Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

  Within a few weeks, we could be trying.

  We could be trying to make a baby together.

  “Luv?” He rubbed my tummy vigorously. “Are you all right, there?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, fighting back tears.

  “Don’t you want to make babies with me?”

  “Oh, I do. I do!” I said softly. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

  “Phew!” He stretched out beside me, slipping his hand under my sweater. I loved the way he had come to take command over my body, as if he owned it. In a way, we were becoming a single entity, the yin and yang extension of each other. “For a minute you had me worried that you were one of those intrepid working women, too caught up in your career to want a family.”

  “No, that’s not me,” I said. “I want children. I want to have your baby.”

  “Mmm ... That’s music to my ears.” He pushed my bra aside and bent down to suck on my nipple, making me think of how an infant would do the same. A tiny little baby with soft peach fuzz on his or her head. A baby with Ian’s eyes and my wide smile.

  My whole body was so heightened by all the baby talk, that every touch and stroke sent me reeling. We were going to make a baby! I wanted to shout it out from the top of Calton Hill.

  We’re going to make a baby!

  23

  “I just hate to let you go on Christmas Eve. It’s so unfair.”

  I stepped into my jeans and pulled a fisherman’s sweater over my head. “What kind of business do you have on December twenty-fourth? I mean, you can’t be holding a talent competition or anything.”

  Ian looked at me in the mirror. “Listen, luv. Do you think I’d go if I didn’t have to?”

  “Okay, okay.” I pulled on my Prada boots and stamped my feet. “Just hurry up and get ready so you can hurry up and get back. I’m going down for coffee. Do you want a biscuit?”

  “No, thanks.” He pressed a hand to the towel wrapped around his waist. “Got to keep my trim figure.”

  “You are so incredibly corny . . . and I love you.” I kissed his shoulder, swiping a dab of shaving cream onto my finger. “Love the smell of this,” I said, rubbing it into my wrists.

  Downstairs on the sideboard in the lobby, I noticed a few pastries with little jelly centers, certainly a Christmas Eve bonus. I swept a few onto a plate and poured two mugs of coffee. While I was doctoring mine, the bells jingled as a woman stepped in the front door. She was one of those bland, overweight women you feel a little sorry for—a sweet, pudgy face behind shiny, flat aviator glasses, and a blob of a body tucked in an oversized tweed coat. Head down, she ambled to the desk and primly rang the bell.

  I was routing around for the Scottish equivalent of Sweet and Low when she greeted Andrew. “I’m here for Mr. MacDougal,” she said quietly.

  I swung around, sending a Danish flying off the end of the plate.

  She didn’t notice, but Andrew grinned at me. “Ho, there, Ms. Greenwood.”

  Scrambling, I rested the mugs back on the sideboard and picked up the stray tart as my ears strained to hear.

  “Can you ring his room for me, then?” she asked.

  “Sorry, mum, but there’re no telephones in the rooms. Would you like me to fetch Mr. MacDougal? Or I can send a messenger for you?” Andrew said, nodding at me.

  “No,” the woman said, folding her arms. “No, I’ve been told not to disturb him. I’ll wait until he comes down.” With the quiet resolve of a lost mouse, she turned away and sat on the bench.

  I forced myself to look away as my mind raced through possibilities. Who the hell could this woman be? She was way too dowdy to be a friend. And she’d been told not to disturb him.

  Could this be Nina, the assistant? I shot her a quick look as I grabbed the mugs. Yes, that had to be it. Nina was here to drive to the meeting with him. Though I had to admit, I would never peg the woman as the employee of a hard-driving production company. But maybe the passive-aggressive thing worked for her. Once at the Moone Gallery, we had an employee that even Katherine was afraid to fire because she was so pathetic. Every time Katherine was about to ax her, she’d come up with some excuse. Either her boyfriend broke up with her or her apartment was robbed or she slipped on the subway stairs and sprained her ankle and appeared for work on crutches. Even the notoriously gunning, ruthless Katherine Moone had trouble being aggressive when the target was so downtrodden.

