by Adele Parks
Nat was not responding to his under-duvet attentions. She clung to her file as though it was a chastity belt and he was some sort of foreign invader hoping to take advantage of the fact that the local men were on a crusade.
‘It is my birthday,’ Neil reminded her.
Natalie laughed at the honesty of the plea and finally put down her work. She inched her way down below the duvet and, showing remarkable dexterity, inched her way out of her pyjama top and bottoms at the same time. Neil gratefully and instantly clasped his lips on her nipple and Natalie let out a little yelp of unsquashable glee. Once Natalie was in the mood she was generally noted for her enthusiasm. Neil’s mouth lingered over her breasts for an indulgent amount of time. He kissed them, nuzzled them, licked them and ever so gently bit them. Then he trailed kisses down her body, past her tummy button, past her hip bone and he finally buried his face between her legs. He started to kiss, lap and lick her into a state of almost painful ecstasy. He was excellent at this. Natalie had never been especially keen on this particular brand of foreplay until she met Neil, but now she possibly enjoyed it more than the main event. It was so intimate, so frank and giving.
‘Let’s make a baby,’ he mumbled.
Natalie didn’t quite hear what he said as his head was between her thighs. Did he just say, ‘Let’s make love, baby?’ If so, it was a bit nineties of him but Neil did occasionally say strange things during sex. He’d once tried to talk dirty to her because someone (Karl probably) had told him women like it. It was not erotic. It was embarrassing and then hilarious but not erotic. Neil said it again, ‘Let’s mumble mumble baby.’ This time he looked up and smiled at her; his was such a huge, warm grin. He had her excitement on his lips and a glint in his eye the like of which she’d never seen before. She nodded happily and pushed his head back down between her legs. Yes, she would mumble mumble. They were mumble mumbling, weren’t they? Whatever he was specifically asking for she’d get to soon enough. Just after he finished what he’d started. He’d brought her to the point where she didn’t want to talk; she didn’t want him to stop. She just wanted more, more, again, again.
Ahggg, that was it. That got it. Nat shook uncontrollably with excitement. Tiny little darts of ecstasy fired through her body. This was their pattern, this was their routine. Nat didn’t know why people were so down on routine. She loved the fact that she and Neil knew exactly where they were with one another and that they knew how to please one another, how to excite, how to hold back and when to spill forth. Nat knew how hard to suck his cock, how fast to lick it and caress it. He knew instinctively when she wanted her breasts grabbed and when she wanted them gently stroked. Now she had reached orgasm and was fully satisfied, he would reach for a condom and they’d work together to get his orgasm and, let’s face it, that was not a tricky or arduous task. Nat would ride Neil tonight. She was the more sober of the two and the silent agreement always was that whoever was the least inebriated would be prepared to put in a little extra effort. Besides, it was his birthday. She waited for him to roll over and reach into the bedside drawer for a condom. They’d always used condoms. Nat had used them all her life. They were clean, safe, flexible and reliable; the perfect contraceptive. Luckily, Neil had never been one of those guys who said he couldn’t feel as much with a condom. They did try the pill a few years back but it had exaggerated Nat’s tendency to PMT and neither of them enjoyed that.
But Neil did not reach for a condom, instead he surprised Nat by rolling on top of her and suddenly Nat could feel his hardness inside her. The sensation was at once fabulous and shocking.
She instantly pulled away. ‘Idiot, you are drunk.’ She laughed. ‘You haven’t got a condom on yet.’
‘You can’t make a baby if you wear a condom.’ Neil smiled at Nat. His sexy grin had transformed into something a little more indulgent. Never before had he seen her as some dear, sweet, Victorian innocent who needed the basic facts of life explaining. How much had she had to drink?
‘Make a baby?’ Natalie shrieked in disbelief. ‘Who said we were going to make a baby?’ Natalie fought briefly and ferociously to scrabble out from under Neil.
‘But you just agreed.’
