by Donna Alam
I’ll miss her purrs of sleepy contentment, for sure.
The thought is like a heavy ache in my gut, an ache distracted only by the warm ball of woman beside me. She hasn’t gone yet. But she will be soon. She releases a cute snuffling snore, then stretches, brushing the dark strands from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. An angel between my sheets. A fairy brought by the snow.
I’d best make the most of her while I can.
‘Morning.’ My voice is hoarse with disuse, not emotion. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Beside me, Isobel blinks slowly, her lashes still drugged with sleep, her still kiss-swollen lips not yet ready to speak. But she smiles, and that’s enough for me, even as she burrows deeper into the duvet until only her blue eyes are visible. Her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks, her dark hair stark against the pillows.
‘Fancy some breakfast?’ She shakes her head. ‘You can answer, you know?’
From beneath the covers comes the mumbled answer of, ‘Morning breath.’ Then, ‘Why aren’t I wearing any clothes?’ Her eyes twinkle, those delphiniums blues brimming with mischief.
‘ ’Cause I burned them all. You don’t need them anymore.’
‘Because who needs clothes in the depths of winter.’ She rolls her eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t roll out of her head.
‘Exactly.’
Her hand stretches out from the covers and draws her fingers down the side of my face. ‘You do the mountain man look well.’
‘You like that, do you?’ I lean into her touch, allowing her to stroke me like a cat.
‘It looks good on you. All manly and rugged.’
‘It looks good on you,’ I return. ‘Especially when framed by your gorgeous thighs.’
‘We’re turning into a couple of sycophants.’
‘Pretty sure I haven’t shown you my sicko pants yet.’
‘I’m not sure I want to know.’
‘Don’t worry. The spiky fuckers are in the cupboard along with my sex swing.’
‘A man of hidden depths?’
‘And creepy fantasies. Each one of them, including you. I’ll have to tell you about them sometime. Maybe over a beer and another game of Scrabble.’
‘Oh, you want me to beat your butt again.’
‘Aye, but this time with a paddle, please, ma’am.’
‘Sicko pants,’ she replies, shaking her head. We just stare at each other then, her from under her endlessly long dark lashes and me with a goofy smile on my face. ‘Have you seen what the weather is like yet this morning?’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re too precious to turn your head now?’
‘Too sleepy,’ she answers cheekily but then, her gaze lifts to mine, her expression hesitant. ‘I’m a little afraid to look,’ she whispers.
It’s like she’s sharing my thoughts despite this morning’s levity and banter. It so strange to think that yesterday I imagine she woke, desperate for the snow to be gone.
What a difference a day can make.
A day and an evening filled with discovery.
It looks like neither of us is ready to return to reality.
‘Seems the radio was right yesterday,’ I say, my eyes drifting over her shoulder to the window beyond. ‘The weather hasn’t let up overnight. A bit more snow and freezing temperatures. Looks like I get to keep you for another day.’
She smiles shyly as I return my gaze to hers. She wasn’t so shy last night, I think. And she’ll be a little less shy still by tomorrow again. Oh, the plans running through my head. The things I want to do to her—with her.
‘And the cottage is too far from the main roads to see any change?’
‘Exactly. We won’t see a snow plough out here. We’ll just have to wait for things to thaw.’ While things continue to heat up indoors.
‘So it looks like you’re stuck with me,’ she says.
‘Oh, no. Whatever will we do to keep ourselves occupied?’
‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’ Her words are sultry as she tries to restrain her smile.
‘It’s strange. I was just thinkin’ earlier,’ I murmur, returning my gaze to the window. ‘Thinking that the weather outside is frightful. But the fire downstairs, delightful.’ I bring my eyes back to hers as she groans theatrically before giving in to a bout of giggles.
‘Oh, my God, this could only be worse if you were singing,’ she complains. And while she might think she knows where this is going, she does not.
‘And well, since we’ve got no place to go, I was thinking, let us bone, let us bone, let us bone.’
