by Lesley Jones
Bailey: Thinking of you, little sister Georgia. We’ll raise a glass to Maca and your babies today and have a drink with you all at Christmas. Love and miss all of you, from all of us xxx.
The second is from Nina Reed. Despite her being younger than us by about fifteen years, Jimmie, Ash, and I have become good friends with her, and she’s now one of our trusted inner circle.
Nina: Thinking of you all on this saddest of
anniversaries. With much love from the Reeds xxx.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and watch Cam as he stalks towards me. Once again, my nose tingles, my throat burns, and unshed tears sting the backs of my eyes.
I look up into my husband’s ruggedly handsome face as he nudges my legs apart with his knees and then squats down in between them.
His big hands go to my hips, and he drags me onto his lap and both of us to the floor. I bury my face in the curve of his neck and breathe in deeply. He smells like my entire world.
“Talk to me,” he orders.
“I love you so fucking much.”
“You already told me that this morning.”
“I know, but I want you to understand just how much.”
One of his hands cups the back of my head and the other slides around my waist as he holds me tightly against him.
He flexes his hips.
“I’m not convinced. I need you to show me.” I smile, and my chest moves against him as I laugh.
“I showed you last night.”
“That was ten hours ago. I’m old and forgetful, remember? I need constant reminding.”
“You’re full of shit.”
He digs his fingers into my ribs and bites my neck. I squeal, and he licks a path over the teeth marks he’s probably left on my skin.
He pulls on the messy bun my hairs piled up in so that my face tilts up and my eyes meet his.
“The kids are downstairs reminiscing as they go through the boxes of Christmas decorations, we’ve got about fifteen minutes before Tallulah gets bored and starts bitching. Show. Me. You. Love. Me.” He punctuates his words with bites, licks, and kisses to my lips, face and neck.
He’s grinding against me, knowing full well that I won’t be able to resist him.
I rise onto my knees, leaving a space between us and slide my hand inside his jogging bottoms and boxers.
His dick is hard and hot as I stroke him from root to tip, rubbing my thumb over his slit each time I get to the top.
He throws his head back, and I admire what I can see of his throat, but I need more.
I stop my stroking and grab at the hem of his hoodie, he catches on to what I’m doing and helps me to ease him out of it.
“Top off, I need to see you, Kitten.”
He leans back on his palms and watches as I pull my T-shirt over my head. I reach behind me to take off my bra but pause when he orders, “No, leave it on. Lift your tits out, I wanna see them.” My internal muscles tighten, and my thighs grip his hips. I fucking love it when he gets all bossy in the bedroom.
I look down at my peach coloured La Perla bra and then back up at Cam, who’s still staring at my chest.
“You do it,” I whisper. He shakes his head.
“No. You do it. Pull down the lace and play with your nipples for me.”
“T.” I sigh.
“Do it, Kitten. Right fucking now.”
I look down at my boobs. Goose bumps cover my skin, and my nipples are like bullets. I rub each of my palms over them through my bra before pulling down the cups and leaving them exposed.
“Fuck me, Kitten, you look so fucking beautiful right now. Stroke my cock baby. Grip it tight and stroke.”
Again, with no hesitation, I do exactly what he says. Clear cum is leaking from the tip of his dick, and my hand slides up and down smoothly.
His hand goes to the small of my back, he pulls me closer and covers my left nipple with his mouth.
“Need you. Need you inside me.”
“I know, baby, I know.”
Without another word, Cam flips me onto my back, pulls off my leggings, and buries himself exactly where I need him.
We groan out our pleasure in unison. He slides his hands under my arse cheeks, tilts my hips up, and drives deeper.
I hook my legs around his thighs and dig my nails into his arse cheeks, pulling him into me harder.
“Fuck, I love when you do that,” he pants.
“I want more.”
“I know, but I love it when you show me how much.”
We fuck.
It isn’t lovemaking. We did that last night.
This is fucking.
This is my perfect husband fucking the sadness out of his not so perfect wife.
He knows exactly what I need, and he’s delivered it with perfect timing.
He fucks me to the point of distraction. Completely senseless. He fucks me until I forget my name, the date, and the horrible events that changed my life seventeen long years ago.
A
fter another quick shower, I arrive downstairs to find that Harry and George have abandoned the decorations that are spread all over the hallway and the girls are sitting on the floor going through the very last box.
Tallulah is wearing a headband with a flashing star on top, and Kiki has on a Santa’s Little Helper pixie-style hat with red tracer lights racing through it.
They’re discussing a couple of Tinker Bell tree decorations we bought for them in Florida one year. They’re so deep in conversation, recalling the holiday where Lu pushed Kiks in the pool over something or another, that I manage to take a couple of pictures of them on my phone without them spotting me.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding—”
“Harry!” I shout.
“Sorry, but this ref needs glasses. No way was that offside,” he calls out from the games room where he and George are on the PlayStation.
Every year, I promise to get a swear jar in time for the new FIFA game to come out, and every year I forget.
