by S. Quinn
‘Sophia. Oh Sophia,’ he shouts, as my body throbs all around him and warmth spreads from my neck all the way down to my toes.
‘I love you,’ I manage to say, my voice soft and deep.
‘God. I love you too,’ says Marc.
We stay like that for a moment, clinging to each other. Then I feel him loosen inside me and slide free.
Marc reaches up and, in one swift movement, frees my hands, taking hold of my wrists and rubbing them to get the circulation going.
He kisses the red skin and strokes my wrists. Then he scoops a hand down and removes the condom. He places it in a paper cup and slots it into a little bin fitted below one of the seats. Then he takes me in his arms and holds me close.
‘I never thought I could be any closer to you. But just then, I lost myself a little bit more.’
‘I know,’ I whisper into his neck, loving his warmth and his strong arms. ‘I felt closer to you than ever just then.’
After a moment, Marc helps me back into my panties and jeans, and does up his trousers. Then he threads the tie effortlessly around his neck in the most casual way, as if it had been hanging innocently in his wardrobe this whole time.
I laugh. ‘You’re really going to wear that tie now?’
‘Of course I am. It’s just become my favourite tie.’ Marc sits beside me and pulls me close. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t take things too far?’
‘No, it was just like always,’ I say, a smile creeping onto my face. ‘Almost too far, but in the end, just far enough.’
‘With you, going just far enough is getting harder and harder,’ says Marc. ‘I worry that one day, I won’t be able to stop myself.’
‘I’m not worried,’ I say. ‘I trust you.’
Marc’s eyes fix on mine. ‘How did I deserve someone so perfect?’
The car drives on into central London, and we stay wrapped up in each other’s arms, watching London rush past.
23
The limo eventually comes to a stop at a beautiful stone square with a fountain at the centre, right in the heart of West London. The square is lined with tall trees, their feathery branches hung with elegant red jack-o-lanterns and white fairy lights.
‘Where are we?’ I ask Marc, as he helps me out of the car and into my coat.
‘Sloane Square.’
‘That’s Chelsea, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely correct.’
I remember seeing a documentary about Sloane Square once. It talked about women called ‘Sloane Rangers’ – girls who live in posh Chelsea flats and hang around Sloane Square buying designer clothes and looking for rich husbands.
I look around the square. Perfectly groomed women in Vogue-magazine clothes walk purposefully along, swinging their gorgeous, shiny hair and designer handbags. Instinctively, my hand goes to my unruly waves and I twiddle and tug.
‘It’s okay,’ says Marc, slipping an arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t be nervous.’
‘Do I look nervous?’
‘A little.’
‘I guess I just feel a bit out of place.’
‘You’re not out of place. You’re very much in place.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s … the people around here are very stylish. Beautiful. Classy. And here I am in my jeans …’
‘Believe me. You have more class and beauty than any of these women.’
We walk past a huge Christmas tree, hung with ceramic gingerbread men and twinkling lights. It’s beautiful, but it’s had its roots cut off and the sawn tree stump sits in icy water.
‘I always get sad when I see real trees without their roots,’ I tell Marc. ‘In our family, we buy the whole tree and replant it in the garden or the woods when Christmas is over. Well. Except Dad didn’t have time to get a tree this year. It’s a shame. I would have liked you to see the cottage all Christmassed up. It looks cosy.’
‘As long as you’re in the cottage, I couldn’t care less about the decorations.’
Marc steers me off the main square, down a narrower side road buzzing with black cabs.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘A friend of mine owns a shop here. A toy shop. I thought you could help me choose something for Sammy.’
We come to a stop by a glossy window full of beautiful, handcrafted wooden toys. The window is set into a tall, red-brick building, and a gold coloured veranda hangs from the wall with the words ‘Peter’s Toys’ printed onto it.
