by Shaw, O. C
“What’s with you?” he says again, angry this time, seeking to reassert control. I move back into the bedroom and reach for my pyjamas.
“Don’t bother,” he growls, pushing me back onto the bed with one hand while fumbling to undo his shirt with the other. I sigh and sit down on the bed as I begin to slowly undo my own buttons. It isn’t fast enough for him, so he grabs it and tears, sending the small buttons flying across the room.
“Shit, Greg, that was my favourite shirt,” I complain without thinking.
He just pushes me back against the bed, secures both my hands in one of his and growls: “Shut the fuck up.”
He reaches for my skirt and pushes it up, exposing my pants, which he pushes to one side before pushing two fingers straight up inside me hard. I moan at the sensation because the invasion hurts at first, but eventually my body starts betraying me as he moves his fingers, touching my most sensitive places. I want to hate him for doing this, but my body has other ideas. I can feel a slickness forming as his fingers press within me. I’m responding almost instantly, and he knows it. My nipples harden, exposed through the lace of my bra, and he lowers his head to suckle first one and then the other until I’m whimpering for more, a dull ache forming in my lower stomach that demands his attention.
All the while he holds my hands tight in place in the firm grip of one of his large hands. He withdraws his fingers suddenly and tears off my pants, before fumbling one-handed with the buttons on his jeans to release his erection. His knee forces my thighs apart, and I feel him nudging at my entrance before pushing in hard.
Suddenly, I want him. My back arches, and I push my hips against him, deepening the contact. He only thrusts a few times when I feel the telltale tightening and trembling in his body and he’s shouting my name as he comes, finally collapsing onto me, eventually releasing my hands. The whole event must take no more than ten minutes if we’re lucky.
We lie there in silence for a while, both breathing heavily, before he stands up, takes off his trousers and shirt and then climbs into the bed. I can tell he’s asleep within five minutes of shuffling out of his jeans. I get up, remove what’s left of my shirt, my bra and then my skirt, and slowly pull on my pyjamas. As I lie back down on the bed, with the lights turned off, I think about what just happened. Jesus, all I’m fit for is the bloody Jeremy Kyle show, I reflect, wondering how it was that my life was turning into the worst kind of car-crash television. I didn’t say no, I console myself.
Chapter 8
Greg didn’t look happy when I told him I was going out with Emma for a second time that week, but after I explain how she needs me to help with the choice of pram, as well as doing a bit of other shopping, there really isn’t much he can object to without looking childish and even more controlling than he actually is. I have prepared a lasagne (Greg’s favourite) for all three of them, and bought a pre-washed salad. I tell them all they had to do was warm the lasagne through, open the salad and eat it; I will do the washing up when I get home.
Emma is waiting outside the surgery promptly as agreed when I finish work, greeting me with a bright smile and a wave. It’s nice to be greeted so warmly, I reflect as I climb into the car. We drive slowly through the rush hour traffic, filled with the crimson glow of brake lights, until we get closer to the centre of town and the traffic lifts slightly. We are going against the flow – with most people heading to their homes and families in the darkening evening as autumn closes in. Emma easily finds a parking place, and we make immediately for the maternity department of John Lewis – well, really, a girl like Emma was never likely to buy things for her baby from anywhere else, was she?
“Right, there’s only three things that really matter when you’re buying a pram,” I intone in my most knowledgeable-sounding voice, grabbing a large teddy bear and thrusting it into her slightly startled arms. “Firstly, you have to be able to fold the buggy up single-handed while holding a baby,” I say, nodding towards the teddy, which she adjusts until it’s perched on one hip. She moves towards the first buggy she most likes the look of (also one of the most expensive) and tries to shift the clasp to unlock it and fold it. Several frustrated minutes and at least one broken nail later, even after the assistant closes in on us (scenting the prospect of an easy sale) and demonstrates the easy closing mechanism three times, the pram stands resolutely upright.
