I got up to leave, and felt a bit of a tremor in my legs. I’d possibly had a few more drinks than I’d realised. I decided to go for a nice sit in the gardens before bed. Ten minutes’ peace and quiet to gather my thoughts would be good. I was likely to be awake for much of the night anyway, listening for the telltale sounds of my second-born choking on his own vomit.
I settled in under the big pine tree, watching bats wheeling and circling overhead. I hugged my wrap around my shoulders and tried closing my eyes, first one at a time, then together. Good. Nothing was spinning around too much. A cup of coffee back in the room and I’d be fine.
‘Can I join you?’
I jumped a couple of inches and my eyes snapped open. James. Poo. We hadn’t shared a civil word for days and I didn’t really want to start now.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well I am anyway,’ he replied, sitting down next to me. Jeans and an open-necked shirt. An oldie but a goodie. Not that I was looking, of course.
‘I just wanted to apologise about earlier. With Simon. The man is an absolute cretin and was asking for everything he got, but I shouldn’t have risen to it. It was childish and unnecessary and I should’ve walked away. I’m really sorry if we embarrassed you.’
Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought. Why couldn’t people ever do what you wanted them to do? Just once? If Simon had made that little speech, had showed even an ounce of remorse, I’d have got down on one knee and asked him to re-marry me. But no, he was too busy being a macho twat, with all the charm of a mud-flap.
And now, here was James, looking all blond and gorgeous and touchable, saying exactly the right thing when all I wanted to do was hate him.
‘Okay. Well. Thanks for that,’ I said, huddling down even deeper inside my wrap. I had to keep my hands tied up in case they started straying, like in those horror films where transplanted fingers have a life of their own.
‘Sal, I’m sorry about all of this. Everything. I’ve acted like an arsehole this holiday. You have every right to see other people. Even him,’ he said, his face twisting with distaste, ‘if it makes you happy.’
He turned towards me, held my face by the chin and tilted it up so I was looking into his eyes.
‘But does he make you happy? You don’t seem happy to me.’
‘I’m not…unhappy,’ I said.
I now had that bloody wrap twisted round my wrists so tightly I was starting to lose all feeling in my hands. I wished I could do the same with my brain, and stop looking at James like he was dessert.
He took the fact that I didn’t punch him, knee him in the balls or scream as a sign of encouragement, and leaned in to kiss me. Tentatively at first, then harder, his arms going behind my back.
That was it. The hands were out. They could resist no more, and reached up to tangle into James’s golden hair, pulling his mouth even closer to mine. He made a strange ‘ug-gug’ noise in the back of his throat and lowered me down on to the ground.
I could feel the dampness of the grass and the hardness of his body on mine, the scent of pine needles around us. My hands were all over him – his shoulders, his arms, his bottom, clinging to him, spreading my legs so he could nestle into me. He was squeezing me to him and kissing my neck in such a nerve-tingling way I felt myself going cross-eyed. We were as close to having sex as you could be without taking your clothes off, and I had about a year’s worth of orgasms stored up and ready to burst out in glorious Technicolor.
Who had I been kidding? There was no way anything was ever going to come close to this, I thought, as his hand found its way under my bra and made me yelp with pleasure. God, it felt good.
We were so busy getting reacquainted, we didn’t notice we had a visitor. A very small visitor. We wouldn’t have noticed if the entire London Gospel Choir had turned up to sing backing vocals, to be honest, never mind one very quiet eight-year-old boy.
‘What are you doing? Are you kissing each other?’ Jake said, in disgust. ‘And does this mean you’re my dad’s girlfriend again?’
Chapter 55
I was woken up early next morning by the sound of Ollie retching into the toilet. At least I hoped it was the toilet.
I wiped my eyes, moved Simon’s leg away from its unlicensed position splayed across my hip, and pulled on some clothes. I eased open the connecting door as quietly as I could, and found Ollie, ashen-faced, on the bathroom floor.
‘You okay, love?’