‘That was really bad, Greg. Terrible, in fact.’
‘Then why are you laughing?’
‘Sympathy.’
Sympathy my left testicle.
Without answering, I launch myself at her. She squeals and makes to roll out of the bed, but it isn’t a very convincing show, even if the flash of her tits makes me hard. I haul her onto her back and take her hands in mine, pinning them on either side of her head. Her eyes gleam excitedly, a little mascara smudged at the outer corners. Her lips are parted, and her right cheek red from my hard kisses and rough stubble as I’d pounded her from behind last night. So many little marks of pleasure and I can’t wait to discover each one.
‘So you don’t appreciate my attempts at culture, but the question is, are you good with fucking again right now?’
Chapter 14
IZZY
As a consequence of our morning giggles and lazy lovemaking, the day starts later than usual, breakfast becoming lunch and lunch becoming dinner. I could get used to this lady of leisure thing. This Robinson—Robin-snow?—Crusoe existence. Lazy lunches served with wine, dinners on our knees in front of the glowing fire. Games of Scrabble—where Greg endeavours to put down nothing but smut, and I wipe the floor with him every time—and card games, too. I’ve never really had the patience for card games or board games, nor the interest, I suppose. But being forced to slow down and having nothing on my calendar but free time has taught me I don’t have to live life at a frenetic pace all the time. I can shut off work from rotating constantly in my mind. The earth hasn’t imploded, and the ice caps haven’t melted. I can make time for myself, and I can meet a good man.
I might have the weather to thank for forcing me to slow down, but I also have Greg to thank for the rest. He’s taught me so much about myself, and I doubt he even realises. Yes, the sex has been fantastic. It’s been so good, I just don’t have the words. But it’s not just that. Apart from his terrible sense of humour, he’s been the perfect host, and it sounds totally trite, but he’s restored my faith in men.
But I’m mindful of the fact that this experience is just an interlude, not a way I can spend my life. Meeting Greg, however odd our initial contact was, has made me realise that I must make more of an effort if I want to settle down. That doesn’t mean I’m going to reinstall Tinder or any of that. I have to work less and do more other stuff to get out and meet people. I might sign up for a cooking class or a wine tasting event. Things to take me out of my usual element. And yes, the fact that Greg cooks and has great taste in wines might have had some influence on those thoughts. There has to be more Gregs in the world, doesn’t there? I think as I dip my head into the sweater he’s loaned me, which smells woodsy and spicy with the musky undernotes of his skin.
‘What have you got there?’ As the sofa dips, Greg hands me a cup, handle first. He holds a second mug in his right hand.
‘A book,’ I say, taking it from his hand. The book I’d promised myself I’d make time to read. ‘Haven’t you ever seen one of these things?’
‘I’m surprised you’re interested in the dead wood offerings from the number of times you’ve lamented about the lack of internet and the way you’ve stared longingly at your phone.’
‘Those weren’t longing looks,’ I say, inhaling the fragrant steam drifting up from the cup. ‘More like worried ones.’ His expression clouds, but I hurry on. ‘What ha
ve we got here, then?’ What are you spoiling me with now?
‘Mulled wine, or Glüwine, to be more exact. The German version.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me so fat I can’t get through the door when the snow eventually thaws.’
‘No worries, you’ll be dead by then, anyway. Oops,’ he adds, covering his mouth with the tips of his fingers, all cutesy. Well, as cutesy as a six foot plus slightly hirsute Scotsman can. I’d just like to take a moment to say I’m digging the beard. ‘I’ve let the murderous cat out of the bag, haven’t I?’ he adds, taking a mouthful of his own wine.
‘Death by overfeeding, or are you going for the it-puts-the-lotion-on-the-skin thing?’
‘Nah. I was thinking death by fucking. I’m just keeping you fed for stamina.’
‘Good plan,’ I reply, taking a sip of my sweet-scented wine. ‘God, this is gorgeous.’ It tastes of cinnamon and spice, citrus and, ‘Is there rum in this?’
