He placed his fingertips over his nipples. ‘Don’t look, I get shy.’ He could make her laugh like no one else.
Grace let her shoulders sag and lolled her head onto one side. ‘I can’t do sexy stuff tonight, I’m too tired…’ She closed her eyes and swayed as if to prove it.
‘Oh, Grace, you don’t have to do sexy stuff.’ Tom pulled her towards him and held her close, resting with her head under his chin as they stood in the half light of their bedroom. ‘In fact you don’t even have to be awake. I’ll be very quick.’
Grace thumped him lightly again and made her way to the bathroom for a teeth clean and a trip to the loo. Finally, she slid under the duvet and placed her head on the pillow. Its familiar scent rose up to meet her.
‘Stay awake, Grace! I’m just cleaning my teeth and I’ll be right through.’
She heard his sigh of frustration as her lids closed in long languid blinks and she slipped into the deep, deep sleep that she had been longing for all evening.
2
People suffering from sepsis can experience extreme shivering or muscle pain
Grace couldn’t recall falling asleep, but evidently she had, because she was now waking. Daylight peeked beneath the hem of the Roman blind; no matter that it was early, she still considered it an absolute treat to wake naturally before the alarm clock or before Chloe’s morning crowing. It was even better to know that she didn’t have to rush and catch a train that would take her away from her family. Instinctively she rolled over and laid her head on Tom’s chest. He placed his hand on her back and stroked her silky skin. Without speaking, he raised her mouth to his lips and kissed her gently. This was always their time: no Chloe, no noise, just the two of them and their desire for the other’s touch.
‘I’m not awake enough for sexy stuff,’ she murmured into his skin.
‘Blimey, too tired for sexy stuff, not awake enough, you going off me?’ He yawned.
Grace pulled her body up and flipped over until she was on all fours, hovering over him. ‘Going off you?’ She bent low and bit his neck. ‘I don’t think so.’
He gathered her bobbed hair into his palm and pulled her mouth onto his. Kissing was still one of the best bits for them.
She pulled away. ‘Remind me to get the leg of lamb out of the freezer for tomorrow.’
‘Grace, we are mid passion! I don’t want to talk about tomorrow’s bloody lunch!’
‘Sorry, sorry!’ She waved a hand in front of her face. ‘I was just thinking out loud.’
‘Marvellous! Now I know what’s running through your head, and it isn’t sexy thoughts, it’s frozen lamb!’
Grace sat back until she was resting on her husband. ‘You’re right.’ She exhaled. ‘Come on, Grace, think sexy thoughts.’ She bent forward again and closed her eyes.
‘You used to think about me and that was enough.’ He smacked her bottom, slowly running his hand over her back, palming the outline of her shape.
Grace whispered into his ear, ‘I am thinking about you.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a start, I guess.’ He smiled as their passion built. They held each other tightly, locked together in another world.
She closed her eyes. ‘I’m thinking about you and picturing you reminding me to take the lamb out of the freezer.’
Tom laughed as her gripped his wife’s hips, the two collapsing in a heap on their messy bed. ‘How do you do that to me?’
‘Do what?’ she asked as her breathing slowed.
‘Make me laugh, make me happy, make me feel like everything is bloody brilliant!’ He thumped the mattress.
Grace propped her head on her elbow and looked at her handsome man. She rather liked the cluster of faint lines that had appeared at the corners of his eyes, liked the fact that they were ageing together, as if this gave them some sort of authenticity, proof that they had stayed the course, a pedigree that could only be earned by time. A proper couple.
‘Everything is bloody brilliant, Tom, that’s why. We’re so lucky.’ She slipped down and welcomed the feel of his arms about her shoulders. ‘I know I get tired—’
‘I hate how tired you get,’ he interrupted.
‘But we’ve got it all. Our lovely house, our beautiful girl, each other.’ She ran her thumb along his ribs.
He kissed her scalp. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’ She beamed. ‘Tom?’
‘What?’
‘I’m thinking sexy thoughts right now and they have nothing to do with frozen lamb.’
‘Quick, quick, quick!’ He manoeuvred his wife into the middle of their bed and was about to take thorough advantage of the situation when they heard the creak of their daughter’s bedroom door.