‘I did no such thing! What are you talking about?’ Natalie suddenly understood the miscommunication in all its horrifying glory but she was too shattered and shocked to explain the mix-up to her husband rationally. She’d simply misheard him. But that wasn’t the point. What was he thinking? Why even in his wildest dreams would he assume that she wanted to make a baby, ever? She’d always made it crystal clear that the opposite was the case. And if ever she was going to reopen discussion on the matter (which she could not in a million years imagine doing), they would not act on a drunken whim, they’d give the matter due and serious thought. Natalie wanted to say all of this; instead she grabbed the duvet and pulled it high around her body, hiding herself as though she was indeed the Victorian innocent he’d been imagining only moments before and she yelled in panic, horror and frustration, ‘Wanker.’
Neil’s raging hard-on wilted. His strong and sexy penis looked like a tiny sausage-shaped balloon many weeks after the party. Natalie tried to steady her breathing; shouting and cursing wasn’t her way and unlikely to help matters but she was panting with fear, and anger, and disbelief, and couldn’t organise her thoughts in any sort of rational way. OK, OK, get a grip. This is just the drink talking. He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. It’s a joke. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else at all. The only words that came to mind were so blue and derisive and out of character that if she uttered just a small percentage of them they’d probably end up talking to a marriage counsellor, so instead she snapped off the bedside light and said, ‘Just go to sleep, Neil. Sleep it off, for God’s sake.’
5
Despite the odds, the early morning, late summer sunshine gallantly forced its way through the small gap in the bedroom curtains, promising that autumn would be kept at bay for one more glorious day. Nat refused to be cheered and instead gloomily noticed that the shaft of light fell in such a way that the room seemed to be ominously divided into two.
Nat got up at 6.30a.m. She’d barely slept but instead feigned a comatose state until about 3a.m. when anxiety and exhaustion had finally got the better of her and she’d submitted to a fitful slumber. Neil, on the other hand, had fallen asleep almost the moment she’d told him to. She knew him well enough to know that he was too confused and drunk to put up a fight; besides, the idea of a ‘good row’ was anathema to Neil. He’d often said that in his opinion, rows were mean, low and pointless, and Nat agreed with him. Neil had often flattered Nat by favourably comparing her to his exes, many of whom had been the sort of women who seemed to like rows and, what was worse, they’d dressed it up and called it ‘essential communicating’ or ‘clearing the air’. Nat knew Neil had always been able to see a row for what it was – painful. Therefore, he’d probably been only too pleased to do as he was told and fall straight asleep to avoid any more confrontation.
Sadly, Nat could not take any pleasure in the fact that Neil had followed her instructions to the letter. She lay awake and anxiously considered that Neil had most probably lulled himself to sleep with assurances that they’d sort it out in the morning, that he’d make her understand his point of view then, that everything would be better in the morning. It was just like Neil to think so optimistically but Nat knew that nothing would be better in the morning and that it would take more than a good night’s sleep to sort this mess out. It would take a miracle or at least a very speedy retraction from Neil with regard to his desire for a baby.
Nat was envious of Neil’s ability to sleep soundly whilst she tossed and turned and fretted. She often thought life was so much simpler for him than it was for her. She lay on her side and stared forlornly at him. Usually, whenever she set eyes on him she felt overwhelmed with feelings of comfort and contentment; this morning her stomach churned with anxiety and a deep, impossible-to-articulate regret. H
ow could he sleep so soundly? She wanted him to wake up and tell her of course he’d been joking, of course he didn’t want to make a baby; so when her alarm went off, instead of rushing to slam down the button that would silence Chris Moyles and guarantee Neil some more slumber as she usually did, she let Moyles’s cheeky chatter float into their room. She showered, dressed, cleaned her teeth with an electric toothbrush and dried her hair on full blast but still Neil did not stir. He’d clearly drunk a lot last night. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? It meant that he didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted a baby; it was just drunken rambling. Or was it a terrible thing? Did he need the drink to give him Dutch courage so that he could articulate his latent but fervent desire? Nat didn’t know. She felt so confused that she was unsure whether she was delighted that Neil had slept through her morning ablutions (thus avoiding the possibility of an inquest into his bizarre and horrifying behaviour last night) or devastated. If he’d woken up he could have reassured her that his request to make a baby was a fleeting, ill-considered whim. Neil’s day in the office didn’t start until 10a.m. and so all Nat could do was re-set the alarm for nine, so that he wouldn’t be late for work.
