by Sk Quinn
‘I suppose I could. Marc—’
He takes my hand and squeezes it between his palms. ‘I will always protect you, Sophia. Always. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say, managing a smile. But I’m not really okay. I’m afraid. Afraid that Marc has some horrible secret. And that if I find it out, it will tear my perfect life apart.
After the filming finishes, Marc and I move back to our house in the country.
I’ve missed our horses, and spend plenty of time spoiling them and feeding them Fruit Mentos – their favourite treat.
Of course, Marc won’t let me ride. Not that I would anyway. I’m way too scared of hurting our baby. But it’s good to be around the horses, talking to them and brushing their glossy coats.
Marc hired a stable boy while we were in London, so I know the horses have been well looked after. But I still think they’re pleased to see us home.
I’ve kind of managed to forget about the party. Although it still plays on my mind sometimes, if I let myself think too much. But I’ve decided to trust Marc and try and let it go. Have patience and let him tell me what’s going on at the right time.
‘Do you think our child will ride?’ I ask Marc, during a visit to the stables.
‘Yes. All our children will ride. Why do you think I bought a house with such large stables? There’s room for all their horses and ponies, as well as ours.’
‘Oh so it’s children now?’ I say, grinning. ‘How many children were you planning on exactly?’
‘At least a dozen,’ Marc raises a quirky eyebrow.
‘A dozen? There’s room for a dozen horses here?’
‘Ample room. Let me show you.’
Marc leads me over straw and mud. I’m wearing Ugg boots and skinny maternity jeans, teamed with a navy-blue wool maternity coat.
Marc keeps a firm grasp on my arm as I wobble and slip.
‘Careful now.’
‘It’s impossible to be careful. I’m as big as a tank. I’m not sure I can stand another month of this – how much bigger am I going to get?’
‘Big is beautiful. It means our baby is healthy.’
Marc creaks open a stable door. ‘Our child’s first pony will live here. What do you think?’
I look at the clean, tidy stable with hay bales stacked up in the corner.
‘Perfect.’
Suddenly, I feel the baby kick.
‘Marc.’ I put his hand to my stomach.
‘He knows we’re talking about his pony,’ says Marc.
‘He again?’
Marc is so sure the baby is a boy. He keeps talking about all the fishing and hunting they’ll do in the woods. And how he’ll teach his son to fight.
I keep telling him he can’t possibly know the sex. But he’s so certain. Apparently, every Blackwell first-born is a boy.
‘It could be her pony,’ I point out.
Marc gives me that smile – the one that makes me warm all over. ‘Talking back to your husband Mrs Blackwell? You know, I’m still more than willing to discipline you. Even in your current condition.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Really. If you weren’t heavily pregnant, I’d strip you naked and lean you over that hale bale right now.’
I raise a teasing eyebrow. ‘I love the outdoors.’
‘Stop it,’ says Marc firmly.
‘Stop what?’ I say innocently.
‘You know what.’ Marc’s lips tilt into a smile. ‘Of course, there’s always the tack room …’
74
The tack room, like the stables, is made of Swedish wood, but it’s heated and has a proper door. It has cushioned cubes for sitting on while you pull on riding boots, and the walls are lined with bridles, reins and riding crops.
‘The perfect place for discipline, don’t you think?’ says Marc, taking down a riding crop and swooshing it through the air. He lands the tip of the riding crop with a crack on his palm.
I watch the black stick, my heart beating fast.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Um … yes,’ I agree. ‘It’s good.’
‘It certainly has all the right equipment.’ Marc takes down reins and pulls them tight so the leather makes a snapping sound. ‘Take off your coat.’
I do, and lay it on one of the cushioned cubes.
‘Now the rest of your clothes.’
As I strip off, Marc pulls down blinds and locks the tack-room door.
‘If you’re too cold, tell me immediately,’ says Marc. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ I’m totally naked now, my clothes in a heap. I am so pregnant. But I still want Marc. And the look in his eyes tells me he wants me too.
‘Turn around,’ Marc orders. ‘And hold your hands out behind you.’
I do, and Marc binds my wrists with the leather reins.
‘I’ve found something else useful in here,’ says Marc, going to the wall.
I hear the crackle of plastic.
‘Marc?’
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.’
I feel Marc behind me.
‘Face forwards,’ he barks, kicking four cushioned cubes together.
He bends me over them, so my pregnant stomach rests comfortably between the gaps.
‘What were you unwrapping?’
‘This.’ Marc shows me another riding crop. He runs the tip of it from my neck all the way down my spine. ‘I thought you might like a new one. Fresh out of the packet.’
My body gives a pleasurable shiver as the riding crop reaches my backside.
Crack!
Marc whacks the crop right on my buttocks.
I moan.
Crack!
Marc whacks me again.
‘Oh god Marc!’
Marc slides the riding crop between my thighs.
‘Open your legs,’ he says, batting the crop back and forth on my naked skin.
I move my knees over the hard ground.
Marc kneels behind me, one hand resting on my glowing backside.
He spins the riding crop into the air and catches the whip end. Then he slides the hard leather handle between my legs, back and forth, rubbing up and around.