Grace scrambled across the mattress to her side of the bed, pulled down her nightie and restored the bedclothes.
‘We can never get that creak fixed,’ Tom whispered.
‘No. Never,’ she agreed.
Their bedroom door opened and in rushed Chloe. Bounding up to their bed, she flung her little leg up onto the mattress and, gripping the duvet with both hands, hauled herself up, climbing until she was sitting in the middle of the bed, with her parents pushed to the edges.
‘Here I am!’ she announced with her palms splayed.
Grace and Tom laughed at their wild-haired, rosy-cheeked daughter. ‘Yes, baby, here you are.’
‘Did you have sweet dreams?’ Grace asked, as she did every morning.
Chloe nodded. ‘Can I have my brexbrus?’ Her thoughts were, as ever, not very far from food.
‘You bet!’ Tom jumped from the bed, reaching for his sweatpants. ‘What we having, Chlo? Scrambled eggs?’
‘And toast and red dip-dip!’ Chloe clambered off the bed, eager to get to the kitchen.
Tom scooped her up and rested her on his arm as he kissed her face. ‘Of course, toast and red dip-dip!’ He looked at his wife. ‘You have your shower and I’ll put the coffee on.’
Grace showered slowly, feeling ridiculously happy that she wasn’t on a timer and that she would get to spend the day in her jeans, both an absolute luxury. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be one of those women who got to stay at home every day, who pottered in their kitchens and sauntered to the shops and could watch CBeebies with their babies. Bliss.
‘Here’s Mummy!’ Tom declared as Grace took up her seat at the table.
The log burner was roaring away, emitting a warm glow that filled the room. Heart Breakfast supplied the soundtrack, with tunes they could nod and hum along to.
Grace smiled as her husband placed a mug of hot coffee in front of her and two slices of wholemeal toast with her favourite lime marmalade. ‘This is the life!’
‘Did I mention I’m meeting up with Paz this morning?’ Tom spoke as he unloaded the dishwasher and placed the clean rustic pasta bowls into a pile on the shelf. His school friend’s parents lived close by and the two never missed an opportunity for a catch-up.
Grace bit into her toast. ‘Why is it that toast made by someone else is a million times nicer than when you make it yourself?’
‘Don’t know, as no one in this house ever makes me toast!’ Tom threw a tea towel at his wife.
‘I could make you toast if you wanted!’ she mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘Do you know how, Grace? Because I really doubt you do.’
‘I do!’ she yelled. ‘It’ll be nice to see Paz. Is Polly with him?’
‘No, she’s gone to Majorca. That friend of hers, Jessica, has that retreat out there. She’s over there for a week, apparently, chanting around a candle and sunbathing during the day, and drinking sangria by night!’
‘Ooh, half their luck.’ Grace reached for her phone and checked her email.
‘Polly would love to take you along, you know that, but to be honest I can’t see you chanting around a candle, babe. You couldn’t cope with the slow pace, admiring nature and all that, and being without your phone. And mid way through the yoga, you’d have to
stop and rewrite your to-do list, then come up with ways you could rebrand the candle experience and ideas on how they could increase sales!’
‘I can’t help it. My brain doesn’t turn off. Ever!’ she scoffed, washing her toast down with hot coffee. ‘What are you and Paz up to?’
‘Man stuff!’ Tom flexed his muscles.
‘Man stuff? Like what?’ Grace laughed.
Tom closed the dishwasher door. ‘Like meeting in Costa and going for a large latte with a hazelnut shot.’
‘A hazelnut shot!’ Grace put her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s serious man stuff! Who’s got their kids and that bonkers Border terrier?’
‘Paz’s mum and dad.’
‘Well, give him my love. While you’re gone, Chloe and I are going to do some cooking!’
‘Hey, hear that, Chlo? You’re going to have to teach Mummy how to do some cooking, because she’s useless! What is she, Chloe?’
‘She’s looseless!’ Chloe shrieked.
‘I’m not that bad!’ Grace protested.
‘Yes, you are! You are absolutely looseless,’ Tom said.