I stare at the window display. There’s something truly magical about the toys here. They’re all made of solid wood, and I can tell they’ve been crafted by someone who loves what they do. There are dolls houses, push trolleys, building blocks, a wooden tricycle … even a logging truck, complete with hand-painted logs on the back. I know Sam will love pushing that around.
‘This shop is just perfect for Sammy,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to go inside.’
‘You like it?’ Marc asks, as I gaze through the window. ‘Peter makes most of the toys himself. It’s a real labour of love.’
‘And I love it,’ I say.
‘Good. Let’s go inside.’
24
The bell jangles overhead as we enter the shop, and inside there’s the most gorgeous smell of apple wood and sawdust. The floor is strewn with red wood peelings, and toys are arranged on carved wooden tiers and sliced tree-trunk shelves, complete with bark. It’s like walking inside a hollowed out tree.
A tall, thin man with white hair and round glasses comes striding towards us, pushing up the sleeves of his striped shirt. ‘Marc. How the devil are you?’
‘Peter,’ Marc replies, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Great to see you.’
Marc keeps one arm around my shoulder, which causes Peter to look at me with interest.
‘Well I never. Marc Blackwell out in daylight hours with a young lady. You must be someone very special.’
‘This is Sophia Rose,’ says Marc, tightening his arm around my shoulder. ‘And yes – she is very special to me. Very special indeed.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ says Peter. ‘It’s about time you found a good woman.’
‘There’s no better woman than Sophia.’
‘Good, good. Well, let me get you both a sherry. Celebrate the season.’ Peter goes to the back of the shop and returns with a bottle of Lustau sherry and three crystal tumblers.
Placing the tumblers by the cash register, he pours generous measures in each and hands glasses to Marc and I.
‘Good stuff isn’t it?’ he declares, taking a swig of his own. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to open that bottle since November.’
‘Delighted to give you the opportunity,’ says Marc, taking a sharp sip.
‘Thank you.’ I take a sip of mine and it’s delicious. Dry and crisp and incredibly warming on a winter’s day. It rolls down my throat so smoothly that I’d hardly know it was alcoholic, but the heat that follows tells me otherwise.
‘Well. How can I help you today?’ Peter asks, taking another swig of sherry. ‘Something for the nephew again? Or are we furnishing a nursery?’ He gives me a sideways glance and a wink.
I sneak a look at Marc, and am relieved to see he’s smiling.
‘Not just yet,’ he says. ‘We’re after a toy for a one year old.’
‘I think I already know what he’d like,’ I say, casting my eye around the shop. The intricacy of some of the toys is just stunning. It kind of makes me wish I was a little girl again, so I could play with the doll’s house and the beautiful hand-carved furniture suite inside.
‘That logging truck in the window,’ I say. ‘It’s just perfect. He’ll love pushing it along, then taking the wood off the back and chewing on it.’
‘He can chew away,’ says Peter proudly, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets and rocking back and forth. ‘All natural dyes. Non toxic.’
‘You make such beautiful things,’ I say, looking around the shop again. ‘It must have taken you a lifetime to carve all these toys.’<
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‘Years,’ says Peter, putting his sherry glass on a shelf and walking to the window. He plucks the logging truck from the window display, holding it with two hands. ‘This is one of my favourites. I’ll be pleased to send it to a good home.’
He carries it carefully to the wrapping area, and lovingly folds sheet after sheet of brown tissue paper around it. Then he pulls free a sheet of gold wrapping paper decorated with holly leaves, and expertly gift wraps the truck, sticking a real sprig of holly to the paper.
‘It’s young holly,’ he explains, passing Marc the parcel. ‘So the little one won’t prick himself on the leaves.’
Marc takes the parcel in one hand and places his sherry by the cash register. Then he takes out his wallet.
‘No, no, put your money away,’ says Peter. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Peter, giving to your charity is entirely different from buying things from your shop.’
‘Not when you donate thousands of pounds it isn’t.’ Peter turns to me. ‘Marc has been very generous to Woodlands. Very generous indeed.’