He nodded, too miserable to speak. I squatted down next to him and patted his shoulder. His breath was so foul I pulled my head back a few inches. Even I didn’t love him that much.
‘Don’t worry, Ollie, you’ll be fine in a few hours. Drink some water – but not too much ’cause it’ll make you sick again. If you can keep them down, take some painkillers. I’ll check in on you later, all right?’
I stroked his forehead with the back of my hand. Clammy with sweat that had chilled on his skin. Poor lamb. The first time’s always the worst.
‘Do you think Tabitha will still fancy me?’ he asked, his voice small and sad and pathetic.
Not in a million years, I thought, if she could see you now.
‘Course she will, sweetie. Don’t worry.’
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ he said, as I got up to leave. Aaah. Even in his hour of need, he’d remembered.
‘And, Mum?’ he said, as I reached the door. ‘Could you sort my glasses out for me? There’s something stuck on them and I can’t get it off…’
That was less of an ‘aah’. As a special birthday treat this year, I got to wash crusty purple puke off my 16-year-old son’s specs. It just got better and better, it really did.
Simon was stirring when I returned. I didn’t want to get back into bed with him. I knew what would be lurking under those covers and I wasn’t quite ready to face it. Last night had shown me there was still a sex drive hidden under my layers of denial, but whether it wanted to motor in Simon’s direction remained to be seen.
He sat up, belched, and said: ‘Happy birthday, darling.’
I averted my eyes as he got out of bed with a bulge tenting out his pants, and rooted around in the wardrobe. He eventually produced a gift-wrapped package done so prettily I knew he’d paid extra for it. Or got Jean, his secretary, to do it for him.
Before he handed it over, he put his arms round me and gave me a kiss. A longer one than we’d shared for over a year. With a bit of tongue. It felt…okay. Pleasant enough. It didn’t make my knickers fall off with lust, but it was nice. Maybe we could work at it.
I smiled and took the present. It was well taped down and I thought I was going to break a nail getting into it. Lucy had wandered through, and sat on the bed yawning as she watched me struggle.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake give it here,’ she said, grabbing it out of my hands and ripping the wrapping off in one vicious tear.
The contents fell out on to the bedclothes and she grabbed them a fraction of a second earlier than I could. She held up a pair of exceptionally skimpy black lace panties on one finger. If your arse was the size of a tangerine, they’d be perfect. There was a matching black bra to go with them. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in Mr and Mrs Smith’s suitcase of smut.
She examined the labels, and I could feel Simon tensing with anger next to me.
‘Size eight,’ she said. ‘Even the new you is way too fat for these. I’m not, but I wouldn’t be seen dead in them. Maybe we could donate them to the Home for Needy Hookers when we get back? I’m sure there are women in King’s Cross who’d kill for these. Hang on, there’s something else here.’
She held up the second present. A DVD. ‘Perfectly Toned: The Pilates Way’. A blonde woman who even had Perfectly Toned Teeth smiled out at us.
‘Ha! At least he’s thought ahead,’ said Lucy, throwing the DVD back down. ‘All you need to do is go back to starving yourself for another year, and do this stupid shit every day, and then you might be able to squeeze yourself into his fantasy whore slut-wear.
Men are such fucking wankers.’
On that note she slammed the door behind her. I heard Ollie groan at the noise. I looked at Simon, and stood on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. As ever, he’d not got it quite right. But, looking on the bright side, it was a damn sight better than the effort he put in for my fortieth.
‘Thanks, Simon. They’re lovely. Look, we’re up nice and early, so I’m going to go for a bit of a walk. Blow away the cobwebs. Meet you downstairs for breakfast?’
He nodded and gave me a pat on the bum. I paused, wondering whether that was acceptable or not, but thought better of it and left. I’d figure it out later. I needed to process what had happened last night, grateful that Jake had interrupted us and that there wasn’t even more to process. I’d practically fled the scene of the crime as soon as he’d arrived.
