by Carrie Elks
The apples of my cheeks start to burn. We really aren't that bad. Maybe the past couple of months have been hard, but Stuart is exaggerating. “What do you want me to do?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Maybe try not to talk to him that much. Don't say anything that will make him react. He's nervous as hell, the last thing we need is for him to be worrying about you as well as everything else.”
So this isn't about me at all. Stuart’s not concerned about my welfare, or whether Max and I will be okay on our own. He's scared I'm going to do something to affect the band.
“I don't plan on upsetting him.”
“Do you ever plan on it? Do you know how long it took to persuade him to go on stage at the festival? He was pulling his hair out, thinking he'd upset you. If he does that on tour then that's it. We'll have blown our big chance. Everything we've been working for all these years.” He leans forward, staring at me. “I know you want what's best for him,” he says softly. “And keeping him calm is what's best.”
Slowly I nod, even though I’m raging inside. As much as I hate to admit it, Stuart's right. At the moment, I'm volatile enough for the both of us. I know Alex will be nervous as hell, the last thing he needs is me shouting or crying down the phone.
“So you'll help?” Stuart asks. “All you have to do is reassure him everything's okay, like you know it will be. And if there's a problem you don't want to upset him with, you can call me or Alfie. We can either sort something out or work out the right way to deal with him.”
My throat constricts. I've been so wrapped up in myself and Max, I've not thought about how Alex must be feeling. And of course he's excited—it's their big break, who wouldn't be—but he has to be scared, too.
What kind of wife am I? I make a vow that for the last two nights I'm going to hold him close, try and show him how much I care. “Of course I'll help.”
“Really?” Stuart’s eyes light up. “Shit. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I flash him a smile, and remind myself it's only three months. It'll be over before I know it.
Yeah, right.
“I guess I'd better get back. The guys will be wondering where I am. They can't keep time for shit without me.” Stuart stands up, glancing sideways down at Max. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
I give him an unconvincing smile and show him out, scooping Max up on the way. As I get him ready for bed—bathing him and reading a story—I realise I'm already feeling like a single parent and Alex hasn't even gone yet.
The thought makes my chest ache.
13
“I'm going to miss you.” Alex is playing footsie with me beneath the table. His expression is soft, his eyes softer. We've got through nearly a bottle and a half of red wine and it's made my focus a bit hazy, like one of those 'tasteful' photo shoots where your friends dress up like hookers.
“You won't have time,” I reply, scooping the last spoonful of honeycomb ice cream. “You'll be too busy strutting across stages and being awesome. Not to mention fighting off groupies with a baseball bat.”
He reaches across the table and grabs my wrist, circling his fingers around my skin. He has that look on his face, the one that hooked me, reeled me in and turned my life upside down. The one that makes me feel like the only woman in the room.
“You're the only groupie I want.”
I can't remember the last time we went out for dinner. Alex has chosen a tiny trattoria in Hoxton. It's surprisingly unpretentious; the wait staff, who all seem to be genuine Italians, don't blink an eyelid at his ripped jeans and tattoos.
I stare back at him, trying to memorise the contours of his face. The curve of his lips, the slight bump on his nose. There's the smallest sliver of a scar on his left cheek from an accident when he first started shaving. Being the only male in his house growing up meant he was self-taught.
In spite of the copious amount of food and drink I've forced inside it, my stomach tightens. He's been so sweet these past few days, so caring, it's breaking my heart to say goodbye. Yet, tomorrow morning at six a car will pull up outside our flat and he'll climb inside and head for the airport, leaving me and his son behind.
I swallow hard, remembering Stuart's words. Don't make it harder than it has to be.
“I'll be your groupie when you get back.”
Slowly, he shakes his head. A smile ghosts across his lips. “Tonight.”
The waiter chooses this opportunity to hand over the bill. Alex glances at the paper then hands his card over, fingers keying in his pin. All the while he presses his foot to mine, nudging me. A physical reminder of his words.
