by Tess Stimson
I part the blinds with my finger and peer down into the street as Kat winds around my ankles. Chessington was a freakin’ fiasco; it pissed with rain and the kids hated me, but at least I was there. And I suppose I should be grateful Nick’s wife lets the children come and stay here at all. His mother refuses to allow me to darken her doors—she’d get on with mine like a house on fire, I think sourly—so otherwise I’d never see Nick at weekends at all.
I watch his wife lift the baby out of her car seat and start to unload bags from the boot. I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw all the baby shit heaped around my tiny flat. All that paraphernalia for one small child. You can hardly move for tripping over plastic sacks of nappies and bottle warmers and buggy wheels. Not to mention the moth-eaten old toy lamb that invariably gets lost five minutes before bedtime and requires a two-hour search before it’s finally located somewhere obvious like the fucking microwave oven.
“Look, Kit-Kat,” I say, picking the cat up, “the über-hot sex god is here again, too.”
I press my nose to the window as he takes the bags from Nick’s wife, laughing at something she says and throwing an arm casually around her shoulder. Jesus, look at his cute butt in those low-slung jeans. I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. How the fuck does she manage it? She’s only been single for a minute and she’s got this shaggable babe warming her sheets. No wonder Nick has steam coming out of his ears.
Happy for her, my arse. He’s so jealous, he wants to eat his own elbow. Not that I’m in the least worried: It’s just a macho guy thing. Territorial. Nothing to do with how he feels about her. And it certainly makes things a bit easier for me; a bit more secure. Even if he wanted to go back to her, which he doesn’t, the fact that she’s playing hide-the-sausage with a hottie like that pretty much closes the door on the whole kiss-and-make-up routine. How very Hollywood of us: a perfect happy ending.
Well; almost.
Sophie looks up from the street and makes a fingers-down-the-throat gesture in my direction that neither of her parents sees. She’s a real piece of work, that one. I scowl, resisting the temptation to stick out my tongue at her. Maybe Nick’s wife isn’t being so altruistic letting them stay here after all.
The baby’s OK—well, all she does is shit and cry, but she’s quite sweet when she’s asleep. Which is fortunately fairly often. And Evie’s not too bad either; we got quite a thing going over The X-Factor, she’s as much of an addict as I am. But then Sophie put the frighteners on her—I heard the little witch telling her Daddy would come back home and “love Mummy again” if they could just make me go away. I’m feeling less guilty about her by the minute.
Last weekend, I caught her scrubbing out the loo with my toothbrush. That was after finding glue all over the keys of my very expensive new laptop (Pritt Stick, thank God, not Super Glue, though it still took hours to get it off); and then there was the full bottle of Chanel’s Rouge Noir nail varnish that mysteriously spilled all over my new pale pink LK Bennetts.
I could tell Nick, of course, but that’s exactly what Sophie wants me to do. I run to Daddy, he bollocks them, and we all sit and glower at one another over Pizza Hut’s finest. Eventually Daddy gets tired of all the aggro and decides it’d be better for the children if he saw them when I wasn’t around. Before you know it, hey presto, he’s going back home to her.
The very thought of it makes me feel ill. I shoot into the bathroom and dry heave over the toilet bowl. Ten days is nothing. Just an iffy chicken sandwich, that’s all. Nick told me not to eat it, said it was a week past its sell-by date. Next time I’ll listen.
Nick and the children tumble through the front door as I wipe my mouth and go back into the sitting room. The baby’s sweet face lights up with recognition. Nick puts her down; holding out her chubby little arms for balance, she toddles toward me, gabbling something that might, or might not, be my name. Despite myself, my heart melts as I scoop her up. Precious. She smells so sweet—for a change.
She snuggles into my neck, and I feel a bit of a lump rise. I catch Nick’s eye over the top of her golden head, and he smiles: the first honest, warm smile I’ve had from him in days. The girls must be finding this whole thing really hard. It’s no wonder they’re playing up a bit. Their world’s been completely turned upside down; it’s bound to take a bit of getting used to—
“Ooops,” Sophie says, not troubling to hide her smirk as a big orange felt-tip pen stain spreads outward next to where she’s sitting on my poor beleaguered sofa. “Sorry, Sara.”