As Nat dashed to the bus stop she was conscious that her mind ought to have been full of facts for the meeting but instead was crammed with worry for her husband. She shook her head violently, she couldn’t think about this right now. She had a big meeting to prepare for, a busy day ahead. She had to stay focused, no matter what. After all, that was what she’d always done.
The moment Neil heard the door bang behind Nat and the familiar click-clack of her high heels on the pavement below their bedroom window, he opened his eyes. Phew, it was safe. Area cleared and locked down, enemy evacuated.
Yawning and stretching, Neil began to assess the extent of his hangover. It was a seven out of ten. The pain in his head was a pounding sensation but on balance he preferred this to the type of hangover where he felt his head was being crushed and about to implode. He could fix a pounding by popping a couple of aspirins. He was also seriously dehydrated. The way things had panned out last night meant that he never had the opportunity to drink his usual precautionary cup of hydrating tea or a glass of water before he fell asleep, but that was OK; he could fix that by drinking two or three mugs of strong tea now. But there was another pain, one that was only indirectly related to his hangover, but it was by far the most vicious pain. There was a searing disappointment sitting in his chest, in his stomach and, yes, in his heart.
Nat didn’t want a baby and he did. He didn’t know how to fix that.
Neil decided to walk to work; he could do with the fresh air. Besides, he was already technically late by forty-five minutes so he reasoned he might as well round it up to a full hour. He would walk along King Street, cut through Ravenscourt Park and then carry on along Goldhawk Road. It might even be quicker on foot than taking the bus.
The London streets were, as ever, overflowing. The traffic was heavy and slow. Neil stared into the cars and saw mothers returning home from school runs. The empty seats, in the back of the car, cradled discarded wrapping papers and small plastic toys rather than boys and girls. There were people in taxis dashing to business meetings or maybe the airport. Neil imagined fathers kissing their kids goodbye this morning, promising they’d return with goodies from their business trips. Neil’s father only ever went on any sort of business trip twice throughout his career (once he attended an overnight conference in Saltburn and on the other occasion he went to a motivational training meeting in Milton Keynes). On both occasions he brought back Terry’s chocolate oranges for Neil, Ben and Ashleigh. Neil indulged in a daydream about returning home after a business trip (destination unspecified but as it was a daydream Neil thought maybe Fiji or the Maldives). As he pushed open the front door, his kids would clatter down the stairs and dive into his arms and demand their chocolate oranges. In his daydream the hall was freshly painted and Nat was wearing a floral pinny. She greeted him with a wide smile and she didn’t call him a wanker.
Although it was still August, Neil noticed that the summer sale signs were disappearing from the shop windows and already being replaced by arrangements involving pumpkins and black cats. He’d loved Halloween when he was a kid; he liked scaring himself by believing Ben’s ghost stories. Suddenly Neil felt excited by the thought of taking a kid of his trick or treating, then he remembered Nat’s horrorstruck face last night and his stomach sank, just as though he’d been visited by a ghoul.
Neil nodded at café owners who were slouched in the doorways of their premises, smiling their approval at the bright weather, sunshine was good for trade. Neil noticed that there were endless groups of mothers and toddlers clustered around bistro tables, chatting and giggling as they munched on croissants and sipped orange juice. The park was full of tiny pre-schoolers as well. They were chasing dogs, riding scooters, bikes and buggy boards. Whizzing past him and whirling around him. They were playing on the swings, in the sandpit and in the pool. They were everywhere.