The level of swearing they reach would give my mother a coronary if she were to hear it.
“Okay, kids, change of plan. We’re gonna go to Lakeside, do a bit of shopping, grab lunch at wherever you choose, and then go to Ash and Marley’s.”
“What about the decorations?” Kiki looks up from her spot on the floor.
“Dad’s on the phone to Squires now, he’s asking if they can do the inside as well as the outside decorations. I’ll just add our personal bits and pieces over the weekend.”
Lu and Kiks both stare up at me blankly, as if I’ve just spoken to them in Hebrew and they’ve no comprehension of what I’ve said.
Harry and George poke their heads around the game room’s door and look at me in much the same way.
“What?” I question, wondering what the fuck is wrong with my kids.
“Squires?” H questions.
“You’re letting someone else do the inside decorations?” Kiki asks, sounding astounded.
“Yes. All change this year. I’m handing it over to someone else and having a day out with my family. If you all keep looking so shocked, or I hear a single mention of CDO or meltdowns of Georgia proportions, you’ll all take the bus to school without any lunch money for the rest of the year.”
They all take turns staring wide-eyed at first me and then each other.
“Come on then, get yourselves sorted.” I clap my hands as I speak, and the kids all head up the stairs.
“And remember, it’s just Lakeside, not a film premiere or a fashion show we’re going to.”
Their mumbled responses are indecipherable as I head into the kitchen for a last-minute tidy up before we leave. Although, knowing how long my kids take to get ready, I’ve probably got time to wash and dry three loads of washing, so I head out to the utility room instead.
Shopping is interesting. Because of mentions of Sean and the anniversary of his death on the news and social media, pictures have been broadcast and posted of the two of
us. Meaning that I’m recognised a lot more than usual. Something I didn’t even consider when I suggested our family day out.
I get asked for my autograph three times and pose for four photos. Cam makes sure to keep the kids out of the way while this happens, which is a hard and fast rule of ours.
We’ve been papped with the kids occasionally, but if it’s possible to have any control over pictures being taken of our children, then I exert that power to the fullest.
The kids choose Wagamama for lunch, and as we wait for our table, it takes me a few moments to realise that the place has fallen quiet and people are staring.
“Dad, that woman’s taking photos,” Kiki whispers loudly.
We all turn in the direction that Kiks gestures, and sure enough, an overly made-up woman, who looks to be in her fifties, has her phone aimed in our direction.
“Turn your backs, kids,” Cam says just as I start to make my way over to her table.
“Georgia.” I’m grabbed gently by my elbow and turn to see my husband shaking his head at me. “I’ll deal with it.”
“But—”
“No, not today.”
I let out a huff, and he leans in, kisses my temple, and leaves me with the kids.
Things like this really piss me off. My kids are not part of my past life, and even if they were, nobody has the right to take photos of them without my or Cam’s permission.
In the beginning, we had to have Benny with us everywhere we went, but things have quietened down over the years and the interest in me waned. Now, we only really have security with us if we’re going to a public event where we know there’ll be lots of photographers.
If I am recognised, then people are mostly courteous and will ask to take a selfie or for me to sign something. I always oblige. I think they feel they’re getting a little piece of Sean by getting a little piece of me, and I’d never deny his fans that.
What looks like a manager appears and heads in our direction with a smile on his face.
“Hey, I’m Brett Davies. I’m the day shift manager here.” I take the hand he’s holding out and shake it, returning his smile.
“Georgia McCarthy-King. We honestly don’t want to be putting you to any extra trouble, we were just after a table for six and some lunch.”
“Of course. We’re just setting you up over in the back corner, we thought it’d be a little more private for you.”
We’ve eaten here numerous times, it’s a favourite of the kids, and we’ve never had a problem, but I really can’t be bothered to argue, so I smile sweetly and thank the manager.
“It isn’t a request. Either stop taking photos of my kids, or I’ll take your phone off you.”
Both Brett and I turn to where Cam is standing, arms folded across his chest as he glares down at the woman who was taking photos.
The man sitting opposite her stands.
“Shit,” I whisper-hiss as Brett makes his way over to Cam.
I’m not sure what to do. We should just leave, but then, why the fuck should we?
“Is there a problem?” Brett asks.
“Yeah, there’s a problem. This prick’s accusing my misses of taking photos of his kids when she was just checking her phone.” The man that stood up—her husband I assume—accuses.
“Bullshit, she was taking photos.”
“Prove it.” The woman pipes up. She’s short, blonde, and . . . curvy? She’s talking to Cam but looking at me with a sneer on her face.
“Mum, let’s just go somewhere else,” Kiki says as she grabs hold of my hand. She hates when this kind of thing happens, whereas Lu, George, and H all have their phones out, checking to make sure their hair looks good. Lu even pulls a lip gloss out of her pocket and promptly applies it.
“Madam, as the manager, I’m going to kindly request that you keep your phone on the table while Mr King and his family enjoy their lunch.”
“Since when did you have a no phones policy?” the husband asks.