Enough is enough. My sofa is trashed, half my mugs are broken, there’s crayon scribble all over my walls, a dozen earrings—one from each pair—have gone missing, the last ten pages of my new Grisham thriller have been ripped out before I’ve had a chance to read them, an entire pot of my £100-a-throw La Prairie face cream has been wasted on nappy rash because somebody lost the Sudocream, my suede Joseph jacket is fit only for lining the cat’s litter tray, there are sleeping bags and pillows and inside-out pajama bottoms all over the floor, dirty nappies are stinking out the bathroom, and I haven’t had a decent lie-in for weeks; never mind a fucking orgasm. I defy any girl to come when three small children with a propensity to barge in without knocking are supposedly asleep on sofa cushions next door.
I tell Nick in no uncertain terms that I need a weekend off. A barrister friend of Amy’s is having a party over in Swiss Cottage, and, for once, I want to forget about children and responsibility and just go. I’m so tired of the chaos and bullshit from the damn kids. We sound like an old married couple arguing over the children. We need a break; to have some fun.
To my surprise, Nick agrees. Maybe he’d like to get hot and heavy again between the sheets, too. A good shag is probably what we both need. Get things back on track again.
I blow a fortnight’s salary on an amazing Matthew Williamson dress, and borrow Amy’s GHD straighteners to get my hair (finally out of its Pantomime Boy/scary dyke phase, thank God) to behave. Actually, the crop’s done it some good; I’ve got all these cute little strawberry gold kiss curls tumbling sexily onto my bare shoulders, and my hair seems much thicker than usual. I blow myself a kiss as I finish my makeup in the bathroom. Not even the usual preparty breakout of zits to ruin my day. I look pretty damn good, if I say so myself.
Nick doesn’t even notice.
He’s unusually quiet (even for him) in the cab on the way to the party. I begin to wonder if this was a good idea after all. He hasn’t even changed out of his bloody suit, for God’s sake, he looks like my father.
But we’ve been living together for nearly two months now. Sooner or later, he has to meet my friends, mix in my world; particularly as nearly everyone in his world isn’t talking to him anymore. Even Giles blew him off when he called. No doubt Liz has threatened to withdraw bedroom privileges if Giles dares to socialize with The Slapper (i.e., yours truly); but Nick still took it hard.
Apart from one or two rather unsuccessful trips to the movies (he loathed the Matthew McConaughey rom-com I picked, and I fell asleep during his choice, some subtitled Vietnamese crap) we haven’t been out at all since his father died. Our social life isn’t helped by the fact that Nick’s giving most of his salary to his wife out of guilt. Which means I’m the one keeping us both. Much more of this and I’ll be pawning the Tiffany bracelet to pay the phone bill. So much for dirty weekends away at Michelin-starred country houses. Romantic it’s not.
The moment we arrive at the party, Amy drags me away to meet this new guy who’s started working at her office. Since it’s been five years since she dragged me away to meet anyone other than Terry the Lying Slimeball, I’m duty-bound to fan the flames of romance, however feebly. Nick’s old enough (hah!) and ugly enough to look after himself for five minutes. There are plenty of lawyers around for him to talk to if he gets desperate.
But then I run into this girl from law school I haven’t seen in years; it turns out she’s now engaged to a man I used to date, how weird is that? And then on
my way back from the loo I get chatting to my opposite number on a new case I’ve just picked up, and we get stuck in one of those long, involved conversations on the stairs, ducking and diving around people as they push between us every two minutes. Then I need to top up my drink again, and I’m laughing with my friends, with my young, irresponsible, child-free friends, and I can’t help it, right now I just don’t want to go back to Nick and his here-on-sufferance, well-if-it-makes-you-happy, miserable bloody attitude. No doubt he hates the music, and the cheap plonk, and the plastic cups, and the couples snogging all over the room. Heaven help us if he finds out the bodies writhing on the crappy velour sofa are both men.
