by Alam, Donna
‘Well, we didn’t, so we aren’t. So stop complaining.’ She turns her head to look at the darkened scenery passing by the window.
‘And what kind of granny are you, not packing a flask to go along with your wee tartan blanky?’
‘You cheeky bessom,’ she replies, her head whipping around to face me, her expression scandalised. ‘This isn’t a picnic blanket. Dylan’s lovely driver gave me it. To make me feel all cosy, so he said. Feel it!’ she demands, pushing the corner of the thing at me. ‘That’s pure luxury.’
‘That’s pure cashmere.’
‘And as for the flask,’ she says, tucking the edges around her thighs. ‘I left it on the kitchen bench.’ Her mouth tightens like the bum of a cat, and she shrugs in an uncomfortable, tight motion. ‘I forgot.’
I try not to sigh. I shouldn’t wind her up so. ‘I’m not surprised you forgot,’ I reply, softening my words. She blames the stroke for her muddled memory, but for a woman of her age, I think she’s doing grand. ‘All the preparation you’ve put into the trip? The presents you’ve bought, the hours you’ve spent in the kitchen baking and such? I think I’d have gone mad.’
Her expression lightens, mollified a touch. ‘That’s what Christmas is about. If you can’t go that extra mile for those near and dear to you at Yule Tide, then when can you, eh?’
‘So you’re saying the Marks and Spencer’s voucher I’ve got you for Christmas is no good?’
‘Away with you,’ she says, chuckling. ‘I like to choose my own nightgowns and brassieres and things. Besides, you’re a busy working woman. People rely on you. You have’nae the time to make shortbread and tablet and such.’
‘Or pluck a goose.’
From the opposite end of the seat, June eyes me suspiciously. ‘Plucking a goose; I suppose that’s one of them neuphemisms.’ I try not to laugh as she folds her arms over the festive red fair isle twin-set that appears every December. ‘Whether you’ve time to pluck your own goose or not, one thing is for certain; you won’t need to come my age.’
‘Come again?’ I try to keep the laughter from my voice even as something tells me I probably shouldn’t ask her to elaborate.
‘Well, you don’t see many pensioners in the salon, do you?’
‘Aye, we have pensioner days on Tuesday. All the grannies get their hair done before hitting the bingo hall.’
‘But you don’t tend to them yourself, do you? They get their hair done, perms and such,’ she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘But they never get their gooses plucked, do they?’
I didn’t know it was possible to choke on thin air, but I do. I bark out a laugh, cough, then choke on both those things as June carries on.
‘The old biddies aren’t avoiding the beauty bar because you haven’t any pensioners specials, hen. Though the Good Lord knows most of them could do with the help.’
Still not one hundred percent sure what a plucked goose has to do with it, I find myself answering. ‘Mrs McGowan comes in to have her eyebrows dyed.’ At my hiccupped interjection, June purses her lips.
‘You mean painted on . The woman hasn’t had real eyebrows since nineteen fifty at least. And whilst I’ve heard of ugly, that woman abuses the privilege. Yet she’s still seen more helmets than Hitler ever did. But you’re makin’ me digress a bit because the point I was trying to make is, older ladies don’t need their gooses waxed and plucked because when you get older, the hair all falls out. Bald nether regions, y’ken.’
‘Oh, God, June, I love you,’ I says through gasping laughter, ‘but you’re off your heid.’
‘I must be, putting up with all the cheek I get from you.’
‘Man,’ I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘When I said I didn’t have time to pluck a goose, I meant just that. You know, slaughtering a water fowl?’
‘Aye, well, if something is worth doing, you should do it yourself.’ For the record, I advise this is not the case when it comes to intimate waxing. ‘And I’m a farmer’s daughter. A bit of blood and guts and feathers does’nae bother me.’
‘But you ken when you told wee Louis you were bringin’ a goose, he’s expecting you to bring one in on a bit of string, not trussed up with the stuff.’
‘I thought he might. That’s why I’d ordered him a stuffed one off the what do you call it? The tinternet.’
‘Give over, woman. I know you can use the internet with the best of us. I’ve seen some of the pictures you have on your phone. Some of them are so not safe for work.’