When we step outside, the cool night air doesn't sober us one bit. Instead I stumble into him, and Alex steadies me, grabbing my waist with his strong, rough hands.
A jolt of desire shoots through me, making me light headed. Alex pushes me onto the wall behind us, his body pressed to mine, head dipping to run his lips down my neck. The hair on my skin stands up and I shiver in spite of the body heat covering mine.
When his lips reach the corner of my mouth I'm so ready for him. My breath has already shortened in anticipation, making my chest move rapidly against his. A moment later he lifts his hand to my face, cupping my jaw, angling me until our lips meet.
When he kisses me it's hard and fast, enough to turn the bones in my legs to jelly. I clutch his shirt, feeling the muscles in his back ripple as he hitches one of my legs around his hip.
It's a quiet road, but I'm thirty-one, not sixteen. I pull away, laughing softly. “I know I said I'd be your groupie, but this is a little too public, even for me.”
He slides his palms down my back, following the curve of my spine. Reaching my behind, he digs his fingers in, moving them in slow, teasing circles. “There's nobody here.”
“Yet...”
There's a hint of cockiness to his smile. “You're not being a very good groupie.”
I bark out a laugh. “They chucked me out of groupie school. I failed the blow job in an alley class.”
He inclines his head to one side. “Yeah? I beg to differ.”
He's remembering... oh God I really did that, didn't I? My skin heats up as I recall that night, not long after we met, when we ended up lost in Shoreditch, barely able to keep our hands off each other. Somehow we found ourselves in a dead end, kissing and sighing and groaning. Then I sank to my knees, unzipping his jeans, slowly running my finger down the hard ridge of his cock.
“I passed?” I ask softly.
“Every fucking time.”
In the end we make it home with our virtues intact. I regain my composure enough to make small talk with Alex's mum before he bundles her into a taxi, shoving a wedge of notes into her hand.
By the time he gets back into the flat I've moved away from the window and am checking on Max, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, staring into the gloom. As I watch the blankets softly falling and rising, I feel Alex behind me, his breath hot on my neck. We stand there for a little while, silent, unmoving, watching our son sleep. I try not to acknowledge how bittersweet it all feels, knowing this is his last night, that tomorrow I'll be doing this on my own.
He'll be surrounded by people, by musicians and fans all out to party. And though I trust him, I still hate the thought of anybody trying to touch him, to get close to him. Maybe he senses my change in mood, because he's gentle as he pulls me away from the door, his fingers slowly sliding down the straps of my dress until they're resting on my upper arms. He's still behind me, his hot breath whispering against my spine.
“I'm going to remember you like this.” He slides my zip down, a single finger tracing down my back. “Your perfect skin. The way it's so fucking soft.” His lips graze my back, then he falls to his knees, pulling my dress with him until it's a pool of silk at my feet.
Taking me by the hips, he turns me around until I'm facing him, wearing only my underwear and a pair of stupidly high heels. Neither of us says a word as he runs his hands up my legs, his fingers ca
ressing my thighs, following the same path with his soft lips. I try not to cry out as his narrowed gaze catches mine.
My legs start to tremble as his lips reach the top of my thigh, and he brushes them against the sensitive inner skin. I steady myself on his shoulders, seeing the contrast between my pale hands and his tattoos, feeling his muscles flex beneath his flesh. Then he nudges my knickers to the side, simply breathing on me, and it's all I can do to keep upright.
“I've got you,” he says, hands cupping my bottom, pulling me towards him. A moment later he trails his tongue against me, making my inner muscles contract, and I start to fall. Alex lifts me onto the sofa, pulling my knees apart and burying his face in me until my breaths become moans.
And he's right, he's got me.
* * *
Things always look darker in the middle of the night, and my thoughts are no exception. I wake up, blinking, disoriented for a moment until I realise I'm lying in my own bed. Alex must have carried me back here at some point; the last thing I remember is drifting off on the sofa, naked in his arms. Our bodies were all but stuck together, a soft sheen of sweat covering us both.
