“Abby, don’t doubt yourself. You have taken the best care possible of Bean. I know that and deep down you know that too. And as for feeling fat, Abs, you are growing a baby. Your body has changed but it’s not permanent, and besides I think you are truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I smack Taylor on the arm, “Taylor, you don’t have to say those things.”
“I wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t true, Abs. Life is a journey. Every line, every mark, every scar,” Taylor says picking up my wrist and gently rubbing his thumb across the thin scar tissue that is slowly fading to a silver-pink. “They are a sign that you have truly lived your life. They are proof of the journey you’ve taken and the person you’ve become because of that journey.”
My eyes well up at Taylor’s words which so closely echo my mother’s. Putting it that way makes me think about myself in a slightly different light. I’m not ashamed of my scars; they are a sign that I’m a survivor so why should I be ashamed of my belly? It’s been Bean’s home for the last nine months. It has sustained her and kept her safe. How can I be ashamed of that?
“You always seem to know just what to say to make me feel better,” I tell Taylor. Pulling his head down to mine I gently place my lips on Taylor’s. The kiss starts off gentle, an intimate exchange of caresses. But then something changes and an urgency takes over. Taylor pulls at my nightdress, his hands finding the hem and dragging the silky material up over my belly so that it bunches beneath my breasts.
As his mouth plunders mine, his hands move across my skin in long, languid strokes that are a direct contrast to the fierceness of his kisses. I submit to his caresses, revelling in the sublime feelings that his touch is eliciting. Taylor works his way down my body, peppering my skin with open-mouthed kisses that have me squirming beneath him. He tugs at my panties and I find myself lifting my hips up to give him access without any coherent thought.
I’m lost in the sensations building as Taylor sweeps his tongue over my clit, the fire in my core threatening to ignite into something so much more. Fisting my hands into Taylor’s hair, I buck underneath him as my body takes on a will of its own.
“More please, Taylor,” I rasp out.
“I will, baby,” Taylor murmurs. “You just need to be patient.” The growl that erupts from my throat has Taylor chuckling and the sensation from his mouth on my clit sends waves of pleasure through me.
Taylor continues to control the pace, despite my protestations, until I’m writhing beneath him. I’m an incoherent mess existing in a sphere of pleasure with moans and groan erupting out of me until Taylor is forced to hush me with a reminder that we are not alone in the flat. Biting my lip in an effort to control myself, Taylor brings me back to the brink of my orgasm yet again. It’s a cruel game he’s playing with me, working me up until I’m just on the cusp of the wave and then drawing me back down. Cruel, but delicious nonetheless.
The muscles in my belly are clenching wildly as Taylor nibbles and teases my clit, the small little nub sending epic jolts of electricity through to my core. It’s like fire and water all at the same time; white hot and ice cold until I’m trembling uncontrollably. Only then does Taylor put his fingers inside of me, pumping slowly and crooking his digits so that the tips rub across my G-spot.
My hands fist the soft sheets as I try to get purchase, my back arching off the bed as my orgasm consumes me. It is like night and day all at once, bright light flooding the darkness as I clench down on Taylor’s fingers. As the waves begin to subside each of my muscles seems to unlock one by one until I am lying on the bed limp and spent.
As I try to catch my breath, Taylor crawls up my body. I taste blood in my mouth and realise that I have bitten my lip so hard in my efforts to remain quiet that I’ve broken through the skin. “You okay, baby?” Taylor murmurs into my ear as he strokes the hair from my face.
“Hmmm,” I mumble in response, unable to form any proper words.
I’m barely aware of Taylor pulling out his phone until I hear the snapping sound of his camera and realise that he’s taken a picture of me.
“Taylor,” I moan. “Not fair. Don’t take pictures of me when I look like crap after what you just did to me.”
Turning to me he holds the phone out to me so that I can see the picture. “This is how I see you, Abs. Every time I think of you this is the kind of image that pops into my head. This is you at your most elemental, raw and pure. Maybe you see something else, but all I see is beauty. My beautiful wife who makes me the happiest man on earth.”
The picture that captures my face and shoulders has an ethereal quality that makes me gasp. My head is turned slightly to the side so that the line of my profile is contrasted with the stark white of the pillow. My red hair is splayed around my head like a fiery crown. My eyes are hooded, dark lashes giving me a demure look, while my lips are plump and swollen as they curve into a half-smile. I look like a woman who has been fucked well. I look like a woman truly at peace with the world. I look beautiful.
The Sixteenth
A low groan escapes my mouth and I clutch my stomach as the pain ripples across my belly. The contractions seem to be coming more and more frequently over the last few days and I am desperately hoping that Bean is not planning on arriving early. Maybe yesterday’s day in bed where Taylor made a point to worship my body over and over again was too much; they do say sex can help bring the baby along when you are overdue. But really now is not the time for Bean to arrive. I still have far too much to do.
“Abs, shit, are you okay?” Taylor calls as he runs across to where I am standing. I try to breathe through the pain like I was shown in those antenatal classes Taylor and I attended last month but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference.