Grace balled the tea towel that had landed on the table and threw it back at her man. Chloe clapped her delight. She loved it when they were all together and it felt like a party.
An hour later, Chloe sat at the kitchen table in her special seat, a hideously expensive Scandinavian invention that Tom had had shipped over, having seen it in one of his fancy interior design magazines. She was raised high enough to see everything that was going on, at just the right level for conversing with the adults without having to look up. Wearing her shiny navy blue apron with its front patch pocket, she was kneading the cookie dough with her little fists, pulling it apart and sticking it back together into random shapes. She thumped and thumbed the mixture on the table in front of her until she had formed a structure not dissimilar to Mount Vesuvius, post eruption.
‘You are making a great job of that, Chlo! It looks lovely.’
‘I doing cooking!’ She nodded confirmation.
‘I can see that. You’re very good at it. And whatever you do, Chloe, never forget all you can do is your very best.’
Chloe nodded. Lesson learnt.
It was a tactic that Grace employed regularly as a way of buying time. Engaging her daughter in an activity might mean as much as half an hour of work time while she was engrossed. Some days it was painting, on others she could be found sticking shells and small stones onto loo-roll tubes, but today it was baking. Grace didn’t feel too guilty. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement; she got a small amount of work done, while Chloe had fun. She consoled herself with the fact that some mothers would shove their tot in front of the television for the same reason; at least Chloe’s time was being eaten up constructively.
Grace recalled her own childhood, when her mother would not have dreamt of leaving her alone to perform any task with an arts and crafts slant. Instead, Olive would have been at the helm, getting stuck in with her sleeves rolled high, often quite literally elbow deep in paint and glue or mixing batter or dough.
Grace looked up from her screen and surveyed the culinary delight that her daughter was absorbed in. Her thoughts turned to the previous night and Tom again pushing for another baby.
‘I heard that Olly has got a new little brother. That’s exciting, isn’t it? I bet he’s teeny tiny and cute!’
Chloe ignored her. Concentrating on her task.
‘Would you like a little brother or sister, Chloe?’ she asked, keeping her tone casual.
‘No.’ Her answer was clear, definitive and instant.
‘No?’ Grace queried. ‘I thought you’d like a little baby that you could dress up and play with and look after. Like a real dolly!’
‘No.’ Chloe again shook her head. ‘I don’t want a baby. I want a green bike with a basket.’
‘Instead of a baby?’ Grace pushed.
‘Yes. ‘Stead of a baby.’ Chloe gave an exaggerated nod.
Grace laughed loudly. Well, that was easy then. Decision made. A quick trip to Halfords was a darn sight more attractive at that point in time than going through nine months of struggle and then a grotty labour. She smiled at her baby girl. ‘And I must say, what a lovely cookie you’ve made, honey. Is it for you?’
‘No! It’s for my daddy.’ She was adamant.
‘Ooh, lucky Daddy.’ Grace felt the familiar twinge of envy as Daddy was again declared the favourite. She tried to ignore it, silently reprimanding herself for harbouring such a thought.
‘Can I put these in it?’ Chloe asked.
Grace looked up again to see what her little girl was suggesting. In her tiny palm, sticky with wet dough, was a selection of the smallest Lego bricks and a green paperclip. Well, so long as the cookie is for Daddy…
‘Of course you can, darling. That’s a lovely idea.’
Chloe beamed with delight. Despite being only three, she had fully expected her suggestion to be rebuffed. It was Lego and a paperclip after all.
Grace watched as her daughter peppered the mixture with the little multi-coloured plastic bricks, pushing each one into position with her podgy fingers and using the paperclip to crown her glorious creation.
‘I finished!’ she announced as she dragged the remnants of the cookie mixture along the front of her apron.
Grace grabbed the greased baking tray. ‘Come on, baby, help Mummy put your cookie on here and then we can bake it.’
Chloe’s tongue popped out of the right side of her mouth, one of her many endearing habits that denoted extreme concentration. Grace had seen Tom do something similar when they were playing backgammon or when he was writing emails; she loved how nature asserted itself in the strangest of ways.
