by Donna Alam
Anyway, according to the interwebz, it’s not.
With the help of said earplugs and my long hospital shifts, I manage to mostly block out their monkey sex sounds. But what’s harder not to see, and harder still not to be effected by, are the million tiny measures of intimacy between the pair. The way they touch almost constantly as if their bodies might wither away without the physical recharge. The making out via eye contact . . . the eye fucking that leads to actual fucking . . . and the long runs I take as a consequence.
I’m not complaining. Fin is the gold standard of roommates and quickly became a great friend. And I like Rory, too, despite the rocky start the pair had. The man loves my friend hard. Often a little too hard for my delicate ears, but you can’t have it all. Fin and I haven’t been friends very long, but sometimes, you just know when you’ve found a member of your tribe. And then sometimes, that tribe member tells you she’s moving out to live with her love. And you realise you’ll soon be taking part in the whole roommate lottery again.
‘You’re looking a little bleary eyed this morning.’ Fin’s voice is preceded by the shuffling of socks against the wooden floor.
Talk of the horny little devil and she shall appear.
‘Do I?’ I pause, placing my glass of water on our tiny kitchen table. ‘Could it have something to do with the live-action porn being filmed in your room last night?’
‘I’d say sorry, only I’m not,’ she says, unsuccessfully hiding her smile, pretending to fluff her short bangs. But just like any other morning after the night before, Fin can’t help but smile.
‘And why should you be sorry?’ Personally, I’d be singing my satisfaction from the rooftops. I might even be a little jealous. It’s not that I don’t have a boyfriend of my own—I do. It’s just that I haven’t seen him in a while. But it won’t always be like this; we knew living apart would be hard. Three more years of specialist training and then . . . Then what?
As usual, I push the thought to the back of my mind. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. I hope it’ll also make Jon’s dick harder because after our last disastrous weekend together, I could really do with a good hard—
‘Speaking of loud,’ Fin says, filling her cup with hot water from the kettle. ‘I might’ve also heard you and Jon going at it yesterday afternoon over the phone.’
I laugh. Hard. As in, my laughter is hard.
‘I wish,’ I mutter. ‘So not the same. And low blow, Finola. Low bloody blow!’
She visibly winces, just like I knew she would at the use of her full name. As for “going at it”, and coming back to my original thought, being in a long-distance relationship is hard. It’s so difficult to watch other couples. There’s the insecurity and the lack of physical intimacy—it’s even hard to argue successfully!
Not that it stops us from trying.
Especially lately.
Jonathon is . . . my long-term boyfriend, for lack of a better term.
The father of my unborn children.
The man I’ve always seen myself growing old with.
The person I can’t ever see not being in my life.
We’ve been together forever. Though technically not together—at least physically—because our careers keep us apart. I’d followed him once before, which is what brought me here to London. It’s just unfortunate he took a job a seven-hour flight away not long after I moved here.
It’s a brilliant opportunity, Bea. I won’t get a chance like this again.
So I’m here while he’s . . . somewhere else.
‘I wasn’t prying,’ Fin says with a note of apology. ‘You guys were pretty vocal.’
‘Passionate, sweets, passionate.’ And it seems our passion is getting more animated with each phone call. ‘You know what they say, the best part of fighting is making up.’ Despite my sing-song delivery, I don’t feel very cheery about the prospect. Especially given the last time we were together . . .
‘Don’t worry, Jon. It happens to everyone . . . ’ Though not usually for an entire weekend. ‘Trust me; I’m a medical professional.’ A sexually frustrated medical professional with an unhealthy interest in dirty Rumblr GIFs, but still.
‘So when’s this mammoth make-up session to take place—’ Fin halts, her face suddenly stricken. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you argue so much that you need a lot of time to repair . . .’ I wave away her apology. Lord knows Jon and I have argued plenty over the past few months, and it seems to be getting worse. ‘But when will you see him again?’ she asks much more gently.
