by Carrie Elks
“Yes, baby?”
“I need... I want...” My skin tingles as if it's covered with tiny bubbles, crackling and popping as I shiver. My thighs clench as he speaks, warm and trembling.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“I fucking want you, too. So much, baby. Wanna push my fingers inside you, until you tighten around them. Want to slip inside you from behind and listen to you moan. Can you feel me? My chest against your back? My hand sliding down until I make you sigh?”
God, yes. I can feel him. His warm skin, his hard muscles. The strength of his chest, the way his taut abdomen leads down to harder, tighter places. I want him; all of him. The dirty words and the sexy grin. The sweet touches and the caring glances. As we whisper and moan, our bodies throbbing in a rhythm we can never control, I'm finding it hard to remember why he isn't with me right now.
26
I wrap a cream and black scarf around my neck, standing back to look at myself in the mirror. My hair is up, my skin is pale, and a slash of nude lip gloss brightens up my otherwise-drawn face. Though I try to breathe, it's as if the oxygen doesn't want to slip down my airways. It sticks in my throat as my stomach contracts with panic.
Funerals; I'm not good with them. Not that anybody is, though I've noticed the older people get, the more stoic they become. Talking about the passing of friends as if they're characters in a soap opera. An interesting occurrence in a normally humdrum life.
But for me, funerals mean life taken too early. My mother, lying in a coffin at the age of sixty-seven. Clients who try to kick the habit only to be drawn back in, the bony fingers of death helping them plunge in a needle, lay a tablet on their tongue. Leaving a trail of grief behind them.
Tom Baines's life was taken by the sharp tip of a knife pushed deep inside his neck, but it was crack that wrote the script. The drug led to his arrest, landed him in jail, led to an argument with a gang that wanted to assert their authority. And now Laurence's son is being laid to rest, his young life little more than a footnote in the history of life.
The air has cooled since the weekend. The clouds hanging low in the sky carry a tinge of winter, their greyness reflecting the morbidity of the day. I shrug on a jacket, black like my dress, and try to ignore the nagging pain in my chest.
The funeral is taking place at the Baines's local church. A sixties-built edifice, the roof is pale green copper, falling down from a central cross into a shallow hexagon, joining six white-brick walls that circle around it. People hang around the garden, next to autumn primroses that do little to brighten up the dull brown earth, their low-level flowers a reminder that summer is over.
That's where I see him, leaning against a waist-height wall, wearing a trim black suit with a skinny black tie. Though his arms are covered up, a small hint of ink curls out from his cuffs, licking at the base of his hands. Alex notices me and pushes himself up to standing, and his wedding ring glints as it catches a ray of pale sun. The expression on his face is sombre, but his presence already soothes me, a balm to the anxiety I've found hard to kick away.
“You okay?” He comes to a stop in front of me, reaches out, then pulls back. Though his hand falls back to his side, I can still feel the sensation of his finger brushing against my face.
We talked about the funeral last night. I'd told him how much I was dreading it, that I found them so hard. I can’t help but remember another funeral when he was there, holding me up as my mother was lowered into the ground.
He always stops me from falling.
“I don't know... I...” From the corner of my eye I see the funeral procession arriving. Though we’re in the East End of London, there are no horse-drawn black carriages or professional mourners. Instead, two black cars draw up, and I watch as Laurence and his family climb out of the back one. The men congregate around the hearse, waiting to play their role.
“Shall we go in?” Alex cups his hand around my elbow. Not too soft, but not tight either. Enough to steer me around, to lead me in, to stop me from screaming. We slide into a wooden pew, beside strangers who give me only a cursory glance, their eyes drawn to Alex's neck, to his ink.
When I look at him, my heart clenches, and I have to bite down on my lip to stop it from trembling. Noticing my discomfort, he grabs my hand, wrapping it in his own, then places his other on top, until I'm totally enclosed.
