by Sk Quinn
Marc moves the bar of soap over my neck. Then down my other arm.
When he moves the soap down to my breasts, I drop my head back in pleasure.
He makes circles, washing me carefully and precisely. Then he washes my stomach and back.
I can feel him inside me the whole time, and every little jolty movement sends shivers of pleasure around my body.
‘When I was younger,’ Marc whispers, dropping the soap between my legs, ‘they used to wash our mouths out at school. For bad behaviour.’
‘You were badly behaved at school?’
‘Very.’
Marc begins to rock back and forth, and the soap moves with him.
‘Oh Marc. Marc.’ My head drops back again as I sway on his lap, and my hair tumbles down so the ends touch the water.
Marc tilts his hips forwards so the soap rubs me harder. His expression is stern and remorseless.
‘Oh god. Oooooh,’ I moan.
I throw myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders as his pace increases.
Marc strokes wet hair from my cheek and holds me tight.
The slippery soap is doing amazing things between my legs as Marc moves.
I feel his beautiful hard muscles against my breasts and smell his amazing, crisp, clean skin and hair.
Marc grabs my buttocks and lifts me up and down in the water.
Splash, splash, splash.
I can’t bear it any more.
‘Oh god! God! Marc! I’m going to come.’
Burning heat spreads between my legs and over my whole body.
It feels so amazing in the hot water. I let my eyes close. Every part of me feels soft and beautiful.
‘Yes. Yes,’ says Marc. ‘Sophia. Yes! Sophia.’ He forces himself harder inside me and then he comes too, pulling me onto his lap and squeezing my buttocks.
We grip each other tightly.
The water laps around us.
After a moment we look into each other’s eyes, breathing fast.
‘So.’ Marc twists my wet hair around and squeezes water out of it. ‘Still the best day of your life?’
‘Definitely.’
4
I wake the next morning in the townhouse bedroom, surrounded by fluffy white feathery pillows.
‘Good morning,’ I say, seeing Marc’s beautiful profile glowing in the sunlight as he lies beside me.
‘Good morning Mrs Blackwell.’
I feel a grin tug at my lips. ‘We got married yesterday, didn’t we?’
‘Yes. And now you’re mine forever.’
‘I was always yours forever,’ I whisper. ‘Married or not.’
‘But now everyone else knows it too. Other men, specifically.’
I laugh. ‘Just because you want me doesn’t mean every other man does.’
‘Oh believe me – they do,’ says Marc. ‘You’re just too adorably innocent for most men to pass up.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’
‘I thought you were never going to wake up.’
‘What time is it?’ I murmur.
‘Nearly nine. If you’d have slept any later, I would have thrown cold water over you.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
Marc laughs. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Well – not to wake you up. There are more enjoyable ways to use cold water.’
‘Are there?’
‘Yes. And as your husband and former teacher it’s my duty to show you every way imaginable.’ He kisses my neck and whispers, ‘But right now the doctor is waiting. Come on sleeping beauty. Rise and shine.’
‘So early?’
‘Yes. Breakfast in the limo. You’ve even got time for a quick shower.’
‘After the bath last night? You’re saying I need to shower?’
Marc runs his fingers into my hair. ‘I wouldn’t care if you never showered again. But I know you enjoy showering every morning. And I’m not about to take any pleasure from you, no matter how small.’
I pull myself up and notice the gleaming silver band on my finger.
‘Marc. We’re married.’
‘I’m glad you remembered.’
‘I’m Mrs Blackwell …’
‘Correct. You are my wife. And I will take care of you, Mrs Blackwell, until your dying day. I will never, ever take you for granted. You will be on a pedestal for the rest of our married life.’
‘How did I get so lucky?’
Marc’s eyes are clear and soft. ‘It’s me who’s lucky. For you to accept me. And to love me. For what I am.’ He claps his hands sharply. ‘Right. Doctors.’