“Well, bloody hell!” Emma exclaims, now disgruntled as she discards her first choice and moves on to her second-favourite. The mechanism on this one is marginally easier, and after only three attempts Emma folds the contraption up with a flourish and steps back with a look of satisfaction on her face.
“Okay, so what’s the second thing?” she asks.
“You need to be able to lift it, also while still holding a baby.”
“Well, why would I need to do that?” she exclaims indignantly. “Couldn’t I just pop the baby in his or her seat in the car?”
“Well, yes, if you are putting it in the car, but what about if you’re getting on a bus? I had a caesarean; the only option for me for the first six weeks was to go on the bus if I wanted to go out, and trust me, sometimes you need to get out of the house. If you can’t carry it onto the bus, the only alternative is handing your beloved child – or children, in my case – to a complete stranger. Believe me, I know this from experience, and it’s not ideal,” I add.
“Okay, Okay, you’re right again ‘oh wise one’,” she says with resignation as she attempts to lift the buggy with one arm. The look of relief on her face to know she can lift it is second only to the assistant’s, who has already seen the value of her sale diminish.
“Okay, hit me with the final rule,” Emma says, slightly nervous now.
“Well, this one’s easy, but again a common issue if not thought about beforehand.” I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring the eye-rolling assistant. “It needs to fit in the boot of your car. Again, this is one I learnt firsthand, but some of these beasts are huge,” I say, looking meaningfully at the contraption in front of her.
Emma looks down with a slightly wobbly lip as she weighs up the size of the pram with the size of the car boot on her little KA. The assistant is waffling about how deceptive these things could be and car boots were made big enough to accommodate prams these days, but we both know the pram is far bigger than her car could fit. The KA had been Emma’s pride and joy, bought with her first proper pay packet on qualifying as a solicitor, but is now sadly found wanting, given the expanding needs of her life.
“Sorry, honey,” I say, giving her a big hug.
“No, it’s fine, really, thank God you saved me from making a very expensive mistake,” she says, smiling at me, although her eyes still look sad. We move on to look at the smaller versions, but I can tell her heart isn’t really in it when she finally puts a reserve on one and arranges the delivery date, three weeks before the birth. The assistant actually scowls at me as we say ‘thank you’ and pay.
“Okay,” says Emma, visibly brightening as we leave the maternity section, “now it’s all about you. How long have we got?” she asks, glancing down at her watch.
“About an hour and a half,” I say, knowing that if I’m not home before nine I’ll get grief from Greg, and I don’t want to start anything with the trip now a mere week away. I look at her anxiously. “Is that long enough?”
“Sure,” she says with confidence, “you know how you know everything there is to know about prams and everything to do with babies and children? Well, I’m like the Yoda of shopping for dresses.”
I laugh as she pulls me towards the party dresses in the store. It isn’t a section I habitually frequent, and one glance at the price tags tells me why. She’s all business now.
“Right,” she says matter-of-factly, as she begins grabbing dresses from the rails, muttering about the importance of emphasising my legs and bust. The fabrics are luxurious, and the price tags tell me I’m well out of my league.
“You have to be kidding,” I say as I catc
h sight of a red dress she had selected that looked like it was more suited to her than me.
“Trust me,” she says, as if she’s talking to a difficult child. After about twenty minutes she has about eight dresses for me to try and thrusts them into my arms before manhandling me towards the changing room. She isn’t content to just leave me to try them on my own, insisting to the unconcerned attendant that she’s required to supervise me and positioning herself on a small chair just outside the changing room.
As I reluctantly peel off my regulation cardigan, shirt and black slacks that had become my staple uniform for work, I’m amazed to see the dresses she chose are all in a size smaller than my usual. Maybe the gym is having an effect after all, if Emma is noticing it. I pull the first item on, a fitted little black dress to the knee with long sleeves and a plunging V-neck. I reach behind to do up the zip, then turn to examine myself in the mirror and gasp. The person standing looking back at me doesn’t look like me at all. Once I get beyond my spectacular cleavage, I can’t believe I actually have a waist for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I may not be tall, but somehow the work at the gym has started to tone my body and reduce my inches, producing a figure that, while by no means perfect, is well-proportioned and shapely. Damn, I think, I look like a woman. Oh my God, I’m going to start singing Shania Twain songs in a minute.
