by Carrie Elks
The thought of not having the doctors and nurses around to help, should he suffer a relapse, is like an icy hand curling around my heart.
“I haven't been home for days. We don't have any food, any milk...” I trail off.
His smile is gentle, he must be used to dealing with neurotic parents. “Why don't you go home for a few hours and get things ready? Maybe one of the family can sit with Max while you’re gone.”
When Tina arrives an hour later, I tell her about the doctor's suggestion, explaining they plan to discharge Max tomorrow as long as his oxygen levels remain steady.
She shuffles her chair closer to his cot. “Of course I'll look after him, you deserve a break. Have a nap, too. And a shower.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do I smell?” I've been washing myself thoroughly every morning, frightened to introduce any more germs into Max's tiny body. But the antibacterial liquid soap isn't exactly Jo Malone. I smell functional at best.
“Don't be silly.” Tina laughs. “I thought you'd like a few home comforts. Anyway, I expect Alex will be here soon. He can help you out then.”
I'd call her delusional, but the fact is I still haven't been able to tell her about that phone call. I'm finding it hard to process myself, let alone watch her go through the same thing. I know I have to do it eventually, and I will.
As soon as Max is out of hospital.
“Maybe.” I smile, but it’s forced. “In the meantime, thank you for helping. I appreciate it.”
Yes she can be nosy, and occasionally interfering, but Tina's heart is in the right place. She's been here for her grandson, sitting with him every day. You can't buy that kind of love.
Stepping out of the hospital, I feel like a prisoner getting an early release. Turning my head, I glance back at the grey concrete of the building now behind me, unwilling to leave. I’m scared, too.
The sensible part of my brain tells me Max is out of the woods. His oxygen levels have improved and he's started to feed. He can go back to being a normal baby. It's me who feels different. As if my heart has been scarred by the experience. Beneath the tough outer-membrane the fear that something could happen to him is all too raw.
I catch a bus back to Shoreditch, standing with my hand wrapped around the cool, metal pole, watching as people get on and off. A baby cries and I immediately whip my head around, my stomach lurching when I realise it isn't Max. Being away from him, even for a couple of hours, is harder than I expected.
When the bus finally reaches my stop, the air brakes sounding like a deep, agonising sigh, I find myself reluctant to get off. It isn't often I step off a bus without having Max's buggy to push, and my hands feel strangely empty. Even walking along the pavement feels weird, as if the world is ever so slightly mad, and I go to grab a buggy handle for balance, my fingers curling into a fist when I realise it isn't there.
He's okay, I tell myself.
I decide to text Tina on the off chance. Everything all right?
She shoots me back a reply straight away. He's absolutely fine. Now stop worrying.
But it's almost impossible to stop fretting. I don't think I ever will. Now that the membrane of my blind optimism is breached, I can't help think about all the roadblocks that line our future. The viruses, the bacteria, the cars that drive too fast. The kids who call names, the daddies who don't come home. They're all there, waiting for us. Goading us on.
I'm still stewing on it all when I let myself into the front door. From old habit, more than anything else, I tap lightly on David's door to let him know I'm here.
There's no response. Strange; it's early afternoon, he's usually working.
Shrugging, I make my way to our upstairs flat, slipping the key in our door for the first time in days.
There's a staleness to the air which I notice as soon as I step inside. As if it's stood still for too long, become bored and lazy. The first thing I do is open all the windows, watching the breeze lift the ends of the curtains. Though it's cloudy, the sun is strong enough to push through the hazy layer, casting a pale yellow glow on our wooden floor. It pools at my feet, turning my toes golden, highlighting the horrendous chips that have decimated the polish there. With my mangled feet, bitten down nails and general aroma of hospital, I'm a walking mess.
