing my eyes and inhaling his scent through his T-shirt. We stay like this for a long time, just holding each other.
‘I have a confession to make,’ I say at last.
‘Mmm?’
‘Those tests I had at the hospital, to check for my cancer…?’ Bay stills beneath my cheek, his heart-rate accelerating in his chest. ‘I went back today and got the results.’
‘Without me?’
I glance up at him and the anger in his eyes can’t mask his fear. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t want to ruin your birthday.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about my birthday, you know that.’ He takes a step back away from me. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m telling you now,’ I say gently.
Setting down his drink he rubs his face with both hands. The boys have stopped chuntering and fallen asleep, and in the gap between two songs, the silence is loaded. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’m still in complete remission.’ Bay closes his eyes, his features slackening with relief. ‘They couldn’t find any tumours or any trace of the cancer; not even in the blood work. I don’t have any more appointments booked. In fact, unless I start experiencing symptoms, I don’t have to go back for re-testing for three whole years.’
‘Thank fuck.’ Bay tugs me back into his embrace, squeezing me, his voice gruff. ‘You’re really in the clear?’
‘There’s no guarantee, but the signs couldn’t be any better.’
He kisses me on the mouth and I can taste his fear receding, mingling with the wine and morphing into desire. My hands slip underneath his shirt seeking the warmth of his body and he lifts and drags it off over his head. With my eyes I devour the hard planes and taut muscle of his chest, while my fingers
trace across his skin and linger on the letters inked over his heart that spell out my name. Seeing it there still brings tears to my eyes, as does the tattoo of the boys’ names at the pulse point of his right wrist.
‘I’d be lost without you. You saved me,’ he says, taking me in his arms, the heat of his body rousing my nerve-endings. I sigh and he runs the tip of his tongue down my neck, his breath making me shiver.
‘It’s you that saved me. If you hadn’t got me pregnant when you did…’
‘Don’t…’ he growls in warning, the low vibration of his voice making me ache.
‘I’m sorry I went back to the hospital without telling you.’
‘Forget it. Best birthday present I ever had.’
‘Does that mean you don’t want the gift I’ve got for you?’ I tilt my head back and smile up at him.
He grins wolfishly, almost blinding me with happiness. ‘I’ll take whatever you can throw at me, Cally, you know that.’
Reaching into the top of my dress, I pluck a folded sheet of paper out of my bra and offer it to him. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped.’
His eyes narrow, a curious smile hovering on his lips before he snatches it from my fingers, opens it and scans the text.
‘Four tickets to LA!’ I say with glee. ‘I thought it was about time we took a holiday. I’ve cleared it with the doctor, and Ash of course. Him, Marcie and the girls, they’re expecting us next week – they can’t wait to see the twins.’
‘Fuck, you are devious,’ Bay mutters before kissing me again, harder this time and with intent. Letting the booking confirmation drop to the floor, he grabs my bottom and pulls me roughly up against him, the solid length of his erection digging into my lower belly. ‘I love you,’ he mumbles against my lips.
‘I love you, too,’ I breathe, as he eases me backwards onto the bed and slowly lifts my dress.
THE END
Grace Lowrie
Having worked as a collage artist, sculptor, prop maker and garden designer, Grace has always been creative, but she is a romantic introvert at heart and writing was, and is, her first love.
A lover of rock music, art nouveau design, blue cheese and grumpy ginger tomcats, Grace is also an avid reader of fiction – preferring coffee and a sinister undercurrent, over tea and chick lit. When not making prop costumes or hanging out with her favourite nephews, she continues to write stories from her Hertfordshire home.
Safe with Me
An emotional and evocative story about the deepest bonds of friendship.
Abandoned as children, Kat and Jamie were inseparable growing up in foster care. But their bond couldn’t protect them forever.
From a troubled upbringing to working in a London greasy spoon, Kat’s life has never been easy. On the surface Jamie s living the high-life, but appearances can be deceiving.
When they unexpectedly reunite, their feelings become too intense to ignore. But as secrets come back to haunt them, are they destined to be separated once more?
Proudly published by Accent Press
www.accentpress.co.uk