‘Woodlands?’ I ask Marc, raising a curious eyebrow.
‘Peter’s charity,’ says Marc, in a voice that tells me he wants to end this conversation as soon as possible.
‘It supports the tree farmers who supply my wood,’ says Peter. ‘Makes sure they get a fair rate of pay, good housing, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds like a good cause,’ I say.
‘It is a good cause,’ says Marc. ‘Which is why Peter and I always have this argument when I come in here.’
‘Marc wins every time,’ says Peter, with a little wink. ‘But what he doesn’t know is that whatever he pays me I put straight into the charity bucket.’
‘In that case, I’m going to have to pay you double,’ says Marc, with a smile.
Peter slaps his forehead. ‘Fine, fine. You win as usual.’ He takes the handful of notes that Marc passes him, then hands him back his sherry. ‘How’s Denise?’
‘Good. Enjoying life at the college.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing.’ Marc takes another sip of sherry. ‘A woman of her years and experience is allowed to choose the lifestyle that suits her.’
‘And you think it suits her? Living alone?’
‘That’s what she tells me.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Denise’s choices are hers and hers alone to make.’
‘Well I think Denise is a wonderful woman and it’s criminal that she never remarried.’
‘She’s never expressed any interest in finding someone new.’
‘Not to you, but you’re like the son she never had,’ says Peter, wiggling his white eyebrows. ‘Parents don’t tend to talk to their children about their dating affairs. Would you like me to play matchmaker? I know a friend of Valerie’s who lost his wife a few years ago. A lovely fellow. Plays the violin. Likes the theatre. What do you say, shall we match them up?’
‘I’d say we’d be interfering in Denise’s life,’ says Marc.
‘Shame,’ says Peter, draining his sherry glass. ‘I do like a bit of interfering from time to time.’ He gives Marc a wicked grin.
‘Denise will find someone when she’s ready,’ says Marc. ‘Until then, she seems perfectly happy. Or at least if not happy, then content.’ Marc finishes up his sherry, and I drink the last of mine too.
‘Nothing wrong with content,’ says Peter.
Marc places his empty glass by the cash register and shakes Peter’s hand. ‘It’s been great to see you again. We should catch up soon.’
‘Always a pleasure,’ says Peter, shaking Marc’s hand heartily.
‘Have a wonderful Christmas.’
Peter looks bewildered. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas? What have you done to him Sophia? He usually pretends Christmas doesn’t exist. Does everything he can to avoid talking about it.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ I throw Marc a playful smile.
‘There are still plenty of things you don’t know about me Miss Rose.’
25
When we leave the shop, Marc holds Sammy’s gift-wrapped toy in one hand, and pulls the door closed with the other. I shiver as the cold winter wind hits me, and Marc puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.
‘Don’t you feel the cold?’ I whisper, warming myself against his chest.
‘At times.’
‘Why don’t you ever wear a coat?’
‘Because I like the sting of cold weather.’
‘Why?’ I rub my fingers together to keep away the chill.
‘I had it stolen from me. The cold. When I was a child. I was taken to LA in the baking sun, and missed year after year of ice and snow in England. So now I want to feel the cold. Every bit of it. As much as I can.’
‘It must have been awful for you,’ I say, as Marc steers me along the road and back onto the main square. ‘To leave your old life behind like that. When you were so young.’
Marc shrugs. ‘When you’re young, you accept what’s happening because it feels normal. But I was messed up for a long time. A long, long time. I wasn’t like you, taking care of everyone.’
‘Oh I don’t know.’ I smile at Marc. ‘You took care of your sister. And Denise. Maybe you’re not such a big bad wolf after all.’
‘No, that’s exactly what I am. A big bad wolf. And if you’re not careful, Sophia Rose, you’ll get bitten.’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ I say, meeting his eyes, a half smile on my lips.
