by Alam, Donna
‘That sounds like someone I know,’ I mutter, thinking of how I’d described Miranda in similar terms.
‘I should think you’d recognise your own description so.’
He’s deranged! I’m not fucking stubborn. What the hell am I doing asking an octogenarian for advice on modern relationship problems? This wouldn’t have happened in his day. You got them pregnant and you got to keep them, regardless of the suitability of the match. Well, perhaps not forty years ago, but maybe sixty.
‘Anyway, I told her that I didn’t doubt she was in love. We all fall in love at some time or another. But not all loves are equal. Some loves are short stories, and some are novel length. Some are just tiny bylines in our lives. I promised your mother I’d love her into an epic tale, the kind that spans oceans and continents.’
‘So she left him.’ Well, obviously.
‘No, she married him,’ he answers with a grin. ‘It lasted a week.’
‘How do I not know any of this?’
‘Because it had nothing to do with our lives. But I’ll tell you something, I was wrong about love and distance, because my love for your mother has travelled between heaven and earth.’
‘Dad.’ What do you say after that?
He sniffs and pulls out a white handkerchief, blowing his nose as the kettle begins to sing. I turn away not sure what to say, pouring hot water over teabags in mugs.
‘So, what are you going to do about this?’
‘Whatever I can,’ I reply without turning around. ‘She thinks we’re not suited but she’s wrong. I just feel like I have no say in the matter. Like I’m tangled in these silky strings, and all I want to do is let her tighten them.’
‘Not suited, yet she’s still around?’
‘I’ve made it difficult for her to do anything else,’ I admit.
‘Given her the illusion of choice? I’m sure it’s not that bad.’
‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I’d done.’
Lies and manipulation.
‘Unless you’ve locked her in the cellar, I’m sure whatever you’ve done is justified.’ There speaks a parent. It’s hard to criticize when I know I’ll be exactly the same. Worse probably. ‘Sun Tzu would say—’
‘I know; all’s fair in love and war.’
‘That’s not what I was going to say, even if it’s true. Juliet would’ve stayed married to someone else if I hadn’t fought for her,’ he says quietly. I still, the tea stained teaspoon suspended in mid-air in my hand. He rarely invokes her name, almost like it costs him too much. ‘So, the advice I give to you, is go forth. Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt. Make the woman yours. What’s her name, by the way?’
‘Miranda.’ I bring over his tea and place it in front of him, turning the handle to around.
‘Welcome to the family, Miranda,’ he says raising his cup, as though the battle were already won.
34
Miranda
Two days after James buys Harry the Haribo and me a house, I move into his.
The day after that, I find out he’s paid over six million pounds for the property he’s referring to as being chocolate box cute.
That’s an awful lot of chocolates.
Something else that’s sits heavy on my chest is the fact that we haven’t had sex since bunny-gate. I’m not sex crazed, at least not yet. Okay, maybe just a little bit. And I feel too awkward to broach such a sensitive subject.
If he wanted me, wouldn’t he say? Up until now, our movements have been as natural as the tides. But I’ve tried to press these worries and more to the back of my mind. And this week, I’ve been too tired to think of this house as a symbol of our differences because I’ve spent all week fighting wedding fires in preparation for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is the big day; Beckett and Olivia are getting hitched.
Again.
And I will no longer be the getting hitched bitch.
‘You really have worked too hard this week,’ James says, greeting me at the door.
‘I’m getting paid for doing a job and I want to do it well. Besides, we’re at the pointy end of the stick now.’
‘You’ve done too much. You look exhausted.’
‘Well, that’s because I’m pregnant.’
‘No, that’s because you’ve been traipsing a warehouse looking for the correct shade bonbonniere, whatever they are.’ He takes my coat by the shoulders, easing me out of it.