  I carried breakfast over to the window and leaned in toward Andrew. “I’ll tell him she’s here,” I whispered, figuring it was all in keeping with the holiday spirit to keep this helpless gnome from waiting too long.

  Upstairs, I had to place one of the mugs on the floor while I jiggled open the door. “Guess what?” I called, stepping in. I was about to announce Ian’s visitor when I spied his travel bag open on the bed, the bow of my gift peeking out.

  Was he planning to give it to me now?

  I placed the breakfast things on the desk and went over to the bed, sitting beside the travel bag so that the items would spill out just a little bit more. “Ian?” I called, lifting the box wrapped in silver and blue foil. I bit my lower lip as I tested its weight. Unable to stand to wait one minute more, I waved the box at him.

  “Hey, hold on, luv! You’re supposed to wait until Christmas,” he called, peeking out of the bathroom. He had finished shaving, and his smooth, handsome face cried out to be touched.

  “But some people open their gifts on Christmas Eve,” I said, bringing the gift over to him. “And it’s not fair that you’re leaving me all alone today, when this is supposed to be our time to go wild in the wild country.”

  He pulled me against him, grinding his hips against me. Even through my jeans and sweater I could feel the rise in his boxers. “Ah, woman, you drive me to distraction.”

  “I try.” I went up on my toes and placed a careful kiss on his lips, slow at first, then more penetrating.

  “Mmm . . .” Moaning, he reached behind him, took the gift from my hand, and dropped it onto the dresser. “First,” he said, working the snap and zipper of my jeans, “let me open you, woman.” He slid a hand into my panties.

  I let out a moan, and he smiled.

  “How about I get my gift,” he teased, “then you get yours?”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” I said, shedding my clothes.

  His eyes were smoky as he took me by the hand and led me into the shower.

  The warm water pelting my back was heaven, only to be outdone by the sensation of Ian’s fingertips on my skin as he lathered me up from head to toe. He kneaded the tenderness in my calves, then swept his fingers up to work their magic between my legs. I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath. His blue eyes were so intent on my face, watching me climax. I nearly collapsed in his arms, but he swept me up and planted a warm, wet kiss on my lips.

  I stole the soap from him and massaged it over his body, loving the arch of his shoulders, squeezing his biceps, then running the soap down to his firm, round butt.

  “That’s about all a man can take.” He took the soap from my hands and let it drop to the floor as he pressed his naked body against me and found the spot to drive it home.

  I pressed my hands against the tiles so that I could thrust back, loving this man, loving the way he made me feel, loving his every breath, his every stroke. As we moved against each other, I closed my eyes and a painting from the castle floated into my head. Water sprites, dancing and splashing in the pond. Ha! That’s what we were—two water sprites.

  Against the shush of the water and the roar of my pulse, we both cried out.

  Afterward, Ian carried me out of the bathroom and gently dropped me onto the bed quilt. He returned a moment later with two towels.

  “Andrew’s wife won’t be liking it if we drip on the linens,” he said, handing me a towel. I pressed it against my cheek, watching as he rubbed his body vigorously with the other towel. He stepped into his boxers, then caught me watching. “Staring at me again? Ah, wo
man, you’re a vixen.”

  “I try.” I felt totally satisfied and saturated, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to contain my curiosity while Ian was away. I nodded toward the dresser. “Now . . . what about my gift?”

  “You want more?” he teased. He crossed the room to bring me the present, then dropped down to kneel against the bed. “Merry Christmas, luv,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling.

  Suddenly, my throat was thick with emotion. He was kneeling, it was Christmas Eve, and now . . . I was opening the ring. I bit my lower lip, trying to hold back tears. “Oh, Ian, I’ve been waiting for this.” I held the box close to my chest. “I mean, not that we’ve had much chance to talk about it, but I sort of saw it coming. You know I’ve got the interview next week and ... well, I hope you don’t think I’m spoiling your surprise, because this is probably the most romantic moment of my life.”