The organ starts up, and the family walk in. I watch as Laurence comes first, his shoulders stooped as he half-carries his wife in. Her hair is bright-white and hardly brushed, curling out from her scalp in a hundred different ways. She looks about thirty years older than her husband. It's painful to watch as he helps her to sit down in the front pew, and they both turn around to stare down the aisle as the coffin comes in, carried on the shoulders of family and friends, dark mahogany encasing the body of their beloved son.
When the vicar stands up, I tune him out. He talks about Alpha and Omega, his voice a monotonous hum, and all I can think of is that Tom never had a chance to live his life. He was handed opportunity and twisted it into something unusable. Did things he'll never even have a chance to regret.
But it's his parents who draw my eye. I watch as Julie Baines’s life disintegrates, her wails piercing through the thick atmosphere of the church. Somehow, she manages to stand up, walk over to the coffin placed on a plinth in front of the altar, and throws herself onto it.
“Tom!” Her voice is almost a scream. I feel it as a mother; her baleful pleas speaking right to my heart. Nausea rises in my stomach, as I imagine myself in her place. Mourning the death of my son so many years too soon.
When I look at Alex, his face is tight. There's a twitch in his jaw where he's clenching it too hard. Though the church is dark, lit by candles and pale lights, I can still see the glint in his eyes as he stares straight ahead.
When Laurence stands and holds his wife, gently steering her back to the front pew, talking to her softly like a child, I realise I can't do this anymore.
I can't pretend it's all okay. I don't want to be alone. It's difficult and it's harsh and it's needless. I know I'm strong enough to do it on my own—we both are—but I also know it isn't what I want.
Alex shifts next to me, and I look again, feeling his hands squeeze mine as he struggles to breathe. A few tears escape from his eyes, and though he isn't crying for Tom Baines, I know he's mourning as hard as I am.
* * *
We walk back to the flat—three and a half miles. Not talking; our words are swallowed up by deep thought. But there's peace between us, understanding even, the awareness that maybe we'll finally say the things we need to. We walk away from death, trying to shrug it off, knowing there's always a part of us that feels its touch. But it’s this knowledge that makes us live, makes us love, allows us to appreciate every single day for the precious gift it is.
Inside the flat I make us both a mug of steaming hot coffee. I consider adding some whisky to it, wanting to ward off the chill of Tom's funeral, but I have to pick Max up in a couple of hours and there's no way I want to be half-cut.
“Thanks.” Alex's gaze flickers to mine when I hand him the mug. His eyes are dry now, but the pinkness surrounding them reminds me of his tears. Sympathy softens my thoughts, and I have to sit down, my legs wobbling beneath me.
Placing his drink on the coffee table, Alex shrugs off his jacket, loosening his tie and unfastening his top button. He leans back on the chair, long legs splayed out in front of him, and I notice concern etched across his face.
“You okay?”
I nod. “I am now. Thank you for being there, you didn't have to.” I'm glad he did though. I hope he realises that.
His voice is cracked. “Where else would I be?”
“I don't know.” I look down at my feet. “I don't know what you've been doing.”
There's silence as he takes a sip of coffee. “I've been working,” he finally admits. “They've offered me a permanent job.”
“On a building site?�
�
His lip curls up. “Yeah. It's not something I want to do forever, but it'll do while I'm looking around for something better.”
I look at him carefully. “What do you want to do?”
“Whatever it takes to make you happy.” His eyes don't waver from mine. “I don't really give a shit about the job or anything else. I only want to look after you and Max. Make everything okay. Get my family back.”
He's so earnest I can almost taste it. Leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together. I want to believe him, I'm so close to it, I simply need to take that final leap of faith.
But I'm scared; that's what it all comes down to. The fear he'll turn around and tell me Max and I have stolen his dreams, his life; the things he always wanted. I don't want to be the one who holds him back.
He shifts in his seat and scratches his chin with his left hand. He's still wearing his wedding ring.
For better or for worse.