The shower sorts some of that out. It washes away the aroma of anti-bacterial wash, replacing it with the familiar floral scent of my shower gel. It soothes my body, too; the hot spray hammering on my muscles like a thousand tiny fingers. I stay in there a bit too long. Enough for the skin on my fingers to wrinkle up. When I finally emerge, I'm shocked to see nearly two hours have passed since I was at the hospital.
Hurrying, I dry my hair and wind it into a messy bun, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then I pack some fresh clothes for Max, ready for his journey home. The shelves of the fridge have already been stocked with essentials—thanks to David, no doubt—so by quarter past five I'm ready to go back to the hospital.
This time—laden down with bags and a car seat—I take a cab. It isn't much faster than the bus, especially as it's the middle of rush hour, but it's altogether quieter, allowing me to rest my head on the door and stare out of the window.
We pass the familiar landmarks: shops, the station, the pub on the corner where Alex used to play. I remember a hundred different nights spent in there with him. The way he would grab my bottom as we left, his guitar slung over his shoulder, hair messy after a night of hard rocking.
It makes me feel wistful. Though I thought I'd washed my melancholy down the shower drain along with the dirt that clung to my skin, it's come back with full force. Perhaps it's the post-natal depression, perhaps it's knowing Alex chose his band, his career over us. Or maybe it's the knowledge I came so close to losing my baby that makes my heart feel as if it's been slashed in two.
When we pull up at the hospital, I count out the money and hand it to the driver, telling him to keep the change. Then I climb out, slamming the door behind me, and walk back into the hospital with arms full of baby stuff.
Taking the lift, rather than the stairs, I press the button for the top floor. A couple of people get in after me, before the doors slide closed. By the time I get into the Neptune ward, I'm glad to put down my bounty, and I have to shake my arms to return the feeling to my fingers.
Things haven't changed in the time I've been gone. The beds are still full of children, some sleeping, others surrounded by family. The walls retain the vibrancy of the murals, the smiling Disney faces adding a cheer to the ward. In the past few days I've become accustomed to the sounds and smells of the hospital. It feels familiar. Comforting. And as I walk into the room beside the nurses' station the smile on my face is genuine.
Genuine, but fleeting.
Max is awake, being held while he sucks at a half-full bottle of milk. His hand grasps the plastic, as if he's trying to feed himself. Even after two hours he looks brighter. Healthier. His cheeks are pink and supple.
But it's not Max I'm staring at, it's the man holding him. The man with the sinewy biceps and colourful tattoos that cover his arms. The man who is looking at me, a smile breaking out on his lips.
Alex.
* * *
Back when I worked in an investment bank, Saturdays were reserved for all the crap I couldn’t get done in the week. Trips to the hairdressers, dumping laundry at the dry cleaners. Stocking up on essentials at the local Tesco Metro. What they weren’t reserved for was bringing strange singers back to my flat in the early hours of the morning. Yet that’s what I found myself doing the first night I met Alex.
I lived in one of those impossibly anonymous apartment blocks that surrounded London’s Docklands. Red brick, and warehouse-like, they lined the waterways, their blandness reflected back in the rivers they loomed over. Even with the morning sun rising up behind them, they failed to look anything else than what they were; holding pens for City workers.
“You live here?” Alex asked, looking around the lobby as we walked to
wards the bank of three elevators. “Seriously?”
I glanced behind me, wondering what he found so funny. The desk was manned by a security guard, his face half-hidden by the huge vase of fresh flowers resting on the walnut countertop. The floors were marble, veined with pale blues and pinks. I couldn’t see anything amusing about them.
“Yeah, why?” I wrinkled my nose.
“I dunno. It doesn’t seem very you.”
“What does that mean?” I couldn’t work out if it was a compliment or a criticism.
We stepped through the open lift doors. “It’s too boring. No life to it.”
I pressed the button for my floor and watched as he leaned against the mirrored wall. A dozen Alexes reflected right back at me. “It’s close to work,” I protested. I didn’t know why his dislike of my place annoyed me, but it did. I felt as though he was judging me.