‘I’m not exactly sure.’ That’s what we were arguing about. It’s been months since we were last together, and he promised he’d visit me this time. My workload has increased so much lately, and I have tonnes of study on top of that. I can’t keep scrambling to meet him in random European cities at the drop of a hat. To become successful in my field of surgery takes dedication and time—I can’t just keep gallivanting off.
Jon now works out of Dubai flying planes for the big commercial airline out there. Not only is our proximity an issue, but he also spends an awful lot of time flying in the opposite direction of London. Apart from our last disastrous weekend together, we’d also had a fractious week spent in our hometown of Johannesburg. Let’s just say staying with our respective families—each in our own childhood bedrooms, and alone—wasn’t exactly advantageous for our relationship. Or sex life.
‘He says he’ll visit.’ I’m surprised to hear how insincere the statement sounds. He said he would but it was clearly said under duress. ‘Around the time of the christening.’ Fin’s best friend, Ivy, and her movie star husband, Dylan Duffy—yes, that Dylan Duffy—graciously invited Jon and me to their baby’s christening. In their own chapel. On the grounds of their castle. With a movie star guest list. I can’t help but cynically recall how Jon’s attitude to his visit had changed when I mentioned baby Alisdair’s special day. ‘I thought I’d book us a weekend in Scotland afterwards.’ Somewhere really rural. Somewhere without the usual city distractions. Somewhere we’d be forced to talk.
‘Really?’ She turns to look over her shoulder, the mug she’s pulled from the cupboard paused mid-air. ‘He’s travelling here?’ She’s not the only one surprised. ‘When?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. In a couple of weeks, I think.’ I duck down, slipping my feet into my running shoes.
‘Well, that’ll be great. If he arrives before, I’ll stay with Rory, so you’ll have the place to yourselves. But I’ll still get to meet him before, though, right? We could arrange dinner before.’
I shrug noncommittally. I hope she’ll get to meet him because that will mean he’s actually here instead of more excuses and vague promises. ‘I’m just waiting for exact dates.’ And for him to stop dicking me around. It hasn’t always been like this. We usually get on great, but the past few months have been . . . a strain.
I’ll admit, the changes I’m sensing in him are worrying. But again, I push it all to the back of my mind. I can’t think of that now.
‘Speaking of dates, are you okay for dinner tonight?’
‘Yeah. Eight, wasn’t it? Do you think Rory will be out of bed by then?’ I glance at the open kitchen doorway, half expecting him to appear. When in the same building, the pair is never apart for very long, though I’m sure he deserves his lie-in after last night’s performance. I almost needed a cigarette myself. ‘You must’ve worn him out.’
‘Ha-ha. Such a comedienne. He’s left already, you know. Gone into the office.’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘Don’t look so shocked. People do work on Saturdays, you know.’
I pull a face because, hell yes, I know. Weekends and evenings and all the hours between. Though my hours are a little better now that I have a touch more seniority. I’m no longer a junior doctor, but I still have so far to go.
‘I take it by that you mean you’re going to your office today, too?’
‘God, is it that obvious?’
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br /> ‘Not by your state of dress.’ She glances down at her tiny pyjama pants and cream-coloured fluffy socks.
‘It would serve the bitch right if I went in looking like this.’ I infer from bitch she means her boss, Savannah.
‘What has the wicked witch of Wapping got you in for today?’
‘She doesn’t live in Wapping. It’s Mayfair all the way for her.’
‘Fancy pants,’ I respond.
‘Yeah, so fancy she can’t attend the client meeting I’ve got to take because it’s Pierce’s birthday.’ Pierce is the owner of the events company Fin works for, and Savannah is her manager and Pierce’s current squeeze. ‘We’re not supposed to know they’re doing the dance with no pants on the regular.’
‘Got to make the most of birthdays at his age. After all, I suppose he can’t have too many left.’
‘You’re awful,’ she says, laughing. ‘He’s not that old.’
‘He’s positively ancient. Definitely one for the geriatric ward.’
‘He’s not ready for that yet.’ Not that it stops her from laughing.