  He nodded at the gift. “Go on, open it.”

  It was one of those rare, poignant events, a memory I wanted to savor for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to tear open the gift too quickly, and yet I longed to hear Ian say the words as he slid the ring on my finger.

  “Hurry it up, woman,” he said as I worked away the wrapping paper. “After all this buildup, I hope it fits.”

  “We’ll make it fit.” The silver paper fell away from a blue velvet box. Smiling at him, I turned the box to face me, then snapped it open.

  A dark blue stone winked up at me.

  The knot in my throat suddenly threatened to choke me. “What . . . what is this?”

  “A sapphire,” he said fondly. “Your birthstone. September, right?”

  I shook my head, unable to hide my disappointment.

  “Your birthday isn’t in September?” He scowled. “How did I blow that one?”

  “No, I mean, yes, it is,” I said. “But, but what does this mean?”

  “What do you mean? The ring? It means I love you and I wanted you to have a lovely ring for Christmas, that’s all,” he said innocently.

  I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to hold back tears. “Love?”

  “Of course I love you, you idiot!” He sat down beside me and pulled me into a hug, but I couldn’t help myself. Hot tears slid out of my eyes as my body began to shake.

  “What’s this?” He leaned back to study my face, then pulled me close again and patted my back. “Oh, no. No crying, please! It’s not that big a deal.”

  “But it is,” I sobbed. “It is!”

  “It’s only a ring, luv.”

  “It’s not an engagement ring,” I blubbered.

  I felt Ian’s body go stiff. “Engagement?”

  “I thought we were going to get married. I thought you wanted me to stay here and be with you always. What about the babies you mentioned?”

  Ian released me and sat erect on the bed. “I was speaking in the hypothetical sense, luv.”

  “Hypothetical? I thought you wanted me to move to London. To be closer to you.” I felt my entire world slipping through my fingers, and I needed to backtrack, to hold on to reality. “Didn’t you say you can’t live without me? Did we or did we not talk about my moving to London? Remember my job interview?”

  Ian nodded. “Of course I remember.” He rose from the bed, took a shirt from the closet, and shrugged into it. “And it would be grand if you’d move to London, Madison. But, I mean, it’s not like I’m really going to slash my wrists if you don’t. I mean, ‘I can’t live without you’ is more a figure of speech than anything else.”

  “Ian! You must have known what I was thinking!”

  “Honestly, luv.” He snapped his slacks off a hanger and stepped in. “How could I know what you were thinking? I knew you were planning to move here, and that would be great, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I was hoping to move here and live as your wife.”

  He paled. “That can’t happen right now. Not marriage.”

  “And why not?”

  “I’ve always seen you as being independent. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me, Ian. Why can’t we get married?”

  “We just can’t, is all. And while I hate to end with an argument, I really must run.”

  I snapped the ring box closed and turned away from it, feeling utterly abandoned. “Go. We’ll argue about this when you get back.”

  He leaned down to give me a peck on the cheek, his jacket slung over one shoulder. “Don’t be mad. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” As he turned toward the door, I remembered the mousy lady waiting for him downstairs.

  “Oh, shit! I forgot to tell you, there’s a woman waiting for you downstairs, and I think it’s Nina.”

  “No way.” He seemed confused. “Nina’s off in the Canary Islands having a fuck-fest with her boyfriend.”

  “Really?” Well, at least that fit the image of the Nina I’d spoken to on the phone. “Well, then who is she? She’s waiting for you, and she didn’t want to interrupt us, but—”

  Ian sucked in a breath as his face turned slightly gray. “Nina,” he said in a dead voice. “It must be Nina. She . . . she probably cancelled her trip.”

  “No!” I gasped. “It . . . it’s your wife!”

  24

  I jumped up from the bed, holding the towel over me. “Oh my God, that’s it! The woman downstairs is your wife!”