Now, he's behind me, his arm draped across my stomach, the metallic strap of his watch making patterns on my skin. Squinting, I turn my head to the alarm clock. It's nearly four, only two hours until he's due to leave.
It's only a few months. People are apart for longer. Business trips, holidays, wars. And if it was only me I think I could cope, gear myself up enough to make it through the weeks, maybe even enjoy a bit of independence.
But with Max as well? I don't know.
I think of all the milestones he could miss in three months. Max is changing every day, taking on an identity of his own. Two months ago he could hardly move, and now he's rolling like a ninja. It makes me sad to think Alex is going to miss so much.
Sad for Max who needs his daddy.
Sad for me who needs him, too.
But most of all, I'm sad for Alex.
In an attempt to get comfortable, I shuffle down the bed. Alex's arm falls away, and I miss it already. So I turn and nestle into him, breathing in the smell of soap and cologne that clings faintly to his skin, listening to his heartbeat. Tomorrow night there will be an empty space, and I wonder where he will be sleeping; in some scummy motel, sharing a bed with Stuart, maybe smelling of weed more than soap.
My stomach clenches at the thought, and I'm already regretting the things I haven't said. I'm half inclined to wake him up simply to remind him to take care. To look after his body and not abuse it. Maybe I can text him every now and then, remind him to eat his vegetables and brush his teeth.
You're not his mum, Lara.
I know that, but I'm his wife and no matter how up and down we've been I love the hell out of him. What's wrong with asking him to look after himself?
When you can look after your own health, maybe then you can worry about him.
Ugh. I roll my eyes at my own inner musings and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out. Drifting back to sleep, I snuggle closer to Alex, not ready to let him go.
When I wake up in the morning, he's already left.
14
The following Saturday Max and I are sitting on a train, heading for Woolstone, the Dorset town where I grew up. Though it's been years since I lived here, the journey is familiar and strangely comforting. The old, derelict buildings lining the track as we pull out of London give way to the open fields of the English countryside. The criss-cross patchwork of farmlands are ripe with crops; all verdant greens and golden yellows, only weeks away from harvest.
It's easy to forget about the countryside when you're living in the city, but the grey concrete and silver-glass buildings are no match for nature's magnificence. For the first time I find myself wondering if London is the right place to be bringing up a baby.
Not that my own childhood was completely idyllic. Sure, for the first few years all I can remember are picnics in wooded glens and afternoon teas in the garden, but I suspect that's more a product of rose-tinted glasses than reality. By the time I was a teenager, living in the middle of nowhere was more of a drag than anything. I can remember grumbling to my mum that the last bus home left town at ten o'clock, just when the evening was getting started.
By the time the train pulls in to Woolstone station, I've already strapped Max into his buggy and am standing next to the door, ready to get off. A nice woman helps carry the buggy onto the platform for me, and then I'm pushing him towards the exit.
My dad is waiting in the car park, leaning on his Ford Focus, which I note is sparkling clean. He used to wash it every Sunday without fail when I was a child; I'm guessing that's a habit he hasn't grown out of.
“Hi.” I push Max over to him and Dad leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek. Though he's cleanly shaved, his skin still feels rough, his face ruddy from being out in the sun.
He looks old, even more so than the last time I saw him, almost six months ago. But what makes me feel really bad is how his face lights up when he sees us. I'm such a neglectful daughter.
“Hello, beauty.” He hugs me tight, then crouches down to look at Max. “And look at you, little man. You're growing up.”
Max stares at him. His lips wobble a bit, and I wonder if he's going to cry,
“I've borrowed a car seat, I hope that's okay. A friend of mine has one for her grandson.”
I'm touched. This is the man who has never changed a nappy in his life, the one who spent most of my childhood working, rarely coming home before I was in bed. “That's great, thank you.”