‘No but the lifestyle he leads means he soon will be. The man undoubtedly has the onset of gout from the champagne lifestyle he leads, though he’ll most likely die with a stiffy from all the Viagra he takes. It’s no wonder Savannah makes your life hell. She’s just jealous of who you come home to.’
‘I usually come home to an empty flat.’
‘She can probably hear your moans of ecstasy from where she lives.’
‘Again, empty flat,’ she repeats, referring to the hours I keep at work.
‘Ya, but you’ll be moving in with Randy soon enough.’
‘I really wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘What? Randy Rory? He should keep his hands to himself, then.’
‘One time!’ she says, really laughing now. ‘He touched your ass one time, and he was half drunk.’
‘Half drunk, and he mistook me for you? Come on—I’m like a foot taller than you are!’
‘You are not. And he’s still frightened of you.’
‘Rubbish,’ I reply with a touch of asperity. ‘You and I both know he touched my posterior because it’s irresistible.’ Standing, I turn and wiggle my bottom in her direction.
‘Yep,’ she responds, giving it a resounding smack. ‘Irresistible. J-Lo has nothing on those buns. Now, be gone. Go run! And I’ll see you at the restaurant later?’
Something in her tone causes me to turn. ‘I’ll absolutely be there, but is there a special reason you ask? Are you and Rory making it . . . official?’ Rory presented her with an engagement ring months ago, but she’s yet to wear it on her finger.
‘Well . . . ’ She stretches the word a mile long before finally answering. ‘I may have been promoted this week.’
‘You little sneak! How long have you been keeping this to yourself?’
‘Just since last night.’
‘That’s amazing, Fin. You so deserve it.’ After the year she’s had, she deserves all the good things. ‘This calls for champagne.’
‘Yeah, totally, but not for breakfast. Go get your run in before it rains.’
‘I’m so happy for you,’ I say, slipping my key into my jacket pocket.
‘Watch for fallen leaves,’ she calls as I close the front door. ‘Those slippery little fuckers will have you on your ass!’
Outside, the winter air is bitter cold and damp, the latter the result of this morning’s rain. I pull the building door closed behind me and curl my left heel into my bottom to begin stretching my quads when my phone buzzes.
I pull it from my jacket pocket, fumbling and almost dropping the thing as I notice Jonathon’s face flash on the screen. I breathe a sigh of relief that we’re going to do this now—make up, I mean—as it typically takes us a couple of days to get to a place where we’re ready to even talk civilly.
As I bring the phone to my ear, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle, prompting me not to speak—to keep quiet.
‘Oh, God . . .’ More groan than actual words, it isn’t a sound of pain, but one of exquisite pleasure. ‘Fuck yeah . . . like that.’
My stomach roils, my fingers white and bloodless around my phone. My whole body begins to shake even as my mind struggles to compare the sounds I’m hearing—the voice I’m hearing—to the life I knew just two minutes ago.
This is Jon’s voice—Jon’s breathy sighs—there’s no doubt. It may have been a while since I’ve heard him utter such curses and filthy moans, but neither my heart nor my head can deny this is him.
‘More tongue.’ I hear a hitch of breath, a hissed, ‘Yes,’ and I want to be sick. I swallow down the urge and the bitter taste of bile and whole wheat toast as the sound of rustling cloth sounds in my ear
‘Yes . . . that’s right. Take it deep.’ And then the killer comment—words that cut my heart like a knife. ‘Oh, baby. I love your mouth.’
The call cuts off as a bus passes, the tyres creating a wet swoosh against the road. I stare at the phone in my hand like it’s a small alien—like I don’t know what that was. Even as a million words scream inside my head.
How could he?
How could I not know?
How could he do this to me?
Jonathon.
The father of my future children—children who will now never be born.
The man who knows me better than anyone else, even if the same can’t be said the other way around.
The man I love.
The man who’s cheating on me.
The man who just broke my heart.
With an intake of breath that’s almost too painful to bear, I bundle my phone into my pocket and step onto the street. My feet hit the wet pavement, slick with rain and wet leaves, much faster than usual as I begin to run, not jog. I run like I can leave it all behind. The words and adjoining images swirling through my head.