When Neil got to the office Karl was waiting for him by his desk. He was carrying a paper bag which, from the smell, Neil deduced contained bacon butties.
‘Result. You’re a good mate,’ said Neil with a grateful grin as he bit into the buttie. Fat dribbled down his chin but he didn’t care. This was one of the reasons he loved his buddy Karl and could overlook his lax morals – Karl had the ability to plan like a woman. It was genius to anticipate the need for a bacon buttie this morning and to get the timing so absolutely spot on. How did Karl know he’d be an hour late? Well, besides the fact that he was always an hour late when he’d had a big session the night before.
Karl sat on the edge of the desk and Neil collapsed into the chair behind it. The office was open plan but the vibe was relaxed, no one clock-watched or felt chained to their desks. Indeed, Karl and Neil’s respective roles meant that they had legitimate reasons to hang around gassing with one another and so were often credited with being industrious when in fact they were discussing last night’s game or Karl’s sex life.
‘It was a good night, wasn’t it?’ asked Karl.
‘Great,’ replied Neil and he tried to sound a hundred per cent enthusiastic. He tried not to think of Nat’s amazed and terrified face when he’d suggested a baby.
‘What’s up?’ Clearly he’d failed.
Neil hesitated. Karl was not the person he wanted to confide in right now. In fact, Karl was never the person anyone ever wanted to confide anything in. And did he actually want to do any confiding anyway? The nature of the open-plan office meant that it was almost impossible to discuss anything personal without expecting to see details of your dilemma posted up on the company website within two minutes.
‘Nothing,’ assured Neil with a self-conscious grin.
‘You’ve a face like a slapped arse, mate. Something’s up.’
Neil glanced over his shoulder. It was KitKat break time and most people had sloped off to the canteen, so he was at least guaranteed some privacy. Was it possible to explain to Karl that he’d had an epiphany? That suddenly, resolutely, he was sure of something big and bold and serious. He’d actually half hoped that this morning his desire for a baby, a child, a family would have vanished. He’d really hoped that Nat would be right about this, as she was about most things, and that it was just the drink talking when he’d said he wanted to have a child with her. But as inconvenient as it was (and, hell, it really was) Neil found that he’d woken up more, not less, determined to have a baby.
Karl started to play with the small plastic bendy models that sat on Neil’s desk. The toys had been originally purchased as a prop for a creative brainstorming session when they’d been developing their last big game. Now they sat on Neil’s desk and it had become accepted that anyone going past his desk would take pleasure in rearranging the figures into one of the positions from the Kama Sutra. It passed the time of day. Karl arranged the bendy people into the plough. His apparent disinterest in Neil’s issue l
ulled Neil into making a surprising admission as to what the matter was.
‘Nat doesn’t want to have a baby.’
‘I know that, mate. Everyone knows that,’ said Karl simply. ‘She’s always said as much.’
‘Not ever,’ added Neil for clarity.
‘Result. You’re one lucky bloke.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s every bloke’s dream, isn’t it? You get to shag, nay marry, a hotty like Nat and you never have to share her.’
Neil rolled his eyes. Had he heard that correctly? He stared at his mate in amazement.
Karl was unrepentant. ‘Oh, come on, mate, admit it. No man gets the same amount of sex after his woman’s had a baby. Nor does he have the same amount of attention, sleep or money, come to think of it. Look at your brother.’
‘I’m pretty sure Ben would say his children have made his life better.’
‘They’ve made his life busier, his house smellier and his clothes shabbier,’ said Karl firmly.
‘God, you sound just like Nat.’
‘She’s a very sensible woman. Rare commodity.’ Karl noted that Neil looked seriously glum but he didn’t get it. Nat not wanting a baby wasn’t a secret; she’d as good as taken out an ad in the Evening Standard when she and Neil first got together. Still, his mate looked gutted. Karl tried to be reasonable and helpful. ‘Nat has always said this sort of stuff. She said it before you married.’
‘I know.’
‘I thought you’d agreed that you didn’t want kids.’