By the time I’d made it back to the restaurant, after spending a good hour on my own down at the beach, I was feeling dazed. I’d consoled my sixteen-year-old alcohol-poisoned son as he threw up; been bought a pair of knickers that wouldn’t look out of place on a porn star, and spent forty minutes watching two crabs fighting.
It has to be said, my birthdays were never, ever dull.
Simon was waiting for me, sitting at a table for two, reading a three-day-old Telegraph and stirring his tea. He looked red-faced and was wearing his workout clothes.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘have you just got back from the gym?’
‘Yes – feel the power.’
He flexed his arms and I dutifully squeezed them, making appreciative noises.
Simon went back to the paper, holding it full-sized in front of his face so I couldn’t see a thing. I poured myself some coffee and stared at the back pages. Ugh. Cricket. He could at least have folded it on to the telly reviews for me.
Jake appeared and came running over, his feet skipping and his face flushed with excitement. He threw himself on to my lap and gave me a hug. I was hoping he didn’t mention what he’d seen last night; I hadn’t even figured out what it meant myself yet, and had no desire for Simon to find out until I had.
‘Sally! Happy birthday – again! You always have a birthday here – you must be about a hundred by now!’
Simon snorted on the other side of his paper. I considered sticking a knife through it.
‘About that, yes, Jake.’
‘We’ve got you a present,’ he said, ‘and it’s very special.’
James arrived, and Simon at last folded the paper down. Typical. I – the alleged love of his life and mother of his children – wasn’t interesting enough to talk to. But the minute his arch-enemy turned up, he was all ears.
James was carrying a cake on a plate. He laid it down carefully on the table in front of me. It was a sponge, covered in haphazard icing in psychedelic colours, a flickering candle planted inch-deep.
‘I did the icing!’ said Jake, proudly, ‘and Daddy baked the whole thing!’
‘You bake?’ I asked, looking at James in amazement.
‘Yes. I find it very therapeutic. Why, don’t I look like someone who bakes?’
I gave him a quick up and down. He was wearing that skin-tight sailing gear and had muscles busting out of all the right places. His hair was cut brutally short, and his face still had a slightly battered nose in the middle of it. No. He didn’t look like he baked.
‘I know you don’t eat cake any more,’ he said, ‘and it got a bit mashed. But it was made with…love,’ he said, staring Simon right in the eye as he said it.
‘And a LOT of sugar!’ said Jake. ‘Can I have some?’
‘Course you can, sweetie. Here.’ I cut him a slice and put it in his hand. He shoved it all in his mouth in one go, his face smothered in red and yellow icing. Without thinking, I reached a finger out to the cake, and scooped up a bit of cream. I licked it off while I laughed at James trying to wipe Jake’s face with a napkin.
‘Are you sure you want to be eating that?’ said Simon, looking from the cake to me with surprise. I blushed, and pushed the plate away from me. He was right. Of course I shouldn’t be eating it.
But should he be the person telling me not to? Was he simply concerned about me, and wanting me to stay healthy? Or did the cake veto – along with the slutty knickers – mean that he was more concerned with keeping me skinny? Simon had been an absolute godsend in the last year – he’d changed. Grown up. Or at least I thought he had. Now, though, as I pushed the cake to one side, I started to wonder how much had really altered between us.
He folded his paper, stood up, and announced that he was going for a run. ‘Just a quick ten-miler.’
‘I’ll be off as well,’ said James once he’d left, ‘I’m taking the kids kayaking for an hour. Have a happy birthday, Sal. And take no notice of him, he’s a prick. Eat the bloody cake. You know you want to.’
He leaned down and kissed me, briefly, but right on the lips, before walking off. I watched him and his bottom go. I blew out my candle and made a very rude wish.
He was right. I did want to eat it.
And the cake.
Chapter 56
I ate some cake. And boy, did it feel good. Only a tiny piece, but it was the most decadent I’d been since…well, my last birthday.
Afterwards I felt a warm glow in my tummy, and couldn’t get the smile off my face. It was like I’d had really terrific sex.
I checked in on Ollie – still alive – and took myself off for some emergency sunbathing. We were going home soon and I could be several shades darker if I tried really hard.