‘Can’t we be just a little bit late?’ I plead, shuffling my body towards him. ‘We haven’t actually consummated our marriage in bed yet, and—’
Marc takes a deep breath. ‘You, Mrs Blackwell, are testing the very last ounce of my self-control.’
‘But would it be so bad if we just—’
‘You have an appointment. I am never late, which means you will not be late. No matter how much temptation you throw my way. Your health is more important than anything.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with me exactly.’
‘I didn’t say there was.’ The smile is back on Marc’s face. ‘In fact, I’m hoping the doctor will confirm everything is very, very right.’
5
In the limo, I have an attack of nerves.
Yesterday, thinking I could be pregnant … it wasn’t real. But now we might find out for certain. What if I am? Is it too soon? Will Marc really be happy about it?
As usual, my nerves mean I feel a little sick. And I don’t want to eat or drink anything.
Marc has ordered a whole breakfast menu for the limo journey – fresh fruit, cinnamon brioche buns, smoked salmon bagels. It’s delicious food, perfectly presented, but the thought of eating makes me feel queasy.
Marc tries to coax me like an anxious parent.
‘Just a sip of fruit juice? A tiny bite of brioche? You should eat something, Sophia. It’s not good not to eat.’
‘I really can’t.’ I lean against his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry Marc. It all looks delicious, but I can’t.’
He strokes my hair. ‘Don’t be sorry. Is the smell of food making you sick? I can get rid of everything.’ He leaps forward and bangs on the glass. ‘Keith, we might need to make a stop—’
The car slows down.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I insist. ‘We’ll be there soon.’ I swallow and look out of the window, trying to keep the sickness down.
I feel even more nervous as the car pulls up on Harley Street.
‘These buildings look like your townhouse,’ I say, gazing at the beautiful three-storey Georgian houses.
‘Our townhouse,’ says Marc, leading me towards a shiny black door. ‘As of yesterday, half is legally yours.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Maybe I should sell my half and travel the world.’
‘As long as I can travel with you.’
‘As if I’d travel anywhere without you.’
By the door, a shiny brass plate says, ‘Doctor Karen Christian – Private Physician’.
‘How well do you know this doctor?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know her at all,’ says Marc. ‘But she comes highly recommended.’
‘By who?’
‘You mean whom.’ Marc smiles. ‘She comes recommended by Denise Crompton. Happy?’
‘Yes.’
Marc opens the door, and we find a clean, quiet waiting area with glass coffee tables and leather sofas.
‘It’s quiet,’ I remark, looking around.
‘Of course,’ says Marc. ‘I didn’t want anyone staring at you.’
‘What did you do – ban all the other patients from turning up?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Marc’s lips twist. ‘I booked up every appointment in the clinic this morning.’
‘Marc, you didn’t have to—’
‘Yes I did.’
A door creaks open and a lady i
n a green nurse’s uniform appears.
‘Ah! Mrs Blackwell. Right on time.’
It takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about me.
I can’t resist sharing a grin with Marc. ‘You booked me in as Mrs Blackwell?’
‘It’s your name.’
The nurse smiles. ‘Will you come this way please? Dr Christian will see you now.’
6
Dr Christian is a smiling, sixty-something woman. She wears a crisp black suit. Her white hair is neatly clipped and her face is wrinkled with laughter lines.
She shakes my hand warmly. ‘A pleasure to meet you Mrs Blackwell. The wedding was just yesterday I hear?’
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘And you’re happy for Mr Blackwell to stay?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ I slide my hand into Marc’s.
‘Please take a seat.’ Dr Christian gestures to a comfortable-looking leather sofa, and Marc and I sit – me still clutching Marc’s hand.
‘Now. What seems to be the problem?’ Dr Christian asks.
‘Um … well it’s not a problem exactly.’ I feel myself smiling. ‘I think I could be pregnant.’
‘What makes you think that?’
I shrug, feeling silly. ‘I just … it’s a feeling I suppose.’