More tongue.
I see it all happening, but I don’t slow down.
I can’t.
Chapter Three
KIT
‘I’ll have the Macallan, the fifty-year-old malt. And you’re paying.’ Rory smiles, devilment playing in his gaze.
‘Oh, I see.’ Fin’s tone is dry in the extreme. ‘Here I thought the reason you’d invited Kit to dinner was so we could hang out.’
‘Nah,’ Rory responds. ‘You’re only here to make me look better.’ With a smile the size of half a dinner plate, he hooks his arms over the back of Fin’s chair, preparing for the punch line. ‘The only thing attractive about him is his expense account.’
I refrain from rolling my eyes along with Fin as I place my silverware down. Rory and I both have generous expense accounts. After all, the business belongs to us both, and seeing as how we’re in the hospitality business and own a chain of boutique hotels, entertaining is our business. As is the interest the press seems to have in us.
I’m pleased about Fin’s promotion, and dinner has been good, but I can’t say I’m ecstatic about being here. Neither were Simone and Greg. It took more than a few texts to smooth over cancelling tonight’s plans, otherwise known as Fucktastic Friday. Complaints were made about the pair having to rearrange babysitters and Saturday brunch with the in-laws, but in the end, they both agreed we could move the evening, thus renaming our get-together to Shagtastic Saturday. And isn’t that just a little piece of ridiculousness? Sometimes it’s hard to believe Simone’s a barrister. But I can tolerate feigned foolishness, if for no other reason than convenience . . . and the pair’s stellar cock sucking skills.
‘Absolutely unattractive,’ Fin agrees. ‘Both of you. How I ever got paired with one half of the ugliest set of identical twins, I’ll never know.’
‘We’re not identical, titch.’ A deep chuckle accompanies Rory’s denial.
‘Yeah, sure, you totally aren’t the mirror image of each other.’ Fin’s eyes dart back and forth between us; her mouth curls in one corner in a look that’s half adoration and half exasperat
ion.
It’s good to see—great, actually. He dishes out shit, and she shoots it right back. And true, we are a pair of good-looking twins; that fact isn’t news because people have been telling us that for our whole lives. From tow-headed tots to teenagers full of testosterone, we’ve always drawn comments and admiring glances. And later wandering hands. Take tonight, for instance. It was hard not to notice the looks thrown our way as we followed Fin inside the restaurant. The looks of desire and envy. The looks we’re still drawing now. I can almost imagine the smutty thoughts running through their heads, wondering if the hot blonde with the red lipstick pout plans on being double teamed by the twins she’s dining with. Because, yes, she’s here alone. After all the trouble I’d gone to, her friend didn’t even show. So thanks, ugly friend; I’m missing out on the fun I had planned for tonight even though I got my kicks elsewhere. It’s been fun winding up Rory, not to mention Fin is such charming company. But none of this is any competition for dirty sex.
Rory and I may be the mirror image of each other, only not quite in the way Fin believes. True, on the surface we look very much the same, but take a closer look, and you’ll realise we’re more like opposites. Rory’s the light, fun side of the mirror. Everything’s immediate with him; he’s quick to smile and just as quick to anger, where I’m the more reserved one. My smiles are as hard won as my trust is. Rory would say I’m far too serious. Fucking brooding, I believe he’d say.
‘Fun times.’ Fin’s playful complaint breaks through my thoughts. ‘This is like, what, the third time we’ve dined together? And the same tune’s still playing on the jukebox.’
‘The place could do with a jukebox,’ Rory replies, his gaze scanning our minimalist surroundings. ‘Anyway, what do you mean the same tune?’
‘It’s like an old-timey country song,’ she says, thickening her accent to pure hick. ‘My brother done got all the good looks and cash.’ She twines her fingers around the delicate stem of her wine glass as her eyes slide to mine, modulating her accent once again. ‘And it’s a solo, not a duet. It’s good to see sibling rivalry lives on in other families. I thought it was just Ivy and Mac.’