After we go through the rigmarole of strapping Max in, I climb in the front next to Dad. Like the outside, the interior of the car is sparkling. Despite being five years old, it still smells new.
“How's the garden?” I ask. Since his retirement and Mum's death, he's become a gardening addict. The last time we visited he spent hours describing all the plants he was growing. I came away knowing more Latin than I knew what to do with.
“It's good. I picked some salad for our lunch. And I've got some peas you can take back with you, if you like.”
“Sounds lovely. How are the potatoes doing?”
“I'm nearly out of the first batch. I've planted some late growing ones, though.”
When we pull up to the house I feel a twinge dragging at my chest. Apart from the garden—which is indeed looking gorgeous—it seems as though nothing has changed. I could be eighteen, coming back from my first term at University, and my mum could be waiting inside in the kitchen with a cup of tea.
Of course, she isn't. It doesn't lessen the lump I feel in my throat, though.
Ever the gentleman, Dad opens my door and helps me to get Max out. The baby twists and turns his head, looking at the trees, the flowers, and the vegetable garden Dad has planted at the back. When he spots some birds perched in the old oak tree, he points excitedly, his face lighting up.
“Birdies,” I tell him.
Max nods, his expression serious.
“How's Alex?” Dad asks when we are sitting at the kitchen table. Max is on my lap, sucking at a Farley’s rusk. We wait for the tea to brew in the familiar green and grey teapot that Mum loved so much. Leaf tea, of course. My dad has never been one for tea bags.
“He's fine. The band has their first gig tonight.” The lump in my throat is back. Of course, I haven't told my dad about our arguments or my depression. Maybe if Mum was here I'd be spilling my guts, but I suspect my dad would run screaming. “His mobile phone contract is all mucked up, though, so he's having to call me on his friend's one.” I make a face. Typical Alex not to have realised he needed to set up a roaming contract. And when I tried to sort it out his provider told me he had to call himself. Which he can't, because his bloody phone isn't working.
“You have it easy nowadays. I remember going on business trips and having to search out a phone box to call your mother. That's when we had a phone, of course. We didn't in our first flat.”
&
nbsp; I've heard this story before. How they used to have to borrow their neighbour's phone in an emergency, and that Dad arrived late to the hospital after my brother was born, having been blissfully ignorant at a football match.
“Have you heard from Graham?” I ask. My brother is fifteen years older than me. He emigrated to New Zealand when I was eight. Though Mum never admitted it, I'm pretty sure I was a mid-life mistake. She was forty-three when I was born.
“They sent a card and a letter on my birthday. Daniel's graduated from University.” He's my nephew, who I've never met. I'm ashamed to say I'm not even friends with them on Facebook. When I think about how close Alex's family are, it makes me sad.
“What did he study?”
“Oh, I don't know, some new-fangled thing to do with computers.” Dad pours milk into a cup, then places the strainer over it before tipping the tea pot up. He still has the same teacups from when I was little, too. Delicate bone china with a Chinese pattern. Mum once told me they were a wedding present.
“Sounds lucrative.”
Dad scratches his head. “I suppose so.”
We spend the afternoon in the garden, Dad pulling up weeds and cutting the grass as Max entertains himself playing with the mud. When he falls asleep, I put him in his buggy under the shade of the big oak tree, and I lie on the blanket, drifting off with him. I'm dreaming about bluebirds and crows when my phone rings, the piercing trill merging with my dream, morphing into a birdsong for a moment, until the persistence rouses me.
“Hello?”
“Hey, can you hear me?” Alex’s voice sounds distant and tinny.
Immediately I sit up, covering my ear with my hand so I can concentrate on the phone. “Just about. How are you?”
“Good, yeah. Tired though. We ended up in some dodgy bar last night and Stu got a bit drunk. Turns out the locals really don't like being called rednecks. How are you and Max?”