I moan, sinking into the cushions as Marc slides the crop handle over the soft, warm part between my legs. Friction burns in the most pleasurable way.
I can feel myself getting hotter and hotter and my thighs clench as Marc rubs the leather tip around.
Everything begins to tighten up – my thighs, my buttocks and inside too. Just as pleasure really starts to build, Marc slides the crop inside me.
Soon, it’s so far inside that I can feel it softly bruising. Marc begins to move it up and down. Softly at first, and then harder and harder until he’s working a fierce rhythm.
‘Oh god Marc. Oh god!’
He circles the crop handle then slides it free.
I feel Marc’s sharp breathing on my naked back and hear him unbuckling his trousers.
His hardness touches my thighs. Then he slides inside me all in one go, the hugeness of him filling me up.
I let out a gasp.
‘Feeling more obedient yet?’ Marc asks, running the rough riding-crop tip down my cheek.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Marc puts his hands on my hips, still holding the riding crop. He moves me so the soft, sensitive part between my legs finds the edge of the cushioned cube.
I moan as I rock against the cushion, feeling Marc’s huge length inside me.
Marc lifts the riding crop and lightly runs the tip back and forth on my buttocks, then up my back to my shoulder.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
He hits the naked flesh near my neck.
It’s just too much. I come in one big rush of pleasure, my whole body warm and glowing.
Marc sinks deep inside me and I see the riding crop fall to the floor as he grabs my hips and pulls me onto him.
‘Sophia!’ he moans, his fingers gripping me tight.
He moves my hair over m
y shoulder and kisses the back of my neck, and then along my shoulders.
‘I love you.’ He moans against the sore spot where he cracked the riding crop. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
75
Marc helps me dress, and I pull the maternity coat tight around me.
‘Do you think the baby is cold in this weather?’
‘No. But I think you need another new coat. That one barely fits you any more.’
‘It’s so soon until the baby gets here. Is it really worth it?’
‘Of course it is. It’s very important you’re comfortable. Why don’t you go out with Jen? Buy some new clothes?’
‘I’m not sure more new clothes will fit in the house.’
‘You need a new coat.’ Marc kisses my forehead. ‘I have to leave you this afternoon. It would be good if Jen looks after you.’
Something prickles in my stomach. ‘Why do you have to leave?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about. Just don’t give birth while I’m away.’
I laugh. ‘It’s still a month until the due date.’
‘The doctor said you could go into labour at any moment.’
‘But she also said it was unlikely. And that first births are usually overdue.’
‘Either way. I don’t want you left alone.’
‘Then don’t leave me,’ I say, aware my voice sounds a little pleading.
Marc frowns. ‘This will be the last time, okay? There’s something I need to sort out. Something important before the birth. You’ll be fine with Jen.’
‘I know. And it’ll be good to see her. She’s going crazy over the wedding. But—’
‘Keith’s picking me up in an hour or so. Then he’ll come back and drive you into London. Buy anything you like. Here’s my card.’
As Jen and I drive into the city, I try to join in her happy wedding chatter. But all I can think about is Marc. And what he’s doing this afternoon.
‘Okay,’ says Jen, as we near the department store. ‘Come on. What’s going on? You’re too quiet.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘Carry on talking about the wedding. It’s fine.’
‘Oh no. I know what a “fine” means coming from you. Is everything okay Soph? The baby’s all right isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘Everything’s great there. I’m doing all that hypnosis stuff you sent me. Trying to stay calm.’
‘So why the sad face?’
‘It’s Marc.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s … I don’t know. He said he had something to sort out this afternoon. But he didn’t say what.’
‘So?’
‘So … I just get the feeling something is going on. Maybe something to do with this secret Baz was talking about.’
‘You are heavily pregnant Soph. Are you sure your hormones aren’t making you paranoid?’
‘No. I’m not sure at all.’
The limo stops behind Cursey and Taylor at a private entrance used by celebrities. It always makes me feel funny using the VIP entrance. Because I don’t feel like a celebrity.
A doorman lets us in, and we’re shown to a private dressing room on the top floor. We’re brought tea and scones, and then assistants parade all sorts of lovely maternity coats in front of us.
Straight away, I pick a beautiful soft pink one. It’s taken to be wrapped in tissue paper.
‘So what now?’ says Jen, checking her watch. ‘That was supposed to take all afternoon.’
‘How about we do some wedding shopping for you? Didn’t you need party favours or something?’
‘Yes, but I can’t take a pregnant woman shopping with me. You’ll keel over.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t want you giving birth in a department store. Anyway, Marc won’t be happy if I take you out in the crowds.’
‘Honestly I’m fine. I’m totally fit and healthy and I’ve been sitting around indoors for so long. Come on – let me out into the real world.’
‘Okay, but we should take a security guard. I don’t want you getting mobbed.’
‘Jen, this is me we’re talking about. Not Jenifer Lopez. No one’s going to recognise me.’
‘Soph, are you living in crazy land? You and Marc are in the papers every day. They’ve even given you two a name.’