We've been through both. In the long months since Max was born, I think we've challenged the hell out of it. My depression, Alex's dreams. They all added up to a calamitous result.
“What about the band?”
“It's over.” His reply is unequivocal. “I'm not going back.”
“Is that your choice?”
“It was mutual. I don't want to be in the band, I have things that are more important, and Stuart understands that now.” Alex glances down at his right hand. For the first time, I do, too. His knuckles are red and raw. Livid red flesh peeks out from beneath his torn skin.
“What did you do?” I breathe. “Your poor hand...”
“Stuart came over last night to apologise for not telling me about Max.” For the first time, Alex looks embarrassed. “I didn't accept his apology.”
“You hit him?” I don't know how to feel about that. I'm so against violence, and yet if anybody deserved a whack, it's Stuart. The bastard kept Alex away from us when we needed him most.
Alex leans closer still. “Only once. But I caught his teeth. That's how my hand ended up being so... mangled. Not that his teeth were much better.”
“Did you knock them out?” I ask.
“No.”
“That's a shame.” I've changed my mind, I know how to feel and I'm bloody happy. It's a pity I wasn't there to see it. With his smug smile and his lying tongue, Stuart deserves to be beaten up a bit. “So it's over?”
“It's over.”
I breathe in deeply, knowing I've been waiting forever to taste fresh oxygen. My chest expands, letting the air in, and all I can think is thank God.
Alex is still looking at me, his eyes trained on my face, unblinking. He doesn't say a word, simply watches as I take it all in.
I’m trying to work out what this all means.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You're not going to turn around one day and think you missed your chance at fame? Or start blaming me and Max?”
He tips his head to the side. “Babe, I don't know how to make it any clearer. I don't want fame. I don't want to make it big. I only want to be with you and Max, however you'll have me.” He looks down, thick lashes sweeping his cheeks. “When I saw that coffin today, and how that woman threw herself at it, all I could think of was Max. How close we came to losing him. How I wasn't there to hold you when I should have been.” His voice wavers on the final sentence. Enough to make my eyes water.
“It's okay, Alex.” And for the first time, it really is. Because we've been lost for so long, trying on these roles that never really seemed ours. Mum, Dad. Husband, Wife. They're all characters we play until they begin to seem real. And they do seem real now, as we talk about our son. But we can't lose sight of the people we used to be, either.
“I want to come home,” Alex states firmly. “I want to put Max to bed and turn on the telly and let you put your feet in my lap. I want to leave the toilet seat up to hear you moan at me. I want to wake up in the morning and feel your breath on my face, and your legs slung across my waist so I can't bloody move.”
“You old romantic.” I bite my lip. “Keep going with that smooth talking tongue and who knows where we'll end up.”
“I could talk about watching your breasts leak,” he offers. “Or the fact that your fringe sticks out to the side when you wake up, making you look like something out of Star Wars.”
“Seducer.”
“Temptress.”
“Dirty talker.”
“Sexy bitch.”
I smirk. “Arse licker.”
“Can I come home?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Okay.”
Before I know it I'm in his arms. Alex sweeps me up from the sofa, swinging me until my feet are only just in contact with the ground. We're laughing and crying, our cheeks pressed together, our skin plump with smiles even while damp with tears. He slides his lips along my cheek and everything in my body responds. My mouth falls open, a sigh escaping my lips, as finally he presses a kiss to them.
Soft skin, hard teeth. Tongues slowly tangling until we're short of breath. His fingers dig into my behind, pressing me against him. He's never tasted so sweet; like a treat I've been waiting a lifetime to have. Even though my heart's beating frantically against my chest, our kiss is slow and languid, as if we're taking our time to get to know each other again.
“I've missed you,” he whispers into my mouth. His fingers run up my spine, cupping the back of my head. He drags his lips down my throat, pressing them against my sweet spot, and the muscles in my inner thighs start to quiver. I have to put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. It feels strange, like coming home to find that something's different. Something I can't quite put my finger on.