Lucy and Max were splashing around in the pool. Simon was doing something else somewhere else. I didn’t really care. I had sunshine, water, and the most fantastic sugar-rush going on. Happiness is birthday cake. It’s that simple. James was a heck of a lover – but he was possibly an even better baker.
I drifted off to sleep, pondering the possible combinations of the two, and slipped into a luxuriant dream about icing nozzles in personal places. I don’t know how long I was under, but when Ian woke me up, shaking my shoulders, I tried to lick his face.
He looked terribly shocked and jumped back so far and so fast he almost fell into the pool.
‘Sorry!’ I said, mortified. ‘I’m so sorry! I was dreaming about…well, ice cream. Yes. Ice cream.’
‘That’s okay. Sally, can you come with me and see Jenny? She’s been ill all night and I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She won’t let me call the doctor; she keeps saying it’s wind. Last time I tried to persuade her, she threw her shoe at me.’
I’d tried to see Jenny, as I’d promised him on the day of the tennis tournament, but she’d just shouted at me through the door to come back later because she’d got the runs. It was too much information, and probably not even true – she just wanted to get rid of me. Or maybe, I thought, listening now to Ian’s description, she did have the runs. Or appendicitis. Or something worse.
‘Of course,’ I said, getting up to follow him. He was practically running and his face was pallid. Shit. I hoped I wasn’t on my way to a real emergency. Just in case, I shouted over my shoulder to Lucy and Max, telling them to go and look for Simon, or James. Simon was a doctor and James was…well, an architect, but I knew he’d be good in a crisis.
Ian pushed the door open so hard it banged back on its hinges, slamming into the wall behind it. I took one look at Jenny and I could see why. Her eyes were rolling in her head with pain, and sweat was beaded down her contorted face. She was yelling, and squatting down on her feet, holding her stomach with her arms. She looked up at me with pleading eyes.
‘Sally! Kill me now!’ she said, meaning every word.
‘How long has this been going on?’ I said to Ian, as we helped her on to the bed.
‘On and off for a couple of days, but really bad overnight, and like this for the last hour or so. Sally, what should I do?’
Jenny calmed momentarily, sucking up air in huge gasps and clutching the pillow in her arms so tightly it started to burst at the seams.
‘What’s happening to me? Am I dying?’ she said, wailing the last word. ‘It keeps going away for a bit then coming back! I can’t stand it – and I feel like I need a poo really badly but nothing’s happening!’
Oh…oh! My mind did the symptom sums and came up with a very strange answer. Weight gain. Grumpiness. Championship-level chocolate-eating. Intermittent hellish cramps…and the telltale need for a number two.
I lifted her nightie up for a quick look. Nope. I wasn’t wrong.
I took in a few deep breaths of my own, then turned to Ian. I held his shoulders and tried to sound as reassuring as possible.
‘Ian,’ I said, ‘you need to go to reception and get them to call for an ambulance. Tell them Jenny’s in labour and the baby’s about to arrive.’
He stared at me like I was talking to him in Croatian. Eventually it sank in, and he shook his sandy-haired head.
‘No, Sally, that’s not it. We can’t have kids. We had tests and everything. And anyway, she’s been normal – you know, periods and things. And – look – she’s not pregnant! You must have made a mistake!’
Jenny started screaming again and the pillow disintegrated in her hands, showering feathers into the air like she’d slaughtered a duck.
‘No, Ian, it’s not a mistake. Look.’
I lifted the nightie again, and he saw the blood, gore, and the faintest hint of a tiny, pulsating head. I thought for a moment he was going to pass out.
‘Somehow,’ I said, ‘one of your little swimmers found its way to the right place. As for the rest of it, that happens sometimes – more women than you think end up having babies without even knowing they were expecting. Weight-wise, though, she is small. I think the baby’s coming early. If it’s premature, it’s going to need special care, and fast – so go, now, and sort that ambulance out.’
The Birthday That Changed Everything Page 27