‘Heather squealed.’ I try not to roll my eyes. Honestly, between the two of them, it’s like being bullied by polite thugs. ‘And it was boxes I was looking for, for the bonbonniere. I’d ordered some bespoke, but the supplier called this afternoon to say they couldn’t make them in time. Something to do with their glitter supply. I have two hundred handmade cookies in the shape of an X and O, plus some little E-V ones for E-Volve, but nowhere to put them. I had to find something.’
‘I could’ve suggested somewhere for them,’ he says, dropping my coat to the table. ‘I’d have stuffed them down Beckett’s throat. Because you know where they’ve been all day? At a day spa.’ Fists on his hips, his words are accompanied by a very pissed off expression.
‘That sounds lovely,’ I say brightly, even if I’d prefer a week in bed. With James. I pick my coat up from the chair and open the cloaks cupboard, hanging it inside.
‘It sounds like they’ve shoved all their shit onto you.’
‘That’s not true. Stuff just keeps going wrong.’
Wednesday it was an issue with the industrial generators hired for the event, yesterday it was the portable powder rooms. The rich and fabulous don’t use common old porta-potties. Heaven forbid they should be faced with rubber floors and cheap tissue. Their bums would probably stage a revolt. But fixing the issue, sourcing more, all fell to me. And yes, the job has been bigger than I’d expected, but I wouldn’t change it for the word. It’s been like a baptism of fire and next time won’t be half as hard. Because yes, I want to do this again. Even if it means begging contractors to deliver portable bathrooms that look like they belong in hotels, at prices that would make your eyes water.
Next time, I’m going to add in a commission of this type of thing.
‘Anyway, I managed to find some glittery boxes and some lovely matching ribbon.’
‘Fuck glitter.’ James’s clipped enunciation tightens something deep and twisty and entirely pleasurable in the pit of my gut. Not that he’d realise. ‘And yes, I called Heather when you didn’t turn up for dinner.’
‘I grabbed a sandwich from Tesco’s.’
‘That’s hardly dinner,’ he says, taking my hand and leading me up to the stairs. ‘And you might’ve answered my texts.’
‘And I would’ve done, but my phone went flat. Where are we going, anyway?’ With any luck, my tone sounds less hopeful and desperate and more slightly perplexed. But then again, if we’re going to the bedroom to resume our sex life, I might just beat him to the top of the stairs. And I expect I’d unrobe with the speed of Jim Carrey in that scene from the film Bruce Almighty.
‘I’m going to run you a hot bath. And if you’re a good girl, I’ll soap your back.’
‘Oh.’ Well, I suppose that’s a pleasant second.
35
James
It’s hardly like she’s living here. Not at the minute. I’m just hanging on for the weekend when everything will change.
After the wedding.
After she tells Olivia she’s pregnant
After everything becomes official.
And she becomes mine again.
Hopefully.
I hate sharing her time and I’ve become . . . resentful. Resentful of the fact that Beckett and Oliva swanned off to Mustique, leaving the wedding planning in the hands of a woman who has only this week stopped hugging the lavatory. Not that they’re to know that yet. Or at least, Olivia isn’t to know. Beckett on the other hand, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind. Tear fuc
king strips off the man. Take my frustrations out on him, because it’s not like I can pick up the phone and bawl him out over this. Not without risking telling Miranda that he knows. He won’t have told Olivia. The facets of that man’s personality are many and varied. And, quite frankly, a bit shit.
Meanwhile, I feel almost impotent. Though not that kind of impotent, proven by the heat seeking missile that is my penis most nights. It’s almost torturous sleeping next to her, keeping my hands, and missile, to myself. But the ball is in her court and I’m just waiting for a serve. A serve of Miranda spread out across the bed.
Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night.
I’m not intentionally withholding sex. Just waiting for her to make the first move.
And when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.
And I will fall on her like a thunderbolt. And expect it’ll be over just as quick as a lightning strike. Meanwhile, as I punch my pillow for the seventieth time tonight, I glance at her sleeping soundly, before I turn and try to get some rest myself.