Someone offers me a line of coke, throwing Nick a wary look. Even though I decline, because I’ve never done hard drugs, something about the awkward, pompous way Nick is standing on his own, aloof from the rest of the party, annoys the fuck out of me.
A small worm squirms somewhere deep inside my brain: This isn’t working.
I shock myself. After all the pain and misery we’ve caused, after everything we’ve risked to be together, of course it’s going to work. I’m getting all worked up over nothing. It’s just one stupid party! This just isn’t Nick’s scene, that’s all. Let’s face it, this is barely one step up from a student bash, and with the best will in the world, it’s a long time since Nick was a student.
It’s nothing to do with us. We love each other. We’re going to be fine. Absolutely fine.
I shake my head as someone else offers me a reefer and thread my way through the crowd toward Nick.
“Nick? Are you OK?”
He jumps, spilling his wine on the floor. “Sorry. Miles away.”
I bend over to make sure he gets a good eyeful. “How’s it going?”
He smiles absently. Come on, Nick, meet me halfway here.
My hand drifts lightly down his trousers, and I’m gratified to discover that he’s rock-hard already. That was quick work. I must remember to wear this dress again. “Looks like the party’s happening elsewhere,” I tease.
Nick’s all over me in the back of the cab home, pawing at my skimpy dress with an urgency that seems almost frantic. We fall through the front door of my apartment ripping at each other’s clothes. Naked but for my high heels, I back toward the bedroom, pulling him with me. He shucks off his shirt and kicks away his shoes. I lie back on the bed as he steps out of his trousers, and moisture floods me at the sight of his beautiful, big cock. My body flames. I’ve never felt hungrier to have him inside me. It’s all going to be fine.
He falls on the bed beside me. Hunger zings up and down my skin. He shoves my thighs apart with his knee, cupping his hand over my pussy and bending his middle finger to caress me as he slides his body over mine. Gently he eases his cock between my thighs. Without entering me, he lets the head of his dick rub my clit. My whole being is now centered on the few inches of nerves and sensation between my legs. Lust races through my body, making my toes tingle, my whole body jerk.
Nick abruptly pulls away from me. Even as I grab for him in frustration, he’s sliding a pillow beneath my hips and slithering down the bed between my legs. He dips his head and starts to kiss me softly, using only his lips as though he’s kissing someone hello at a party. My fingers twine through his hair, pushing him into me, but Nick resists my pressure and holds back, teasing my clit with his lips, lightly nibbling me with his teeth, swirling his tongue around the very edge of my pussy.
My body burns with need. I feel as if I’ve been awakened from a very long, deep sleep by a pornographic Prince Charming. I’d almost forgotten it could be this good.
He moves up my body, kissing my tummy, my belly button, my breasts. I taste myself on his lips as he reaches my mouth.
“I want you inside me,” I moan.
I reach for him, and he’s firm, but no longer hard; I’ve kept him waiting too long. I push him back on the pillows and slide down his body to take him in my mouth. I suck and tease and stroke, my fingers feathering across his thighs and balls, and after a few minutes I feel his cock spring to life.
I disengage myself and ease astride him, welcoming him home, drawing him deeper inside me. His thrusts grow harder and faster, and I feel my orgasm start to rise, the heat building between my legs. Before I can come, Nick spins me round and moves on top of me. I don’t mind the change in position—but all of a sudden he isn’t thrusting deep inside me anymore. He loses his rhythm and slips out of me. I put my hand between our legs to help him back.
“Oh,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” Nick mumbles.
“Forget it. It happens. It’s not a big deal.”
He rolls away from me and stares up at the ceiling, head resting on the crook of his arm. We both know I’m lying. Whether I like it or not, sex is not just an important part of our relationship: It defines it. If it goes wrong in the bedroom then we are, forgive the pun, screwed.
Or rather: not.