‘Nothing wrong with feelings. A woman’s intuition is very powerful. Especially where her health is concerned. Okay – so a pregnancy test is pretty simple.’ She opens a drawer and takes out a white stick. ‘If you could just wee on this stick for me and bring it back. We’ll know in a few minutes. There’s a toilet right outside.’
Obediently, I take the stick and head out.
It’s a little bit awkward trying to hold the stick while I pee, but I manage it. Then I have the humiliating job of bringing it back into the room.
‘It’s okay,’ Dr Christian reassures me. ‘I do this all the time. Don’t be embarrassed.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, as she places the white stick on a napkin.
I sit down and grab Marc’s hand.
Marc squeezes my fingers.
‘Okay,’ says Dr Christian, watching the white stick. ‘Sophia. The test is telling me you’re not pregnant.’
‘I’m not?’
‘When did you last have your period?’
‘Maybe three weeks ago?’
Dr Christian smiles. ‘Then it’s too soon to tell. The test looks for pregnancy hormones. But they’re only around a few weeks after pregnancy has taken hold. Are you fairly regular? I mean, do you menstruate regularly?’
‘Yes. Pretty regularly. I mean, maybe a day or two here and there …’
‘And may I ask – have there been many times … without contraception?’
Now I feel really stupid. ‘Twice,’ I admit.
‘So come back in two weeks and we’ll take the test again.’
‘Two weeks? Do we really have to wait that long?’
‘I know it’s frustrating. The not knowing. I’ve been there myself, believe me. But if there’s one thing pregnancy will teach you, it’s patience.’
‘Do you think I’m pregnant?’ I ask. ‘I mean … tests aside and everything. You’re a doctor. You’ve seen lots of women. What do you think? In your medical opinion.’
‘Honestly, I really couldn’t judge,’ says Dr Christian. ‘It would be unprofessional of me to give an opinion either way. I’ll book you in for another appointment in two weeks’ time. Maybe you’re pregnant already. But chances are … if it was just twice you’re probably not. There’s no hurry, okay? You’ve only just got married.’
I know Dr Christian is right. But surprisingly, my insides ache with disappointment.
Even though the timing was all wrong, it felt right thinking I was carrying Marc’s baby.
7
‘You’re disappointed,’ says Marc, as we walk towards the limo.
I nod, feeling tears spring under my eyelashes. ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so upset. We only just got married. It’s too soon to have a baby anyway. This is stupid.’
‘It’s not stupid.’ Marc puts an arm around me.
‘Are you disappointed?’ I ask.
‘Me? How could I be? I’ve just married the most perfect girl in the world.’
‘You know what I mean. Did you like the idea of me being pregnant?’
‘Of course I did.’ Marc squeezes me tighter. ‘But Dr Christian didn’t say you’re not pregnant. She just said it was too soon to tell. And there’s no rush. For me, it was a relief to get you checked over. Especially after how you were feeling in the car.’
‘That was just nerves.’
‘How are those nerves now?’
‘A little better. I just feel deflated, that’s all. When I thought I was pregnant, I had this lovely bubbly excited feeling. But now I just feel sort of empty. Sad. Silly isn’t it? I don’t know why. I mean it’s too soon …’
‘In two weeks you might get that excited feeling back again.’
I manage a smile. ‘I know. I’m sorry about all this. Being so dramatic … it’s just I was so sure before. And now … for the test to come back negative … ’
Marc leans down to kiss me, and I feel my body melt into his.
The kiss is soft and tender, and I feel cold disappointment turn to warmth.
‘Now,’ Marc murmurs. ‘You, Mrs Blackwell, haven’t eaten breakfast yet. And if you do happen to be pregnant it’s important you’re well nourished.’
‘I do feel a tiny bit hungry now,’ I admit.
‘Good. So I’ll buy you breakfast and afterwards I’ll take you shopping. We are in London, after all.’
‘Shopping?’ I ask. ‘What for?’