* * *
Later, much later, I wake to a Miranda stirring in my bed.
Stirring. Crying out. Her hips rocking upwards.
My response a primal thing, even as my brain plays catchup, sleep dragging at it. I reach out and touch her hand, a shadow at first. But as my eyes adjust, I make out her palm held upwards on my pillow. An invitation I’ll take.
‘Are you okay?’ Those slender fingers tighten and we’re holding hands as my eyes adjust to the dark.
‘Yes. I was dreaming.’
‘I hope it was a good one.’ My delivery is husky whisper cutting through the darkness as I instinctually move closer, realising too late that she can probably feel the hard line of my cock pressed to her thigh. ‘It sounded like a good one.’ The words are out of my mouth without thought. ‘Do you want to tell me about it.
‘No.’ I hear the smile in her words, see the gleam of her teeth, the heat of her body calling to me. ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then I’m not, too.’ This time, her tone is all encouragement.
‘I hope it was me you were dreaming about, but feel free to lie.’
Every single one of my muscles is tense, my cock literally aching for her touch.
A whisper. A kiss. A sign that she needs me.
‘I’ve missed you.’ As she rolls to face me, bringing with her the scent of soap or shampoo or whatever alchemy that potion is. ‘I didn’t know how to say it.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ I lift my head just enough to press my mouth to hers, the rest of my words going unsaid. I missed you, too.
Her lips part, her tongue warm and soft, her knee hooking over my thigh, her skin alabaster in a slice of moonlight.
‘Oh, James.’ The feel of her is like sheer relief, wet against my fingers, the press of her against my hand.
‘You came. In your dream.’ The realisation is a thrill though my body as the evidence coats my fingertips and residual tremors pulse around them. ‘Tell me. Tell me how you’re wet.’
‘It was you. All you.’
If her orgasm has passed, mine shimmers on the surface, my balls drawn tight as she reaches between us, her palm a burst of electrical friction across the head. I grit my teeth, but it doesn’t stop me from thrusting into her hand.
‘Tell me what I was doing.’
‘What you always do.’ Her words are more sigh than anything as she brings my cock between her legs, brushing the meat of my palm. ‘You were teasing me.’
‘Like this?’ My fingers are wet as I press my hand over hers, swiping the fat head though her wetness. Every ounce of blood in my body rushes to be part of this connection.
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ A breathy sign. ‘And no.’ A petulant pout. ‘You wouldn’t give it to me. You said I had to help myself.’
The images, fuck, the images running through my head, the way the curve of her hand slides over mine as she touches herself.
‘Oh, darling.’
‘I did this, while you watched standing over me.’ I suck in a breath, losing my ever-loving mind as that curved hand becomes a slide of slow fingers, slow fingers that encourage her sigh. ‘That feels so good . . .’As she arches, I cup her backside, pulling her more fully onto my cock. It’s not enough, and it’s everything. Bumps and glancing touches. Sighs in the dark that wrap themselves tightly around my heart.
My breath halts—I might be dead—as she lifts suddenly, sliding her knee over my thigh, her body now balanced over mine.
‘Mmmm.’ Up on her knees, she slides her hand between her legs, continuing her torture of me.
I think my head might explode, or maybe my balls, as her hand slips slowly away with each inch that she lowers herself. Her wet fingers trail my chest and before I can question it, I’m lifting them to my mouth.
‘I’m addicted to you. To the way you taste.’
‘I’ve missed your filthy whispers.’ She groans, sliding her thighs wider, pulling me deeper, my own moan a desperate, ragged thing between us. I try hard for restraint, try so hard not to buck up into her as she leans forward, her pleasured whispers pressed against my mouth.
The muscles in my abs tighten as her nipples brush against my chest, her hair falling around us like a veil as she tightens her hands in mine.
‘I fucking love you.’ I know I’m not supposed to say it—I know she doesn’t want to hear it—but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I am literally fit to burst. Fit to bleed my love all over.