‘Perhaps you should be.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’
‘Because I’m still a controlling monster at heart. Despite the fact that I’m learning to let go. My way of coping when times are hard is still to take charge and be in control. When it comes to your safety, I find it hard to ease off.’
We walk across the square.
‘Marc? I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. With all the extra security and me not being allowed in your townhouse right now.’
‘Right now there’s nothing to tell. And there may never be anything to tell.’
‘And Getty’s still in custody?’
‘Yes. And he will be for the foreseeable future.’
We’re not on the square anymore, but heading down a busy road. Marc swerves me down a side street, where I see a bustling open-air market. The smell of fresh bread, coffee and Christmas puddings fills the air.
‘Are we on the right track, Mr Blackwell?’ I say with a smile. ‘This is a food market.’
‘Exactly right. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well. I thought I could warm your father to me by filling his house with food. And of course, I know you love cooking. So you might like to pick out some ingredients for Christmas dinner.’
I snuggle against his suit jacket. ‘You’re a very clever man, Mr Blackwell. Had you ever thought of becoming a teacher?’
‘The thought crossed my mind.’ Marc steers me through pretty wooden stands with colourful striped awnings, and we stop in front of a butcher’s stall laden with giant corn-fed turkeys, aged joints of beef and bright pink hams.
‘Had you picked out your meat yet?’
‘There’s a turkey I took out of dad’s freezer earlier,’ I say. ‘I bought it on special a few months ago. I was going to use that. But ... this meat looks amazing.’
Marc points at a sign above the stand. ‘I hadn’t forgotten the foie gras incident. Cruelty free. These animals have been well looked after.’
I smile, noticing the free-range sign. ‘You remembered.’
‘How could I forget? I wouldn’t want to buy you a roasting joint that ends up in the trash.’
I laugh.
‘Choose whatever you like,’ Marc says.
I blink at the choice of beautiful birds and roasting joints. ‘Wow. I’ve never seen meat that looks so good. Those birds ... they’re just huge. I don’t think I’d be able to get them in the oven.
But ...’ I point at a giant turkey that’s only medium-sized by the standards of this stall. ‘That one looks like it would fit. I bet it will taste delicious, too.’
Marc gets the butcher’s attention and nods at my choice. ‘Bag this one for us, please. Thank you.’
He hands some notes to the butcher and takes the turkey under his arm, wrapped in white paper and string.
‘What does your father like to eat?’ Marc asks.
‘Anything that’s bad for him. And sweet things – he likes his desserts.’
‘So we’ll buy him a Christmas pudding. They’re very good here.’
‘Great idea.’
26
We buy Dad a huge Christmas pudding laced with brandy, stout and golden syrup. It’s wrapped in muslin and almost as big as Sammy.
Marc also orders a box of organic vegetables to be delivered to the cottage today, and a whole host of biscuits, cheese, champagne and chocolates.
‘Peter was saying you don’t like Christmas,’ I challenge, a teasing look in my eye. ‘What’s the turnaround?’
‘The turnaround is you. Anything you love, I’m going to make my business to love too.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Really. So what else do you love, Miss Rose?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I say, staring up into his blue eyes. They’re clear and light with the cold today.
Marc holds my eyes for a moment and strokes hair from my face.
I spy something over his shoulder.
‘Mistletoe.’ I pull him towards a stand of beautiful silvery green plants.
‘You like mistletoe?’ says Marc, with a smile. ‘I might have guessed.’
‘I think it’s one of the most beautiful plants ever,’ I say. ‘And very romantic.’
‘I take it you’ve been kissed under the mistletoe before?’ says Marc, raising an eyebrow.
‘Once or twice.’ I blush.
Marc bends down to press his lips against mine. For a moment the cold marketplace vanishes and all I can see and feel is him. When he pulls away, I’m disorientated and it takes a moment for the shapes of market stalls to reappear.
‘But not like that,’ I breathe.