  Ian shook his head, his complexion completely ashen now. “No, don’t be silly. She would never come here. That is . . . if I had a wife. Which I don’t.” He pulled out his mobile phone and flipped it open. “See there? A message from Nina. She must have called to update me.”

  I didn’t believe a word he was saying, and the shock of it all stung me. Denial seeped through me as I tried to find a fact to hold on to. Ian didn’t have a wife. He would have told me. I would have known, all these months ... Wouldn’t he have confessed in a moment of connection? Wouldn’t I have seen some clue? Why hadn’t I intercepted any of her phone calls?

  At first, I felt paralyzed. Then adrenaline shot through me, forcing me to take action. My hands shook as I wrapped the white towel around me. Without another thought, I snatched up the ring box from the bed and ran out the door.

  “Madison!” Ian called. “Where are you . . . ? Come back here!”

  The hall was very cold, but I plunged on, down the stairs, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. My bare feet danced over the frigid stone of the foyer and nearly skidded to a stop in front of the dowdy woman who sat waiting for Ian.

  “Nina?” I murmured.

  She lifted her chin, taking in my very casual bath attire. “No, dear.”

  My blood chilled as I gripped the jewelry box tightly. Behind me I heard the door from the stairs swing open, and I knew Ian waited there, watching. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, dressed like this, but I had to know.

  “Mrs. MacDougal?” I said softly.

  The woman looked me in the eye and smiled. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Wife of Ian MacDougal?” I peeped, just to make sure she wasn’t his mother.

  “Why, yes.” She straightened, spotting Ian behind me. “Well, hullooo, there. Surprised you, did I? Didn’t want to interrupt your meeting, so I waited here. Figured we could drive to Mum’s together.”

  I was crushed, overcome with a mixture of emotions: devastation for myself, revulsion for Ian, sympathy for this poor pigeon of a woman who was stuck with a philandering excuse for a husband.

  Squeezing the box with the sapphire ring, I thrust it into Mrs. MacDougal’s face. “Merry Christmas,” I said. When she seemed confused, I added: “It’s a gift from your husband.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, accepting the velvet box. “Thank you very much. Though you’d better bundle up, dearie. You’ll catch your death.”

  I turned to face Ian, who skulked back near the door. My head burned with a fury as I padded across the flagstone lobby and paused in front of Ian.

  He winced. “Sorry?” He spoke softly, so that wifey couldn
’t hear. “I can only imagine what you’re thinking and . . . Well, Madison, before you go wild, just please let me explain. We’ve been married since we were kids, and well . . . look at her. I just don’t have the heart to let her down flat.”

  He didn’t have the heart . . . but he didn’t mind leading me on like a heartless, lying, scheming . . .

  I lifted my knee and gave him a shot in the groin.

  Okay, maybe I’m not La Femme Nikita, but I did my best.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, slamming through the swinging door and letting it slap back behind me. With any luck, it would smack him in the ass. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

  “Are you sure you won’t stay on with us now?” Andrew asked me at the train station. “The trains don’t run all too well on Christmas Eve. And with all the snow and all, you’ll be lucky to get into London at a decent hour.”

  “I have to go,” I said, pausing to pat his horse. “I need to be with my friends.” I felt like a zombie chanting a mantra, but in my heart I knew it was true. I couldn’t stay here, and well, if I had any hope of salvaging Christmas, it would be at a table with the people who loved me most.

  “I understand.” Andrew carried my bags to the side of the platform, then extended a hand. “I do hope you’ll come back and see us again sometime. It’s not every day a guest trots through our lobby in the buff. The missus will be talking for months.”

  “Not something I plan to do next time I visit,” I said.

  “Remember, cheap and cheery.”

  I bit my lower lip, fighting back tears. When he’d first told me those words, I’d been so happy and hopeful. I’d been a fool. “Thank you,” I said, turning away from him to peer down the train tracks.

  “It should be along any minute,” Andrew told me.

  I nodded, staring into the darkness. The train couldn’t come soon enough for me.