‘Good job I don’t have to go to work then, isn’t it?’ she replies saucily. ‘And just you mind your neb,’ she says, tapping the side of her nose.’ Stay out of my private business.’
‘Private business? Would that be the same kind of private business that had you sending Sam to deliver a tin of homemade toffee to the barbers? Is that why you want to choose your own knickers? Because you’re after buying the racy stuff?’
‘I made the toffee for Mr Poloetti’s daughter, Theresa. She brought me back some lovely yarn from the Isle of Skye when she visited last.’
‘Aye, sure,’ I respond, my playful tone deepening. ‘Toffee for his daughter .’
‘It’s true enough. Toffee would pull out the auld man’s dentures,’ she says, making a gummy face back at me. I burst into a fit of giggles, and it isn’t long before she’s laughing along with me.
‘Ah, you’re a nutty old bag.’ Her blue eyes wide, she opens her mouth to respond, but I get in first. ‘But I reckon you might’ve been right about travelling by car.’ Because I’m enjoying being with her. Enjoying her company. The chance to hang out. She’s sacrificed a lot over my lifetime for me, taking me in when her own daughter couldn’t look after me. I never understood when, as a child, other parents would send me sympathetic looks when June met me at the school gates. Sure, she was older than most of them, but she’s been the best influence a girl could ever have. June was all about girl power way before The Spice Girls came about, and she could have coined the phrase sex positive .
‘And you’re my little chicken hen,’ she says, reaching out to chuck my chin. She hasn’t called me her little chicken hen since I was wee, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a touch teary eyed at this and her soft expression. ‘It’s been lovely to spend some time with my favourite girl,’ June says, now patting the back of my hand.
‘I thought that was Ivy.’
‘You know fine well you’re my favourite,’ she responds. ‘But don’t go telling anyone. They’ll only get upset.’
‘Aye, because you’re everyone’s favourite granny.’
‘Ocht, away with you! I’ll no’ be able to get out of the car for the size of my head!’ Her gaze falls to the darkness outside. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s only five o’clock. It’s as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat out there.’
‘No good for playing I spy ,’ I agree, leaning over to look out the same window. ‘Looks like there’s a service station coming up. Want to stop and grab a cuppa? If not, there’s a Costa Coffee drive thru there.’
‘Costa Coffee!’ she replies outraged. ‘Cost a bloody fortune, you mean! The price of a cup of tea there is scandalous, and me on a pension.’
‘Your dutiful granddaughter will treat you, even to a toasted teacake or a slice of cake.’
‘You must have more money than sense,’ she replies with a superior sniff. ‘Go on then. If I can’t let my granddaughter treat me, then who can I?’
‘That’s the way. Hey.’ Leaning forward, I tap on the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Fancy taking us through the Costa drive thru? It’s at the services three miles ahead.’
‘I’m sure he reads just fine,’ June pipes up. ‘Though you do like to micromanage things.’
‘Says the woman who insisted on bringing her own bloody goose to Christmas dinner.’
‘Why, poor Ella has been in bed for weeks, and I can’nae imagine Macormac is any great use in the kitchen. I think it’s a braw idea that he’s going to pro
pose before the bairn is born. The least I can do is make sure they have something good to eat for Christmas day.’
‘You’re a special woman, June.’
‘And by that you mean what? No, come on,’ she says, ‘I’m waiting for the punchline.’
‘No punchline. You’re just one of a kind.’
‘Maybe for a wee while longer,’ she replies, trying hard to contain her smile.
‘And by that you mean . . . ?’
‘Well, if I play my cards right, they might name the baby after me, and there’ll be two June Euphemia’s in the world.’
My grandmother. She’s worth her weight in gold, despite her less than sound motives.
Chapter Four
RORY
THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
‘Do you think he’s sleeping?’ Fin asks, walking into the room as stealthy as a thief. Even dressed in black leggings and a plain white V-neck t-shirt, she still makes my heart pitter-pat.