My reverie is broken by the grating of the curtain rings on the bar as Emma unceremoniously rips the curtain back.
“What’s taking so lo–, bloody hell, Lil, you look fucking fantastic!”
I smile at her, a big mega-watt grin, both at her uncharacteristic use of the ‘F’ word and because for once I actually agree with her. I do look good. At least for me, I auto-correct.
Emma is still talking: “The structure of that dress is great. It gives you lots of support, not that you really need it with your gym efforts. They’ve really paid off, Lil, I am so proud of you. All we need to do is get you some ‘fuck me’ shoes and the right underwear, sexy but supportive, and you will be good to go.”
“‘Fuck me’ shoes,” I echo faintly.
“Yes, you know, ‘bar to car’ shoes. Good for looking good in, but totally impossible if you actually have to do much in the way of walking. From what Annie said you’ll just be having a party at the house, so you can make your dramatic entrance, look glam for a bit and then kick them off when your feet start to hurt, by which point everyone’s past caring anyway!”
“I don’t know,” I start to say.
“Lily, don’t lose your courage now. You’re doing brilliantly. Try on the other dresses to compare, but really I think we’ve struck gold with our first try. You’re going to look fab, and with a couple of little accessories, you’ll be perfect.” She sounds pleased with herself.
Her phone rings and distracts her, so I retreat back behind the curtain, carefully removing the dress. A quick glance at the price tag makes me shudder, but I hang it carefully back up and reach for the red dress. More confident this time I marvel at the ease with which I can do up the zip, and then I turn to inspect myself. Where the black dress had made me look sexy and womanly, this one shouts “strumpet” at me from the mirror. I laugh as I try to manhandle my breasts into the dress so that at least my nipples aren’t on display.
Pulling the curtain aside I show the dress to Emma, who’s still talking on the phone – to Phil, I guess from the sweet smile that’s playing at her lips. She shakes her head emphatically when she looks up and shoos me back into the changing room with her hands. Two more dresses later, and two more negative shakes from Emma, and I’m getting tired of getting in and out of dresses. I’ve never been much of a girl when it comes to shopping. Unusually for me, though, I’m not disheartened, because while none of the dresses look quite as good as the first, none of them look exactly bad. If ever I needed any encouragement to keep up with my efforts at the gym, then this was it. The positive impact of even just a short six-week period has really made a difference, and I resolve to keep going.
I stick my head out of the cubicle to see if Emma will permit me to go with the first dress and save me having to try any more. She has just finished talking to Phil.
“Is it worth trying on any more?” I ask tentatively. “I really like that first one.”
“Me too,” she agrees. “Let’s go and get underwear and shoes.” She reaches into the cubicle and grabs the dress, leaving me to gather up the others and hand them to the poor assistant before rushing to catch up with her as she strides off towards the shoe department.
“Was that Phil?” I ask when I finally catch up with her, as she stands perusing a row of impossibly high black stilettos.
“Yes,” she answers, looking a bit sheepish.
“How is he?” I enquire, knowing her well enough to know she has something to get off her chest.
“Oh, fine, I was just telling him about the prams, and not being able to get the one I wanted because it won’t fit in the boot of my car.” A slightly embarrassed flush passes over her face before she adds, “Phil insists he needs to get me a new car anyway, because mine won’t be big enough when the baby comes along, so I can get the bigger pram after all.”
She actually looks guilty as she says it, and I rush to reassure her. “Good for Phil. I’m glad for you, Em, you deserve it. You deserve to be happy, and I’m glad you’ve got a man like Phil who wants to do things for you to make you happy. That makes me happy.” I mean it.