“What do you do again?”
“I work in hedge funds.” Normally people tuned out as soon as I started talking about my job. All they ever wanted to know was what I earned, and what shares they should invest in. Anything over and above that and they were falling asleep.
“Do you like it?”
He stared at me and I felt that pull again, as though an invisible cord was wrapped around my waist.
“It’s a great job,” I said. “It’s challenging and difficult but it’s brilliant experience. I get given a lot of responsibility, more than other firms would.”
He raised a single eyebrow, making his ring glint in the glare of the light. “But do you like it?”
My head started to ache as I thought of the downsides. The times we lost millions, the way all the partners shouted at us constantly. How I always felt I wasn’t good enough.
“It’s a job.”
I didn’t like the way he looked at me. As if I was something to be pitied.
I preferred his hot stares, and when we walked out of the lift, I found myself swaying my hips in an exaggerated way, hoping to get that back.
“Anyway,” I said, putting my key in the lock. “It pays for all this.” I pushed open the door and we stepped inside. I hadn’t been home since the previous morning, and even then I was too bleary eyed to do much more than shower and slap on some make-up. So I was relieved to see it was pretty neat—especially for me. Not a pair of dirty knickers to be seen.
When I turned to offer him a cup of tea, that hot look was back again. His eyes were dark and narrowed, his jaw tense. It knocked the breath out of me, especially when he took a step forward and traced the thin skin across my collar bone. Even though his touch was light, it still made me shiver.
“Lara,” he said. “Such a pretty name. The sort of name I could write songs about.” His finger dragged lower, reaching the swell of my breasts. I wanted to look down, to watch what he was going to do, but I was too entranced by his eyes.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Not to ones called Ethel.” He smirked and it made me giggle. Then he leaned forward and brushed his lips against my neck, and it was all I could do to breathe.
“You taste of coconuts,” he whispered into my skin. “I want to cover you in chocolate and eat you like a Bounty.”
I laughed again. He was funny and hot. “Plain or milk?”
His lips trailed lower. He pushed my collar aside, fingers dipping inside my bra, and the next moment I felt his thumb graze my nipple.
“There’s nothing plain about you.”
He could talk the talk so well, I liked it. The way he couldn’t give a shit about my job or my rent-as-expensive-as-a-small-car flat was refreshing. Alex was the no-bullshit type. Said what he thought and took what he wanted. It was insanely sexy.
“Did I tell you I have a really nice bedroom?” I ask him. “Views of the river. King size bed. I might even have made it yesterday.” I wasn’t sure about that last bit.
“Do you look at the view a lot?” he asked.
“It’s pretty.”
“When you have sex?” He unbuttoned my dress, brushing the thin silk off my shoulders. It slid down my arms and fluttered to the floor.
“All the time.” I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t remember the last time I had sex.
“Mmm.” He pushed my bra down, freeing my breasts. Sighing softly, he scooped them into his palms, his thumbs stroking my flesh. “This is pretty.”
“Yeah?” My voice was soft.
“Yeah.”
By the time we made it into my bedroom I was naked except for my knickers. Still dressed, Alex spun me around, his hands gripping my waist, fingers digging into my hips. Stepping forward, he pressed me against the glass window overlooking the Thames. I could feel his erection on my behind.
“I want you to take a good look at that view,” he whispered into my ear. His breath tickled and caressed.
“Why?” By that point I was all sensation. My front was cold as it pressed into the glass, my back hot with his presence. His fingers slipped inside my knickers.
“Because you won’t be looking at it again for a while. I’m not one of your city boy hook-ups. I don’t do sweet, I don’t do respectable. When I’m finished with you, Lara, you won’t be able to open your eyes, let alone appreciate the fucking vista.”
Oh God.