“Since I just made one.”
“Oh, I see. Special rules apply just because some D-list celebrity that used to fuck a rock star—”
The bloke doesn't finish whatever he was going to add to that charming little sentence before Cam reaches across the bench-style table and drags him across it.
Chairs scrape and plates, glasses, and cutlery crash to the floor.
“Cam, no, just leave it. They’re not worth bothering with.”
The look he gives me tells me to shut the fuck up and stay out of it, but I ignore it and move towards him.
“Go back to the kids, George,” he orders.
“Yeah, fuck off, Georgia,” the woman shouts. She obviously has some kind of beef with me.
“Do I know you?” I question.
“Not really, but I know you. We went to the same school. You always did think your shit didn’t stink. Then you married that Carnage bloke, and we all got to look at the lovey-dovey photos splashed everywhere of the pair of ya. Didn’t mind having ya photo taken then, did ya?”
Cam’s stare slices between the crazy lady and me, begging me to let him break either her phone or her husband’s nose. I’d rather he did neither of those things right now. At least not while everyone else in the restaurant is watching.
“And that gives you the right to take pictures of my kids, does it? Cam, put him down,” I order, he ignores me.
She stands when I reach her table, and I can see that calling her curvy was doing a disservice to curvy women. She’s round like a beach ball with massive boobs, a big belly, and short legs.
I lean in and whisper in Cam’s ear, “Other people are pulling out their phones and filming this, please let’s just leave it.” Without even looking my way, he releases the bloke, gives him a shove, and we watch as he lands on his arse back on his side of the table.
“Like I said—”
“I’m not interested.” I cut her off and turn to Brett, asking, “Is our table ready?”
He looks at me and blinks—or flinches, I’m not sure which—and gives a stuttered, “Ye-yes,” in response.
I call the kids over.
I could stand here and argue with these people. We could cause a scene and even demand that they be thrown out, but I’ve learned my lesson over the years. The press will run with whatever version of events they see fit to and rarely will it be the truth. If we make a big deal out of this, then it’ll give value to whatever pictures she’s already taken of us, and the last thing I want is these fuckwits making money out of images of my family.
“Follow Brett,” I tell the kids, who are all eyeing me warily, waiting for it all to kick off.
I take hold of Cam’s hand and smile at the couple in front of me.
“Enjoy your lunch. Thank you for ruining ours and making what is already a difficult day for me even worse. I hope you find someone to buy those pictures you’ve taken of my children without my permission and that your conscience allows you to enjoy spending it on something that makes your sad little life happier.”
The people sitting farther down the bench start clapping, then they stand and continue clapping. After a few seconds, the entire restaurant joins them.
All the while, I fight the urge to cry and to rip the troll-faced bitch’s throat out.
Cam pulls on my hand, kisses the top of my head, and says into my ear, “Love the fuck outta you, Kitten.” He then leads me over to our table to where our kids, my reason for existing, are waiting.
I
text Marley and tell him we’re about a minute away, and the gates to the grounds of “Rock Star’s Retreat” are swinging open as we arrive.
We’ve been blown out by our kids, all requesting to be dropped off at home on our way from Lakeside to here. I wasn’t happy at first, but then Cam reminded me that the last thing I probably wanted to do at their age was hang out with my parents, aunts, and uncles, so, once again, I took a deep breath and let it go. I’ve done so much of that today, I really should consider changing my name to Elsa
.
Cam’s been quiet on the drive. Well, he’s been quiet since the restaurant incident. I’ve not pushed him for an explanation since I’m sure at some stage he’ll tell me. Once he’s worked it out in his own head.
We pull up on Marley’s drive at a little after six.
Four minutes after six to be exact.
I don’t move.
Cam doesn’t move.
“Un-break My Heart” by Toni Braxton is playing through the sound system until Cam turns it off.
We sit in absolute silence as I watch the clock on the dashboard.
At eight minutes past six, Cam moves his seat back, leans across the centre consul, and lifts me to straddle his lap.
He slides his arms around my waist as I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his chest and throat.
We’re back to where we were this morning. Except this time, there is nothing sexual about our embrace.
This time, it’s all about my husband holding me together at the exact moment my little boy was born not breathing and unresponsive seventeen years ago.
This time, it’s all about me seeking comfort from the only man on this earth capable of giving me exactly what I need.
We hold each other in silence until Cam finally says, “You were fucking amazing in that restaurant today, Kitten. You blew me away.”
“I wanted to cunt punt the bitch.”
“Language.”
“Oh, fuck off. That little troll would’ve deserved it.”
“She did, and I know full well that was what was going through your head. Fuck me, it even went through mine. That was what made what you said to her even more spectacular. I’m so fucking proud of the way you handled things … especially on a day like this.”
“Thank you. I just didn’t wanna make the six o’clock news tonight or let the troll-faced beach ball make money from whatever pictures she took and have the kids involved.”
“Love the fuck outta you, Kitten. Let’s go raise a glass to Sean and your babies and get drunk with your family.