“Not really,” I respond through gritted teeth. I am standing in the kitchen clutching onto the countertop as I attempt to stay upright. I start to worry that maybe these are the real thing and not just Braxton Hicks. Taylor is hovering around me, clearly looking like he wants to do something but not actually having a clue what he should do.
At the same time another bolt of pain seizes me, my nose tingles and suddenly I find myself in the middle of the craziest sneezing fit I have ever had. I mean seriously, what was that all about? It’s only when I realise that Taylor is looking at me slightly aghast that I realise the damp sensation in my knickers is not my imagination.
I glance down to see a wet patch spreading down the legs of my cropped leggings. “Oh shit, I think maybe my waters just broke!” I exclaim.
“Really? Um…um…what the hell do we do? Hospital? Shall I call an ambulance?” I stare in wonder at the normally calm-and-collected Taylor completely losing the plot.
“Calm down, Taylor,” I say. I am about to say that I’m sure it’s just a false alarm when I feel another streak of pain moving across my belly in a vice-like grip. I gasp at the ferocity of the pain. “I think, let’s just get me to the hospital. Didn’t the midwife say we need to go in once my waters have broken otherwise I am at risk of infection?” I’m struggling to think clearly now that the prospect of being in labour seems to have become reality.
In a scene worthy of a comedy sketch, Taylor and I somehow make it down to the car, wet pants and all, and take off to the hospital only to remember when we are five minutes down the road that we have forgotten my hospital bag. Cue a lot of swearing from Taylor and a u-turn worthy of Grand Theft Auto and we are back at the flat where it takes another ten minutes of Taylor going mad trying to find the bag that has been sat in the downstairs cupboard since I finally got around to packing it that someone saw fit to move into the baby’s room because ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’.
When we are finally back on the road with the bag safely stowed away in the boot, Taylor begins to ask me if I am okay, like every five seconds. “Just drive,” I growl at Taylor, my anxiety going up another notch as I feel another contraction course through me.
“Is she coming?” Taylor asks franti
cally, glancing over at me as he grinds the gears.
“I don’t fucking know, alright. Just get me to the fucking hospital, Taylor,” I roar, my patience snapping along with my last thread of sanity.
A couple minutes later we pull up outside the entrance to the private hospital where I am scheduled to have Bean. Something in my subconscious tells me that maybe I should have rung ahead, but there is no time for that now. Not when Taylor is barrelling into the reception and announcing at the top of his lungs that the baby is coming. If I weren’t so bloody terrified, I think I would be rolling about laughing at Taylor’s complete inability to control himself.
A nurse comes rushing out with a wheelchair and helps me into it with brisk, efficient movements. She instructs Taylor to bring my bag which seems to calm him a little and wheels me through to the maternity section of the hospital all the while asking me questions about my contractions and when my waters broke. I give her the information, describing the pain and telling her about how the contractions have been coming more frequently. By the time I have finished telling her about sneezing and my waters breaking, she is wheeling me into a private room and helping me onto the bed.
I feel really embarrassed at my wet leggings and struggle to tug them down over my legs when the nurse tells me a midwife will be in in a moment to examine me. I eventually give in and ask Taylor to help me as the wet fabric is sticking to my legs. My mother told me a while ago that when you have a baby all you dignity goes out the window and I guess I’m now experiencing that first hand.
Taylor has just freed me from the cold, damp fabric when Janet, the midwife who has been overseeing my pregnancy, pops her head around the door. “I hear Bean has decided to make her appearance a little early, Abby,” she says.
“Yeah, I think so,” I reply feeling strangely anxious, yet relieved at the same time.
“Righto, let’s have a look then. You know the drill, Abby.” I wait patiently while Janet examines me. She mutters something to herself and then pokes her head up. “So, your waters broke when you sneezed, is that right?”
Janet has a strange look on her face that I can’t quite fathom. “Um, yes,” I reply.
“Well,” Janet says clearing her throat, “Having examined you, Abby, I can tell you that your waters have not broken and you aren’t actually in labour. You are not dilated at all.”
“But…then…what?” I say in confusion. I look across at Taylor, who looks as clueless as me. “But what about the contractions?”
“It’s perfectly normal in the later stages of pregnancy to experience contractions, both Braxton Hicks and the normal kind. From what I can see these are just practice ones.”
Janet looks at me calmly and I feel instantly reassured but that still begs the question, “But what about the…fluid?”
“Um, well I hate to tell you this, Abby, but it was urine.” Janet’s look of sympathy has me feeling incredibly embarrassed.
“What?” I screech. “You mean I peed myself?” Taylor snorts next to me as he tries to hold back his laughter. He isn’t particularly successful as he dissolves into a fit of laughter that leaves my face beet red.
“Oh, shit,” I murmur. “I’m never going to live this down.”
“Oh, Abs, that’s brilliant,” Taylor gasps as he gets his breath back. All I want to do is hit the smug bastard.
The Seventeenth
“You peed yourself?” Stix looks at me aghast. Jeez, I wish Taylor would stop telling this story. It’s not like he was much better, the way he completely panicked and lost the plot.