‘Shh. It’s the secret ingredient. Haven’t you ever had it before?’
‘Yeah, but never as nice as this,’ I answer as the warm liquid heats me right though to my bones.
‘Next time we meet up, we’ll have to make it happen at a Christmas market.’ I don’t think Greg realises what he’s said or notices my double take as he carries on. ‘Maybe somewhere in Germany, the home of real Glüwine. Hamburg and Berlin have these great Christmas markets, Christkindlmarkt, have you been?’ I shake my head mutely because all I can think is he wants us to meet again. This is new territory—things yet unspoken of. My insides feel all warm and tingly, and it’s not just from this rum-laden drink.
‘We could sit under one of those warm blankets they give you, drinking mulled wine from those wee traditional ceramic mugs, reminiscing about the good old days.’
‘The good old days? You mean, that one time we go snowed in.’
‘Aye.’ He sighs sort of beatifically, leaning against the couch back as he lifts my legs to place them over his jean-clad thighs. And before I can ask him if in this scenario we’ll be older, there with our respective partners and perhaps kids, he carries on. ‘And we can indulge in your favourite pastime.’ If he thinks I’m going to have sex with him in the middle of a German market square, blanket or no blanket, family or no family, he is much mistaken. ‘We can eat schmalzgebäck, which are kind of like German donuts, and kartoffelpuffer pancakes. And of course, there will always be kochwurst.’
This one I understand. And by the look on his face, I know where he’s going. ‘Sausage,’ I deadpan. ‘There will always be sausage.’
‘Can you see it being any other way between you and me?’
‘Sausage obsessed,’ I grumble, turning my head to hide my smile from him.
‘You can’t help it,’ he replies, pulling on the end of my toes. ‘In fact, it’s one of the things that endears you to me.’
‘One of the things, hmm?’
‘One of the few things.’
‘Right.’
Chapter 15
GREG
‘Speaking of Christmas,’ Isobel says.
‘It thought we were talking about sausage?’
‘You were talking about sausage,’ she says, poking my thigh with her toe. ‘I was talking about Christmas.’
‘Bah humbug.’
‘You’re not a fan?’
I shrug in answer. ‘I’m a fan of the holiday part of Christmas. The commercial side of it and the fake goodwill-to-all-men thing is a bit much.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re one of those anti-Christmas types. Please don’t say I’ve been shacked up with Scrooge.’
‘What I most like about Christmas is the number of people requiring bespoke cabinetry and furniture installed in time for Auntie Margret and Uncle Fred and whoever else is coming to stay for Christmas dinner. It’s good for business, see? And I’m also glad of the quiet period following when I can have a little time to myself.’
‘Which you’re planning on . . . ?’
‘A cocaine-filled week in Ibiza.’ Her head whips to me, her expression aghast. ‘Not really. Those are my summer plans.’
‘Har, har. Very funny. So you’re planning on spending Christmas here alone with peace, solitude, and your hand for company?’
‘No. I’ll be at my sister’s place, spending time with her brood.’
‘That sounds nice.’
I find myself sighing, mostly because Christmas seems like an anticlimax compared to how I’m spending my downtime currently. A warm fire, warm wine, and hot woman. ‘Christmas as usual,’ I reply noncommittally. ‘My sister has a couple of teenagers, Ailish and James, and there are usually her husband’s parents and sundry hangers-on all there for a feed.’
‘Nice. A family big Christmas.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m an only child. My mother passed when I was twenty-two.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
She smiles sadly. ‘Thank you. There was only ever the two of us, so I’ve spent Christmases since with friends. This year will be no exception as I’ll be spending the day with Mo and his motley crew of friends. And the caterers. He’s that kind of friend. He likes to say he’s the only Hindu gay in the village, not that Chelsea is anything remotely like a village. Well, not really. But mandatory Christmas cheer starts next week.’
‘He’s keen. There’s three weeks yet.’