‘They have?’
‘Yep. They’re calling you “Marc-So”.’ She pats my hand. ‘I’ll make sure the security guard is a plain-clothed guy. Wait there. I’ll get it sorted.’
76
Jen and I take the lift to the ground floor, followed by a plain-clothed security guard.
It feels weird to be out in public again. Nice weird. Especially since all the sparkly Christmas stock is on display. But Jen is right – everyone is staring at me.
At first, I try to smile. But that’s a little tiring, so I end up just avoiding people’s eyes.
‘Hey – look at those amazing champagne glasses!’ says Jen. ‘What if they were the party favours? I could get them engraved and people could take them home as gifts.’
‘Nice idea,’ I say. ‘And what about little packets of seeds? People could grow them and the plants would make them think of your wedding.’
Jen laughs. ‘You and your plants! I like your thinking though. I’ll try and find a—’ Jen looks across the store, frowning.
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw Marc for a second. Is he meeting you here?’
‘What?’ I whirl around to where Jen is looking, but I don’t see anyone. ‘No. He’s not meeting me.’
Jen shakes her head. ‘Sorry. It really did look like him. But it must have been my imagination.’
‘Okay. That does it.’
‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘This keeps happening. Marc keeps turning up places. And then he vanishes. Now you’ve seen him too. This can’t be a coincidence. I’m going to find him.’
‘Soph, wait!’ Jen runs after me. ‘Calm down. Remember you’re pregnant.’
When I reach the limo, I knock hard on the window.
‘Keith,’ I bark. ‘Where did Marc go?’
Keith winds the window down. ‘I can’t tell you where he is. I promised him, Mrs Blackwell.’
‘I don’t care what you promised. Tell me where he is.’
‘An order is an order …’
‘And now I’m giving you an order. I order you to tell me where Marc is. Are you waiting for him here?’
‘No, I’m waiting for you, Mrs Blackwell.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘I can’t tell you. Come on. I’ll take you home.’
‘No! You’ll tell me where Marc is.’
Keith sighs. ‘Get in. I’ll drop your friend off at her apartment. And then we’ll meet up with Marc.’
‘Meet up with him? But he was right here. At the store.’
‘Please get in the car, Mrs Blackwell.’
‘Okay. Fine. But you’ll take me to Marc after we’ve dropped Jen off?’
‘I’ll take you to Marc.’
77
Keith drops Jen off at her apartment, and then we head back across London.
I put my hands to my stomach, wanting to cry.
What on earth is going on? Why would Marc be following me like this?
I take out my phone and call his number. He answers on the first ring. ‘Sophia. Are you okay?’
‘You know I am. What’s going on Marc?’
‘I told you. I had some things to sort out.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were in London?’
A pause.
‘How did you know I was in London?’
‘Jen saw you.’
‘Where are you?’
I look around. ‘I don’t know. Covent Garden. Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘Is Keith with you?’
‘Yes. I’m with him in the limo.’
‘And where’s Jen?’
‘Back at Leo’s apartment.’
‘Tell Keith to pull over. I’m coming to get you.’
‘Keith?’ I tap on the glass. ‘Would you pull over please?’ I clamp the phone tight to my ear. ‘Why were you spying on me Marc?’
‘Sophia, I wasn’t spying on you.’
‘Oh no? Jen saw you.’
‘You were supposed to be shopping.’
‘We were shopping.’
‘Sophia. This is important. I want you to stay in the limo. Don’t get out. I’m coming to get you.’
I hang up the phone, but as I drop it into my coat pocket I feel an overwhelming surge of morning sickness.
I put a hand to my mouth, swallowing desperately to keep everything down.
Dr Christian said I might get sick again at the end of my pregnancy. And she said it might come on when I was stressed. Well I certainly am stressed right now.
A powerful wave of nausea hits me and I know I can’t keep it down.
I throw the car door open and vomit in the gutter.
‘Oh my god,’ I mutter, putting a hand to my head.
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I pull myself out of the car into the fresh air. Walking feels good, and as I pace back and forth by the limo the sickness passes.
I grab my phone and call Marc again.
‘Marc, I think I might have got the address wrong.’
‘Sophia, I hear traffic. Are you in the car?’
‘The road sign says—’
Suddenly my phone is snatched from my hand.
‘Hey!’ I yell, seeing a tall man in a leather jacket tear down the street. ‘That’s my phone! Come back!’
A few shoppers turn to stare.
Keith leaps out of the car. ‘Stay right where you are Mrs Blackwell. I’ll catch him. Don’t you worry.’
Keith runs into the crowd.
I lean against the limo, heart pounding.
And then I hear a voice.
‘Hello Sophia.’
I turn and see Marc.
But it’s not Marc.
He has a similar nose and face shape. But his eyes are different. They’re dark brown. Almost black.
‘Who are you?’ I breathe, gripping the limo door handle.
78
‘We’ve met before.’ The man’s voice is deep and rich like Marc’s. But the way he talks … he has a slight northern accent. Like he’s from Leeds, or somewhere near there. Nothing like Marc’s clipped London English.