“Yeah,” I mumble feeling the heat rising up my face. I am curled up in my favourite chair in the conservatory enjoying the late morning sunshine. Well, I had been until Stix had returned from spending the day and night with Genevieve and Taylor had proceeded to tell her about yesterday’s events.
“Abs, that’s, like, horrific,” Stix says, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she looks between Taylor and me.
“Tell me about it,” I respond feeling a little fed-up with being the butt of everyone’s joke. So far I have had everyone wanting to know what happened with our false alarm and Taylor has been far too happy about revealing all the details to anyone who asks. I am silently contemplating murdering him in his sleep later.
I know everyone is focusing on the hilarity of the situation but I can’t help remember the sheer terror that I felt when I thought that Bean was coming. I am suddenly feeling overwhelmed as I am nowhere near ready to bring a child into the world. Seriously, I am only twenty-two and about to become a mother. I’m not qualified to do this. I can barely look after myself these days so how on earth can I be left in charge of a tiny human being who will have to depend on me for everything?
I suddenly don’t feel so well so tell Taylor and Stix that I am going for a lie-down. They both look at me with concern and I get the feeling that Taylor realises he might have taken things a little too far. But I’m not in the mood to appease him so I stomp off through the living room to my bedroom where I proceed to bury myself under a blanket hoping that I can get rid of the swirl of thoughts currently tormenting me.
The Eighteenth
A thump at the bottom of the stairs lets me know the post has arrived so I make my way down hoping that the little hats I ordered for Bean have arrived. As I bend down to pick up the pile of letters and a small parcel, every joint creaks in protest. I am now at the point where I just want Bean to arrive; I am fed up of being the size of a house, not sleeping and feeling the constant need to pee.
Slowly I make my way back up the stairs, grateful that I have the place to myself so no one can hear me cursing under my breath. Taylor is in London for meetings all day and Stix is working downstairs in Cake so I have the place to myself for some much-needed peace and quiet after the events of the weekend.
Sitting down at the breakfast bar I reach for my coffee as I begin sorting through the post. I am delighted when I open my parcel to find the soft cotton hats that I had ordered had finally arrived. They had been the one thing I had forgotten to include in my hospital bag so I feel relieved that I can now add them to Bean’s bits and pieces. It seems silly to be dwelling on such little things but at the moment the bigger picture seems far too terrifying to contemplate.
Most of the letters are bills which I put to one side for sorting out and paying later in the afternoon but then one with a colourful array of stamps addressed to me catches my eye. The handwriting seems vaguely familiar and I briefly wonder if I know anyone currently on holiday. But then my eye catches sight of the postmark; despite the smudging of the ink I can make out the word ‘Algiers’.
My heart begins to beat a rapid tattoo in my chest and I wonder briefly whether I should even open the envelope. I hold the letter in my hands, weighing up the options. On the one hand, it feels too light to be anything sinister but, on the other hand, anything coming from Richard is bound to be bad. With a sigh, I dial Henry’s number, hoping that he can deal with whatever is inside.
Henry is understandably cautious when I explain what has arrived and he advises me not to open the letter and to wait for him. I assure him that I won’t do anything silly and he promises me that he will inform Detective Stanton and let me know how they want to proceed. Henry rings off after a couple of questions about how I am getting on and says he will call me back shortly. Placing the envelope gingerly to one side I continue to open up the rest of the letters, grateful when there are no more surprises to be had.
Half an hour later I receive a brief call from Henry telling me the both he and the detective will be down to pick up Richard’s letter later in the day. I let out a sigh and think to myself that there goes my peaceful day!
.........................
“So what does it say?” I ask Henry. The mysterious letter has finally been opened after lots and lots of probing and whatever else the police deemed necessary to make sure it wasn’t a bomb or filled with anthrax or other similar nasties. As Detective Stanton said, we just couldn’t
be too careful when it came to Richard, particularly as the envelope was addressed to me.
Henry quickly scans the letter before nodding at the detective to hand it across to me. I take it, my hands encased in latex gloves as instructed and quickly read through the short note:
Dear Abigail,
I hope that someday we will all be able to put aside everything that has happened and you will forgive me for my actions. But until then I feel it is for the best that I stay out of your lives. I have found a place where I can be happy and live the life I always wanted.
I wish you all the best in the final stages of your pregnancy and hopefully you will tell your daughter about the uncle who loves her very much.
All the very best,
Richard
I read the words over and over wondering if I am missing something here. “Seriously?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. “Am I crazy, or does this just not make any sense?” I ask Henry and Detective Stanton.
They both look troubled, exchanging glances between themselves that makes me wonder if they know more than they are letting on. Henry lets out a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. “I think,” he says slowly as he takes a moment to ponder his words. “I think this letter is probably a decoy.”
Detective Stanton nods her head and I am forced to ask her, “How do you mean?”
“Well, everything Richard has done since he escaped custody is to get as far away from here as possibly in a very public way. I don’t think it was any coincidence that he headed straight for his grandmother’s house where he must have known he would be recognised. And then there was the sighting of him on the bus and the ferry ticket at Marseille bought with his card. And now this letter which very subtly points to him having crossed the Med into Africa.
Book Four: Thirty Days, Book 4 Page 9