I wracked my brain for a snarky reply but the impulse died as he spun me back around, my heated back now pressed to the cold glass. Then he dipped his head until his mouth was hard on mine, his demanding kisses leaving me in no doubt that his fucking would be equally as aggressive. Then he pulled my knickers down, dragging his fingers, the tips brushing the part that made my knees buckle.
“Take your clothes off,” I growled, pulling at his T-shirt He stepped back, grinning, and lifted it over his head. I stared at him, open-mouthed, following the lines of his muscles, the patterns of his ink. Admiring him as if he was a work of art.
Then he pulled off his jeans, standing only in his boxers. A hard ridge was obvious at the front. I trailed my finger down him, watching him twitch, then curled my hand until I was cupping his erection.
When I sunk to my knees, I heard him mutter a low “fuck,” his oaths getting louder as I took him out of his boxers. My hand encircled his girth, pulling him down, enough for my lips to graze against his tip.
He gave a sharp intake of breath.
I wrapped my mouth around him. Trailed my tongue around the head. When he sighed louder, his hands tangling in my hair, I couldn’t help but hum with satisfaction.
I’d finally found a way to shut up the dirty boy.
21
“What are you doing here?” It comes out harsher than I intend, but I'm totally blindsided. I wasn't prepared for a confrontation, not until his tour ended.
Not to mention the fact that Max is practically giggling in his dad's lap.
The same lap that had a girl squirming about in it a little over a week ago.
Alex's brows knit together. “I got the first plane I could. Things were crazy.”
“Bullshi—” My retort is cut short by the arrival of Tina. She bustles in, a big smile on her face. “Oh, there you are, Lara. All better? Did you have a nice rest?”
She makes it sound as though I've popped home to freshen up. Doesn't mention the fact I've been here four days straight without a break, or that I was starting to smell like a piece of the hospital furniture.
“I got things done.”
I can feel Alex staring at me, and I know he's still frowning, but I can't even bring myself to look at him again. Max grunts as he finishes his bottle and I hear Alex say something to him, but in my fury and frustration I can't make out what it is.
“How's he doing?” One of the nurses walks into the room, immediately making a beeline for Max and Alex. “Would you like me to take him for you?” I swear I can hear her batting her eyelashes.
“It's okay, I can do it.”
Of course you bloody can, I think. You haven't had to lift a finger for over a month. There's a part of me—one I
'm not proud of—that feels aggrieved he's waltzed back in and taken over. Everybody's smiling at him, bar me.
Even Max, the little traitor.
“Alex flew through the night,” Tina feels the need to tell me. She picks up some of Max's muslin cloths, folding them neatly. “He didn't even stop to go home. He was so worried, he came straight here.”
Give the man a medal. He's only four days late.
“How are you doing, babe?” He turns his eyes on me. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here.”
“I'm fine.” The tone in my voice lets him know I'm anything but. “We coped without you.”
“Is everything all right?” He sounds confused.
Of course Tina has something to add. “She's been doing so well. But the depression is very hard on her.”
It's as if I'm in a parallel universe. A few hours ago I knew where I was. My baby was getting better, my friends were taking care of me, and my husband was halfway around the world doing God knows what, with God knows who. But now... it's as though I'm upside down on a roller coaster, desperately trying to work out which way is up.
“I'm doing fine.” It's the second time I've said it, but this time I enunciate each word with purpose. Alex is aware that fine is international woman code for 'you're in deep trouble'. Maybe that's why he busies himself by chatting with the nurse.
“Is there anything we need to do when we get home?”
The nurse launches into an explanation about bronchioles and oxygen saturation, while Alex nods with interest. Digging my nails into my palm, I try to keep myself calm. Stable. Sane.
Because what the hell?
The feeling that I'm in some kind of weird dream still hasn't dissipated. There's this man sitting in the corner holding my son, and I’m not sure if I even know him. I'm so confused I'm not sure what I should do next. But the anger that's been brewing in my stomach for days shows no sign of leaving.
“We can do that, can't we?” Alex says to me.