‘No, I meant the dreaded holiday party season starts. Drinks, sequins, and—’
‘People shagging on the manager’s desk?’
‘Thankfully, the company I work for hosts its Christmas party at a hotel. Still, there’ll be flirting and even a little ho-ho-ho-ing. Drunkenness and vomiting in potted plants and lots of embarrassed faces the following Monday morning.’
‘Ho-ho-ho-ing, eh?’
‘Not for me,’ she answers primly. ‘Last year, I took my then boyfriend. It was early days for us, but he’d already invited me to spend Christmas with his family in the Cotswolds. We’d only been dating a few weeks.’ She shrugs before taking a sip of her mulled wine. ‘I took it as a good sign. Besides, he’s a chef, so I thought the food would be good, at least.’
Her tone is filled with false levity. ‘I’m takin’ it wasn’t a good sign.’
‘Not quite as revealing as me and, oh, around fifteen people, finding him kissing one of the junior ad execs.’
‘What a bastard. I take it you saw the real him after he imbibed a little too much Christmas cheer?’
‘Oh, I saw the real him, all right. The junior was male. Apparently, I was his Christmas beard.’
‘Gay and a total wanker?’
‘What can I say? I know how to pick them. But that wasn’t even the lowlight of the evening.’
‘I almost daren’t ask. But I will.’
‘Well, the worst of it was being taken to one side by my line manager—a senior gentleman high of standing and a very high opinion of himself—who said he knew something that would make me feel better.’
‘I don’t think I like where this is going.’
‘I should’ve stopped him there, but I didn’t. Instead, I followed him with my sodden tissue, panda mascara eyes, and battered self-esteem. He took me to the bar. Said I needed a drink.’
‘Not so bad so far.’
‘He was doing okay at this point, but then he insisted his pet elephant pay for my gin and tonic since the open bar had closed at that point.’
‘The open bar is the failing point of many a party, but this pet elephant intrigues me.’
‘He was about to reveal all, quite literally, as he pulled four five-pound notes from his pocket, turning out both pockets of his pants. He slapped the cash down on the bar, climbed on a barstool and unzipped his fly, thereby giving the elephant a trunk. Sort of.’
‘A trunk?’ I try not to laugh and fail. Fail quite badly. So badly I have to put my drink down.
‘Must’ve been a baby pet elephant,’ she adds. ‘A really wrinkl
y, small baby elephant.’
‘What a rough evening.’
‘It was. I still can’t look at the man without seeing him push the queen’s face about with his flaccid, old man penis.’
Chapter 16
GREG
I’m an easy bloke to get along with, I think. Laid back, nothing much bothers me. Except mess. And Isobel, bless her pink neon thermals, is actually a bit of a pig. Maybe even a lot of a pig.
I stare at the state of my bedroom. The pile of dirty clothes half hanging out of her bag, the massive makeup bag on my dressing table, a collection of used cotton makeup wipes spilling from it. Because her makeup bag doesn’t house her makeup. Oh, no. That would be too conventional. Not to mention tidy. Her actual makeup— lotions and potions, bottles and compacts—is scattered across the wooden surface of the restored 1920s dressing table. Restored by me, the burr walnut polished until it gleams. And now it not only gleams, it glitters in patches. Patches where Isobel has spilt some sort of powdered makeup . . . shit.
‘I just don’t get it,’ I mutter, drawing my finger through the sprinkling of iridescent pink powder. ‘It’s not like she’s even wearing the stuff.’
‘What was that?’ I don’t look up at the sound of Isobel’s voice, though I answer.
‘Your makeup—you have it everywhere, and you’re not even wearing the stuff.’ I rub my fingers through the peppering of powder somewhat dispersing the mess as I note how some has sunk into the natural knotting of the wood. As I lift my head, through the mirror, Isobel stands at the bathroom door. She’s wrapped in a white towel that doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, though it still makes me wish I’d bought even smaller ones. Like hand towels.