‘Something very important.’
‘So where are we going exactly?’ I ask, as the limo turns into Covent Garden.
‘A very good restaurant,’ says Marc. ‘There’s in New York. I used to go there all the time. And the London one is just as good.’
‘Am I dressed okay for a restaurant?’ I ask.
I’m wearing a loose, flowery dress and my hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
Marc is impeccably groomed as usual in a black suit jacket, t-shirt and jeans. His soft brown hair flops adorably over his forehead and his blue eyes are as intense and bright as ever.
The corners of Marc’s lips tilt. ‘Okay? That’s a word I’d never use to describe you. You’re a million times better than okay. No matter what you’re wearing.’
‘They say love is blind,’ I tease.
Marc’s eyes go hard and serious. ‘Sophia, any restaurant would be lucky to have you as a patron. Never forget that.’
‘We don’t all have your confidence.’
‘I wasn’t always confident. It was something I had to work at.’
‘You? Not confident? I don’t believe it.’
‘Believe it. I was shy as hell as a child. Every audition was a nightmare. All the new faces. But when I started acting—’
‘All your shyness disappeared,’ I finish.
‘How did you know I was going to say that?’
‘Because I feel exactly the same way.’
8
The limo pulls up outside a pretty restaurant with a dark-wood front. Through the huge glass window I see crispy baguettes, loaves and pastries under orange lights.
‘After you, Mrs Blackwell,’ says Marc, opening the door.
I smile. ‘I still can’t get used to that name.’
‘Funny. Because it suits you.’
The restaurant smells of baked bread, vanilla and chocolate.
My stomach rumbles.
‘I really am hungry now,’ I tell Marc, taking his hand.
A blonde waitress greets us at the door.
‘Hi. How are you doing today? Let me get you seated. Is by the window okay?’
I can tell she’s doing her best not to stare at Marc.
‘A little further inside would be better,’ says Marc.
‘Of course!’ says the waitress, her v
oice suddenly all high pitched. ‘Silly me. Of course you don’t want to be near the window. I mean … um … I suppose there are photographers and—’
‘Here will be fine,’ says Marc, pointing to a booth.
‘Certainly!’ the waitress squeaks. ‘I’ll get you some menus.’
I really feel for her. There was a time I tried to stop myself staring at Marc too. I feel a happy shiver as I realise that now I can look at him any time I want.
‘Are you going to tell me about this shopping trip now?’ I ask, sliding into the wooden booth.
Marc takes menus from the waitress. ‘Patience Mrs Blackwell. Isn’t that what the good doctor told you this morning? All good things come to those who wait.’
‘You can be infuriating sometimes. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I aim to please.’
I gaze at the menu.
Scrambled egg with Cornish crab
Hazelnut waffles
Boiled eggs with parmesan soldiers …
‘This menu looks amazing,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what to choose.’
‘Do you want me to order for you?’
‘Yes please.’ I hand him the menu.
I still get a bit freaked out by fancy restaurants. I don’t want to order something and pronounce it wrong.
Marc calls the waitress over. ‘Mrs Blackwell will have a basket of bread and pastries, a full English breakfast, orange juice and hot chocolate.’
‘And for you Mr Blackwell?’ The waitress catches herself as she realises she might have been over familiar. ‘I mean … sir.’ She gives a limp smile.
Marc throws her his dazzling Hollywood grin.
‘Black coffee. And a bacon roll. Plus a loaf of sourdough bread – those last two to go.’
The girl practically swoons on the spot. She grips her pen tight. ‘I’ll be right back with your food.’
‘Why the bacon roll and bread?’ I ask. ‘Are you planning on taking a snack with us when we go shopping?’
Marc smiles. ‘They’re for Keith. He loves the bacon sandwiches here. And the bread is his wife’s favourite.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I take Keith here for breakfast regularly. And he took a loaf home last time and told me his wife loved it.’
‘You’ve taken Keith here to eat?’