I get out of bed and grab my red kimono. I suddenly feel very, very sick and very, very scared. “Just getting a drink of water.”
In the bathroom, I switch on the shower and stand beneath it, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the cool tiles. How has it all gone wrong so fast? Or—or was it always wrong, and I just refused to see it? Too busy enjoying the thrill and the secrecy and the danger and the unattain-ability to acknowledge the truth. Which is that much as I love him—and I do, oh, God, I do—Nick and I have nothing in common except the pleasure we share in bed, and without that, there is absolutely nothing holding us together.
Except that’s not quite true.
Instinctively, my hands curve protectively around my belly. Soft, squishy, still looking exactly the same as it always has.
But three and a half weeks late isn’t nothing, much as I’ve tried to tell myself it is. Three and a half weeks late is something. Morning sickness, glowing skin, lustrous hair, and heavy, tender breasts are all something. And it has nothing to do with questionable takeaways or insufficient sit-ups or stress.
I can’t do this on my own. Alarm bells about Nick are going off in all directions, but I can’t do this on my own.
The hot water starts to run cold. I step out of the shower, and dry off. Knotting the belt of my robe, I pad back toward the bedroom.
He’s whispering, but the flat is very small, and very quiet. My footsteps don’t make a sound on the pale ash floor. And so I overhear my lover tell another woman—his wife—how much he loves her, as he begs her to take him back.
When he finally ends the call and looks up, I tell him.
I find Dad in the greenhouse at the end of the garden, tenderly separating a tray of tiny seedlings into individual pots. Slumping onto a wooden bench out of his way, I watch him press each small plant in gently with his thumbs. He nods at me to show he’s noticed I’m there, but quietly goes on with his work for ten minutes or so, until the tray is empty.
Finally he straightens up, brushing his hands together to get rid of the loose soil. He surveys the neat row of pots with satisfaction. “Should do nicely this year,” he says. “Good and strong, this batch are. And the beds should be fertile, thanks to your mother’s compost. All those potato peelings and such.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that, Dad. She’ll have a fit if she thinks she’s helping.”
He starts to tidy his tools away. “Well, that’s your mother for you. Not likely to change now.”
I pick up a cloth rag and start to clean earth from a small trowel. Beside me, Dad rolls a length of green gardening twine into a ball. It’s hot and humid in here; sweat collects beneath my breasts and trickles between my shoulder blades. The air is close and has the sickly sweet smell of rotting fruit. A fly buzzes against a windowpane, and Dad leans over me to open the window and let it out. The cooler outside air brings with it the familiar scent of freshly mown grass and blossoms from the may tree at the end of the garden. I’m reminded of all those summer days I spent cooped up indoors, frantically crammin
g for exams, while outside the rest of the world turned, carefree.
“If you could just talk to her, Dad,” I start.
He grunts. “Won’t make any difference.”
“I know it’s not what she would’ve chosen for me, Dad, but it’s my life. I love Nick, and he loves me. Can’t she just accept that and be happy for me?”
“She just worries about you, love. We both do.” He reaches up to hook the ball of twine on a nail in the wall. “When you have children, you’ll understand. It’s not a question of whether we approve or not. We just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I swallow a great big ball of guilt. I can’t tell them about the baby, not yet. Christ, they haven’t even met Nick; the last thing they need to know is that he’s already knocked up their precious little girl.
I fold the cloth rag neatly into squares.
“The only person who’s going to hurt me is Mum, if she keeps this up,” I mutter.
Dad looks at me for a long moment, then sits down heavily on the bench. He leans his hands on his knees, rubbing his palms gently up and down the worn corduroy. “Love, are you sure you’ve really thought all this through? I know you think you have, but it’s never that straightforward. This man, this Nick, he’s not just older than you. He’s done so much more. A wife, a family—love, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re only twenty-six. The world’s your oyster. I hate to see your wings clipped before you’ve even had a chance to spread them.”
“He’s asked me to marry him,” I say defiantly. “As soon as his divorce comes through. And I’ve said yes.”