“Yeah, but you deserve to be happy too, and you never get breaks like me.” It’s sweet that it bothers her.
“Please don’t ever think you can’t tell me the nice things that happen to you, just because they don’t happen to me. I want to hear about it – what car are you getting?”
“Not sure, maybe an Audi A3 or a Golf, something that’s small enough for round town but big enough for kids, you know?” She’s started to sound excited again.
“Absolutely,” I agree, “sounds perfect.” Emma reaches for a pair of shoes, quickly catching the eye of the assistant and asking for a size 6. I love her all the more for remembering my shoe size.
“Well, I guess we need to order that other pram, then,” I say while we wait.
“Yeah,” she says, the excited smile back on her face. When the assistant comes back with the shoes and I try them on, we both coo about the wonderful things they do to my calves. I can see now why women wear them, although I’m not sure I would be able to cope for more than about half an hour before needing to kick them off again; plus, given my propensity for clumsiness, I’m frighteningly likely to do either myself or someone else an injury while wearing them. Emma strides over to the till and pays for both the dress and the shoes, before leading me, despite my protests, to the underwear department.
One well-fitted lace bra and matching panties later, and I’m done.
“I’ve got a clutch bag that’ll look perfect, not that you’ll need it if you’re staying in the house for the evening, but it’ll be good to have just in case, or for your lipstick.”
“As if!” I laugh, and Emma frowns at me.
“I’ll have to have a word with Annie about that,” she says. I look at her to see if she’s serious but figure she’s joking.
As we make our way back to the start of the shopping trip, and the maternity department, I reflect it had been a long time since I had enjoyed shopping so much. The maternity department assistant casts smug expressions in my direction as Emma amends her order, before we make our way back to her car and begin the short drive home. As we pull up in front of the house I lean over to kiss her.
“Thanks, Em. Really, I mean it, thank you. I had a great time, and I love the dress.”
“I wish I was going to see you in it,” she smiles sadly.
“You never know, maybe there’ll be another posh event I get randomly invited to, when I can wear it and take you with me.” Unlikely, though, in reality, we both think but don’t say out loud.
“I’ll look after the bags and bring them
in to you at work, a week Friday, to put in your bag, and then you won’t have a load of stress at home. You are driving straight to the place the coach is leaving from after work, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, by taxi, although I’m finishing a little early.” Greg and Adam are leaving first thing Friday for Bristol, and Ethan will be off at a bit before lunchtime, while my shift is for a few hours from just before lunch so I can see the others off. The coach is leaving late afternoon, and we won’t get there until quite late in the evening, not returning ’til Monday evening after the last walk.
“Well, I want to hear all about it on Tuesday at the pub,” she insists as I ease the car door open and get out.
“Thanks again, Em, I really adore the dress.”
She just smiles and winks at me before driving off.
Chapter 9
The week passes in a blur, what with getting all the final things sorted for Adam, Greg and Ethan, as well as my own things for the Peaks. I also make sure I go to the gym every day after work, keen to ensure the dress still looks good by the time I get the chance to wear it. By the time we sit down for a rare family dinner on Thursday night, the last night before Adam leaves, I’m both exhausted and excited at the same time. I had prepared a full roast dinner as our family ‘last supper’. It is, I suppose as I dish up the plates of lamb, roast potatoes, peas, carrots and gravy, a highly significant night in the Lambert household. With Adam off to uni, who knows when we will next all sit down to dinner together – perhaps Christmas? If my own life is anything to go by, then university will change Adam finally into an adult. With a bit of luck he won’t make the same mistakes as his father and I – not that I regret my boys, I just think we made it harder for ourselves than we needed it to be. I had made him a little package of stuff to start university with – basic food provisions, some beer, which no doubt his father would help him with, and a couple of packets of condoms. History has a habit of repeating itself, after all, and while I wouldn’t embarrass him by talking about it at his age, I could at least give him a ‘not so subtle’ hint.