‘Tell me in the morning.’ Her hands on my shoulders, she pushes herself upwards, undulating above me. Riding me, using me, her hands on my shoulders, her nails piercing against my skin.
‘Harder,’ I beg, because I’m not going to last. Because I need her to feel me. Her pussy clenches around me, her nails digging further into my skin as my body bows and I begin to fuck her the only way I can.
‘Come. Please. Come. Give it to me. I want to feel it.’
‘Christ.’ My abs twitch and my thighs ache as something blindingly hot barrels through me. I see stars created—universes—right here in the dark, and when I come back to the earth, she’s crying out her own love in the dark.
36
Miranda
‘I hate that you won’t be on my arm today.’ I’m fastening an earring when James appears behind me, his expression pensive.
‘You’re too pretty to need arm candy. Except maybe to discourage the hordes of single girls.’ Hmm. There’s an angle I hadn’t anticipated.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man at a wedding must be in possession of a rideable cock. Some of the sights I’ve seen at weddings would put an orgy to shame. Well, not on my watch, bitches. I’ll bat them off with a champagne tray if necessary.
‘The hordes have nothing to interest me.’
‘Good.’
‘This is the last day we’re keeping things under wraps.’ Though he phrases it as a statement, I still hear the note of uncertainty.
‘Definitely. I’ll tell Olivia first thing on Monday. And don’t forget, we’ve got an appointment with Dr Travers at the end of the week.’
As expected, his countenance lightens immediately, and he tightens his arms around me, bending at the knee to rest his chin on my shoulder.
‘Christ, you are beautiful.’ His hands on the soft roundness of my stomach, I rest mine over his.
‘It’s just an old dress.’ In my reflection a few moments ago, I’d decided I didn’t look too bad. I’d picked up this dress on a site that sells the previous season’s designer stock. This is an Osman dress, and I got it for half the usual price. Half price that cost me half my week’s pay. Drop waist and gentle balloon sleeves, there’s enough draping going on to hide my little bump. ‘It’s almost the colour of your eyes.’ Almost, but not quite. Nothing can have the same kind of vibrancy, except maybe an actual peacock.
‘Then we’ll be matching because I’ll be wearing this tie.’ From
his pocket, he pulls out a strip of blue silk. ‘We’ll be matching, even though no one will realise.’
‘That doesn’t mean we can’t hang out.’
‘Oh, so you’re not going to give me the cold shoulder and dance with all the other men.’
‘Something tells me I won’t get much opportunity to dance with anyone, but I will dance with you. And we’ll let them watch and speculate.’ I turn to face him, pushing up onto my toes to thread my arms around his neck. ‘And then when I go into work next week and tell Olivia who made me pregnant, she’ll be astonished at just how fast you work.’
‘Ah, flattery. You know just how to work me. And feel free to use that magic on me anytime.’ I roll my lips together to stop from giggling as his eyes open ridiculously wide. ‘Now, turn around and close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.’
‘Sounds suspiciously like a game of hide the sausage,’ I say, turning as I let my smile reign free. I’m so happy we’re back at that ridiculously silly and flirty place.
Despite my earlier words, as I turn, the dress clings to my stomach. Static, probably. But I can’t blame static electricity for my next actions as I exhale and push my stomach out in a ridiculously exaggerated fashion. I look like I’ve eaten all the pies and drank all the beers. In fact, I look like Homer Simpson, but less yellow. And with boobs. ‘I’ll look like this in a few months. Do you think you’ll still love me then?’
I straighten almost, immediately realising what I’ve said. I could almost kick myself. We haven’t spoken about last night. About the things that were said in the heat of passion. Aren’t our lives complicated enough without putting this strange relationship of ours under a microscope?
My heart starts to beat, seeming to bump awkwardly against my ribs, but before I can backtrack or make some stupid comment to laugh it off or take it back, his hands come to rest on my shoulders, the action somehow calming me.