“I've missed you, too. Missed this.” My head tips back as he runs his lips to my collarbone, nipping at my skin. His breath is warm, tantalising, and I gasp as he dips his mouth lower.
“Babe.” He reaches the swell of my breasts. “Christ I love these.”
“You do?”
“Mm-hmm.” His words are muffled by my skin. Slowly he pushes my top down, revealing my black lace bra. His fingers trace around the ribbon trim, and I feel my body react, my nipples harden. When he moves his mouth down, sucking me gently through the fabric of my bra, I let out a small moan. My fingers press into his scalp, my nails digging into his skin, and he groans loudly.
“I want to touch you.”
“You are.”
“Everywhere.”
He looks up at me, his eyes dark and round. I see myself reflected back in them. And it's been so long since I felt him, felt this, that I'm breathless and needy.
“Can I take you to bed?” He sounds as desperate as I am. His thumb brushes my nipple, making us both sigh.
I nod quickly, letting him drag me through the living room, pushing the door to the bedroom so hard that it crashes into the wall.
I don't have a chance to check if I made the bed, or if the room is tidy, because before I know it I'm on my back, his body pressing into mine. I feel his chest on my breasts, the line of his erection against my thigh. Then we’re scrambling to undress each other, our shaking fingers releasing stiff buttons, until we are skin against skin.
“Lara, Lara, Lara,” he whispers my name between kisses. Cupping my breasts with rough hands, he pushes them together, lips brushing against one nipple and then the other. “Pretty girl.”
I love it when he calls me that. Pretty. Beautiful. He dances his fingers up my thighs, softly, so softly, and it's all I can do not to cry out. Because he's gentle and sweet, with an edge of dirty. My pretty boy with the potty mouth. We touch and we stroke, hands loving and caressing, and it feels so good it makes me shout out loud.
When he finally pushes inside me, his lips pressed to my ear, his words hot against my cheek, I call out his name. It makes him groan, his hips slamming into mine, his lips stealing my tears like they're some kind of nectar.
We laugh and we weep, giving pleasure and
taking it back. It feels good.
It's perfection.
It's home.
27
Later that evening, Alex lays Max gently in his cot, pulling the pale blue blanket over him while being careful not to disturb his slumbering body. Then we tiptoe out, softly flicking the light switch, pulling the door closed with the most feather-like of movements.
He sighs and I look at him with amused eyes.
“That was hard work,” he says.
My grin widens. “I think he suspects something's up.” Max did seem extra sensitive tonight; whiny and needy. It was past nine before his eyes started to flutter with sleep. When Alex tried to feed him, he spat the milk out, soiling his dad’s trousers. It looks like he's had some kind of accident.
“You think he knows I've been messing about with his mum?”
“Messing about?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah. And I wanna mess you up some more.” He grabs me by the waist, spinning me round until we are chest to chest. Brushing the hair from my face, he kisses me, and I sigh.
Then a cry comes from the bedroom. It’s loud and angry—insistent. Alex's lips curl against mine and he pulls away, his hands still clasping my waist.
“Your baby's crying,” I point out helpfully.
“So's yours.” He smiles at me and walks to the bedroom, as I fall onto the sofa with a sigh. It's been a long day. Full of lofty highs and dark-as-night lows. I think about Laurence Baines, sitting in his house, his son dead, his wife a broken shell, and once again I thank God for all I have.
Alex is gone for a while. Long enough for me to curl my legs up on the sofa, and for my eyelids to become heavy, as my breathing evens out. I loll my head against the armrest, letting my eyes close for a minute.
Only a minute.
It's eight hours before I wake up. Eight glorious hours of uninterrupted sleep. I shift in the bed, stilling when I feel a warm body next to mine.
My eyes fly open.
“Hi.” He's staring at me as if he's been awake for a while. “Did you sleep well?”