‘Why are you whispering?’ I ask, my eyes sliding to the baby monitor. There, on the screen, lies my sleeping son. A cherub in angelic repose. His eyelids closed over his grey-blue eyes, the wee rosebud of his mouth quivering as he dreams. The soft wisps of his red brown hair curling over his ears, complementing his peaches-and-cream complexion, not that you can see the full extent of his beauty on screen, but believe me when I tell you, my boy looks like an angel. Continuing to stare at the monitor, I smile. Not because of his beauty but because the little bugger is asleep at last. Niall Christopher Tremaine looks like an angel, but he has the devil’s own temper.
‘He can’nae hear you from upstairs.’
‘Ah, but can he, though,’ she answers, keeping her voice low. And there lies a question and a half; does the kid have supersonic hearing or should we have bitten the bullet and just called him Damien? ‘I mean, he can hear bedclothes rustling from a room away.’
‘The wee cock blocker,’ I find myself saying with a chuckle. ‘You might be right. I’m sure the wee shite has it in for me.’ Why? Because every time Fin and I get within a foot of each other, he starts screaming. Like a banshee.
‘It might be me our darling boy has it in for,’ Fin responds. ‘After all, I’m also being cooch checked.’
‘I’d like to check your cooch, if only he’d let me. But it’s clear to me he wants you all to himself.’
‘That’s just dumb,’ she says with a chuckle, reaching for her glass of wine. The non-alcoholic kind .
‘Next time I’m gonna take a photo of the looks he gives me while you’re feeding him. What are you laughing at? I told you yesterday he gave me a boatload of side-eye and he flipped me the tiny bird.’
‘He doesn’t have the motor skills for that kind of accomplishment.’
‘Are you saying my boy’s not advanced? Swear to God, the little sod was pleased with himself.’ And why wouldn’t he be with his mouth wrapped around Fin’s nipple.
‘Maybe he thought you were trying to steal his dinner.’
‘Those tits were mine first.’
‘Au contraire, husband. These bad boys belong to me.’
I groan, watching as she takes them in her hands—over her t-shirt, but it doesn’t take much to titillate me these days. My cock springs to life instantly.
‘When we go to Mac and Ella’s house tomorrow, don’t go frightening them with the horror stories of parenthood. Bad enough you regaled them with tales of the birth.’
‘In my defence, I think I was still in shock!’
‘Shock?’ Her eyebrows are suddenly in her hairline. ‘How about next time you try it, the birthing bit?’
‘Aye. You’re right,’ I agree, trying to pull my size elevens out of my mouth. But if she’d seen the things I had . . . I’m just pleased my favourite place to spend time has retracted to its original state. Not that I’ve had the luxury of spending much time there recently. ‘Anyway, what am I gonna tell Mac about parenthood? The big oaf already has a kid.’
‘Yeah, one who arrived with pretty neat verbal skills. Two languages, not just one.’
‘He’s always got to be bigger, hasn’t he?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she replies with a frown. What I mean is, they’ve had none of this guesswork we’re currently experiencing.’
Personally, I think it’s probably best he can’t talk just now. Flipping the bird at three months is bad enough.
I take a mouthful of my wine, my gaze falling to my lovely wife. ‘Do you enjoy torturing me?’ Still holding her glass, Fin also appears to be absently holding one full, round breast.
‘Oh, very much,’ she purrs. ‘Why don’t you come over here?’ Her hand slides from her luscious body to pat the sofa cushion. ‘So I can torture you some more.’
‘That’s an invitation I’d be daft to refuse.’ Keeping my eyes from the monitor, almost convinced I’ll catch our son ready to make his move, I place my glass down on the low coffee table then stretch.
‘You’re a show off,’ Fin whispers, her gaze appreciating the sliver of skin peeking from under my worn t-shirt.
‘You love it,’ I growl. ‘Know how I know? Because you put this t-shirt in the dryer.’
‘And that means what? That I’m kind? A good little wife?’
‘A good little wife would greet her husband at the door naked.’
‘So I’m a bad little wife?’ she asks, trying not to laugh.
‘You’re my perfect wife,’ I respond, stalking my way around the table. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind if you answered the door naked once in a while. And you’re a bad little wife for making my t-shirt shrink. Go on, admit it. You want to ogle my body.’