Many hands in this case did not make light work; instead it rather confused what should have been a straightforward task. As they wrestled with the dough and Grace tried to manoeuvre the metal tray, the slippery mixture somehow managed to end up in a squashed mess on the floor.
Tears at the injustice of this sprang instantly from Chloe’s eyes. ‘My cookie! Silly Mummy!’ Chloe wailed. ‘You silly Mummy!’
Grace pulled her little girl from her chair; she held her a little too tightly and cooed into her sweet-scented scalp. ‘I’m sorry, Chlo. Please don’t cry. We can scoop it up and cook it anyway and no one will ever know. Okay?’
‘‘Kay.’ Chloe sniffed and wiped her eyes with her dough-covered fingers, sticking blobs of cookie mixture onto her long eyelashes. ‘My eyes are sticky!’ She rubbed them again and blinked furiously.
Grace reached for the kitchen roll, hoping she’d saved the email she’d been composing before she’d had to abandon her phone. As ever, she wondered how things had deteriorated so quickly into farce.
That afternoon, the three of them sat on the sofa with their legs stretched out on the large, square, padded stool that doubled as a table, watching Mr Bloom plant things.
‘How was Paz?’
‘Good. Happy.’ Tom smiled as his daughter wriggled back into his arms and rested her head on him. ‘Wow, now this is the life.’ Tom winked at his wife.
Grace nodded, hoping for a sly snooze while Chloe was engrossed in the television. She looked at the utter contentment on her husband’s face and it made her smile. His own childhood had been privileged but lacking in affection and he’d been very clear to Grace about wanting them to parent Chloe in a different, if not a better way.
Tom was the oldest son of Maxwell and Fiona Penderford and home had been a solid mansion on the edge of the North Yorks Moors – not that he’d spent much time in it, as he and his younger brother Jack were sent away to school at the age of seven. Tom had once explained to Grace that he had always felt his visits home upset the delicate balance that was his parents’ existence. His mother always appeared to be slightly flustered by his presence, as though she really didn’t know what she was supposed to do with ‘the boys’ when they were home. It made Grace sad that Tom could recall no more than a coup
le of occasions when they’d sat down to dinner as a family; and when they had, there’d been stilted conversation and discomfort all round.
Maxwell Penderford had taken his family’s land and cash and established one of the country’s largest construction companies. He’d been delighted when Tom had announced his intention to be an architect; Maxwell assumed that it was a roundabout way of learning the family business. The fact that Tom then chose to carve his own way and, since the birth of Chloe, hadn’t worked at all, had been met with thinly disguised disgust. This was the latest reason why Tom chose not to speak to his parents unless it was absolutely necessary.
Grace’s upbringing could not have been more different. Her parents were wonderfully supportive. It had been no surprise for Tom to learn that Olive had not only baked three times a week for her family, but that Mac, despite being a bigwig in the Metropolitan Police, had been a school governor, making sure he was as fully involved as possible in the girls’ education. Tom knew with certainty that his parents had never known what class he was in, much less the name of any of his tutors.
Holidays for Grace had been idyllic, epic camping trips to the remote Scottish wilderness. Her mum and dad would share tea from the plastic cup on the thermos flask and she and Alice would argue over the last warm, squashed, cheese and pickle sandwich that languished in the bottom of their dad’s rucksack. Grace smiled at the memory of them bickering and paying no attention to the majesty of their surroundings while her parents tried to snooze hand in hand on a bed of heather. She knew her husband felt a physical twist in his stomach when he compared that with his own family’s summer breaks, where he and Jack would be collected from school by an ever changing nanny/au pair/housekeeper and flown to their house in Barbados. The neighbours there were an eclectic mix of writers, screen stars and minor royalty and his parents worked hard to infiltrate the club, conscious that it was a pretty good outcome for a family of builders from Yorkshire.
It upset Grace to learn that the feelings Tom associated most with his childhood were nervousness and an anxious tummy, not dissimilar to being obliged to live among strangers. He and his brother were close because they shared their unique upbringing, yet there was also a coolness between them as neither wanted too much reminding of what life used to be like for them. Tom hoped that Jack would be fortunate enough to find the kind of happiness he had with Grace and that he too would build a family that would heal him, in the way that his had.
Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats Page 3