‘Ogle your body?’ she repeats laughing. ‘By making you wear a t-shirt that makes you look like a twink?’
‘A twink, am I?’ As I throw myself on the sofa next to her, Fin squeaks. ‘I’ll give you twink,’ I growl, pushing her legs wide and inserting my knees between her thighs.
‘Stop, you’ll wake the baby,’ she says a little breathlessly. Breathless from giggling, that is, and while that’s fine, I want my wife to be breathless for another reason tonight.
‘Aye, well, that’d be a bit of role reversal he well deserves.’ Because to say our son is a poor sleeper is like saying the Pope likes a dram of communion wine.
‘Please, no,’ she groans. ‘You know I can’t stand to leave him to cry.’
‘No, but you’ll leave me to weep plenty.’
‘But you know I’ll kiss the boo-boo better for you anytime.’ And she would, but we’re both so sleep deprived these past few weeks, it’s a miracle we’re still functioning, never mind fucking.
I trail the backs of my fingers up her arms as she stretches out beneath me with the languid satisfaction of a cat. I still can’t believe she’s mine. That she agreed to marry me after wearing the fuck expensive diamond ring on her keychain. I was happy when it graduated to a chain around her neck and cock-a-bloody-hoop when she finally put it on her finger. And I thought I’d never been happier when she moved in with me, but she fooled me there when she told me she was carrying our child. I revised my happiness scale, deciding I’d never be happier at that point. But then she agreed to be my wife. So shit just keeps getting better and better, and I keep getting happier and happier, though a wee bit harder in the trouser area just now.
My wife. Mine. All mine.
Fuck hot and irresistible, from her sassy blonde hair down to her long, toned legs and the pink paint on her toenails.
‘God, I love you, Mrs. Tremaine.’ My eyes roam over her face and down the elegant column of her neck. And you know where those eyes are heading . . .
‘Oh, you owned me there, wife naming me.’
‘That’s right, I did.’
‘Hey. My eyes are up here,’ she says, touching my chin.
‘And lovely blue eyes they are,’ I reply, keeping my eyes a little further south. ‘Fuck me, Fin, but you’ve lovely tits.’ I trail a finger between the valley of them, her nipples tightening under her
soft cotton of her t-shirt.
‘I think the word you’re looking for is large.’
‘Luscious,’ I correct, taking the roundness of her breasts in my hand. ‘Delicious. A place I could lose myself.’
‘Good job I just fed our little monster or else I’d lose you under the fountain of milk.’
‘Seriously, woman? Are you trying to get me to come in my pants?’
‘Definitely not,’ she murmurs softly, ‘because then what would I do about this.’ Her hand lifts to cover her pyjama covered pussy, middle finger rubbing the seam.
‘That is so fucking hot.’ My own words are rough and rasping as my cock strains against the zipper of my jeans.
‘It is hot,’ Fin responds, part breathy moan as, arching her back, she pushes her tits into my hands. ‘So hot. I don’t know what I can do to cool down.’
I smile down at my wife, loving where she’s taking this. If she wasn’t in events management—and she wasn’t my wife—she could totally be a porn actress. And I mean that in the nicest—hottest?—possible way.
‘I think maybe we could cool you down if we removed some of your clothes.’
‘Do you think so?’ She gasps as I drag my thumbs over her hardened nipples before whipping the t-shirt up and over her head.
‘I really can’t believe how big these are.’ My words are sort of awe-filled as I just stare at her, the results of our honeymoon still evident against her sun-kissed and freckled skin.
‘They’re almost as big as my ass.’ Her words are light, but the meaning behind them is not.
‘Your arse is perfect, and I’ve a million plans for it in the coming months.’
‘Yeah, me too. Starting with the thirty-day squat challenge as soon as I get the energy.’ That isn’t happening anytime soon; the squats, that is. Sure, her arse is a bit rounder, but that just makes it a bit more fantastic. I mean, it jiggles now when I swat it. How fantastic is that?
‘You are so fucking beautiful,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You grew a whole other person inside your body, and yes, he has the personality of my twin rather than his father, the easy-going brother, but you grew him. All by yourself.’