Tom swallowed two large mouthfuls and felt the alcohol hit his already charged blood stream. He cried aloud, ‘I got a B!’
Ellie whooped and clapped her hands together. ‘I knew it. I knew you could do it!’
Tom gulped more of the champagne and then picked her up and lifted her into the air, spinning her around.
Ellie giggled and laughed until she began to splutter with the bubbles in her nose, and Tom eventually set her back on her feet.
‘Phew,’ she gasped, undoing the wood toggles on her coat, ‘what a belter!’
Tom was so high he actually felt staggeringly drunk, which he knew wasn’t possible after only a few mouthfuls of champagne. He stared into Ellie’s shiny eyes and beautiful face and wanted her so badly an ache began in the pit of his stomach. His trousers tightened as he stepped forward and drank the remaining champagne down in one long shot. Placing the empty glass carefully on the coffee table, he held her stare as they both looked deeply into each other’s eyes.
‘It’s all because of meeting you,’ he croaked.
Ellie didn’t take her eyes from him, but continued to stare at him as he advanced towards her. ‘No it’s not, Tom. I only suggested it,’ she muttered, ‘you were the one who wrote it.’
Their faces were inches from each other and still they didn’t break eye contact. He wanted to feel her warm soft body in his hands, but couldn’t wait to slowly undress her as he usually did. Desire charged through him and he put his hands on the shoulders of her duffle coat, then pushed her gently back against the wooden desk in the corner alcove. Still they stared at each other like wild animals circling each other and looking for the best way to connect.
In one swift movement he scattered papers, folders, and pens from the top of the desk and pushed his hands inside her coat. He pulled the short skirt up and around her waist and searched her eyes, hoping to see the same longing that was raging through his body. What he actually saw was a raw hungry passion as she put her hands on her hips and confidently parted her long legs as though she was begging for him. With the soft feel of her tights and panties in his hands he pulled them swiftly down to her ankles and lifted her up on to the desk. She gasped in surprise, but ogled his body greedily as he too stripped down his trousers and shorts. Lifting up her buttocks from the desk in his hands he thrust into her and she wrapped her legs around his back, crossing her ankles securely. She clung to his shoulders and bit the side of his neck, screaming in ecstasy as he bounced her up and down upon himself until they found their urgent release together.
The hood on her duffle coat had flopped forward over her head and when he opened his eyes she was grinning at him. ‘WOW!’ Ellie breathed, ‘If this is what happens when you get a B, what will I be in for when you get an A?’
Tom threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Chapter Nine
By December the 16th Tom had written and submitted his second assignment and had three outlines for short stories reeling around in his mind. The holiday article was on the computer screen that night when Anne came upstairs and peered over his shoulder. She read:
WE’D NEVER GO BACK
On the small island of Ibiza lies the resort of Playa Dem Bossa. This could well be the place for a clean, safe, family holiday, as advertised in the travel brochures, but sadly it’s not. It is situated very close to the airport, in fact it is a mere ten minutes’ drive away. If you like the sound of very low aircraft thundering overhead whilst you sunbathe, then this is the place to be!
The resort was obviously built to cater for English holidaymakers in the early 1990’s, but unfortunately it has not been adequately maintained. On the drive through the resort, the roads and pavements are strewn with litter, the apartment blocks look dirty and unkempt and one cheap-looking café after another lines this main stretch.
The long and sandy beach runs the full length of the resort, as the holiday representative tells us on arrival, and is the longest beach on Ibiza. This is true, but sadly the sand is littered with debris and empty cans are visible, floating in the otherwise turquoise sea.
Where to sleep.
Most of the hotels and apartment blocks on the island are three or four storey’s high - there are no tower block buildings. The apartments we stayed in had eighty rooms, a swimming pool, restaurant and a small self-service supermarket. Most of the rooms are set out in separate annexes with long corridors joining them into a square. These corridors can be quite daunting in the dark, especially as most of the light switches are not working.
The apartments are built on three levels, where the entrance leads into a small kitchen, a flight of stairs leads up to the living area with balcony and another flight of stairs leads to the bathroom and bedroom. This is not ideal for families with small children, as the tiled staircase can be quite dangerous, but at least this keeps the cockroaches on the ground floor, away from the bedroom.
Nightlife.
The main square in the resort is a very noisy, lively centre. If you are looking for a quiet, select meal with traditional Spanish hospitality, then you will not find it here.
The streets are crammed every night with young, drunken people walking from one noisy bar to another.
You can, however, see some resemblance of Spanish life, if you take the twenty minute bus ride to old Ibiza town. Here the old fortress rises majestically against the harbour backdrop and the market square is lined with old flats and houses, with wooden shutters pinned back from their windows. There are many small tapas bars and restaurants hiding in the old cobbled streets, serving traditional Spanish paella.
Following a week spent in Playa Dem Bossa it is a welcome breath of fresh air.
As Anne read through his article, Tom gritted his teeth. A sweet but stagnant smell of old deodorant escaped from her armpit in the jumper she wore as her arm draped along the back of his chair while he sat perfectly still. He wrinkled his nose and wondered if he could ease away, but as her other hand was on his right shoulder he felt unable to move. Silently, he cursed himself for once again letting the time slip by since he’d returned from Ellie’s, not realising it was six o’clock. Most nights he closed the computer down before Anne arrived home, because for some strange reason, although he was perfectly happy for Ellie to read his work, he didn’t want it read by Anne.
Eventually she straightened up and removed her arm. ‘Well, Tom,’ she said ‘It’s great. I’ve got a real sense of the place after reading that.’
Tom squirmed in his seat as though he was in front of a head teacher at school, waiting to hear if he’d passed. Frowning, he thought her words had a certain level of condescension about them and, as he struggled to find any encouragement in her tone, he wondered exactly how much she really meant them. He reached for the mouse and clicked the document shut. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Anne stepped back and put her head on one side. ‘When were you in Ibiza, then?’
Tom tutted. This was part of the reason why he didn’t want her to read his work, as it meant he would have to talk about his past. So far in their relationship he’d managed to be selective with the chunks of information he’d given her.
‘Oh, it was years ago when I was living in the Midlands,’ he said, avoiding looking up into her eyes. ‘I was just a young guy in my twenties and went with a bunch of friends.’
He saw Anne lift an eyebrow and fold her chubby arms across her chest. ‘Hmm,’ she muttered, ‘well, if you were all guys together, how come you’ve written the piece about families?’
Tom sighed, knowing the route her mind was taking She thinks I was there with a family of my own. For one split second he was tempted to let her carry on believing the scenario. But that, he knew, was being cruel and as he looked into her big pensive eyes he softened.
‘Anne, the advert I have to critique is for a family resort. So, I need to see it from a family’s position and viewpoint. There’s no point writing it from a male stag night’s point of view.’
Tom could see her
processing the information to decide whether she believed him or not.
‘Okay…,’ she said, nodding, ‘I’m going to jump in the shower and then make dinner.’
Tom nodded and heard the accusatory tone in the word dinner as though she was silently stating the fact that once again he hadn’t prepared any food, even though she believed he’d been at home all day.
As Anne left the room and plodded along to the bathroom he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. That was the difference, he thought, when Ellie had read the article she hadn’t asked questions about his time in the Midlands, but he knew Anne always would.
By the time they sat at the table to eat dinner, Tom had had a major re-think. He knew that he couldn’t carry on doing the writing course without Anne’s financial support, and needed to keep her on his side. He’d chided himself for being snotty with her just because she didn’t understand the ethics of writing, because up until a few weeks ago, neither had he.
Anne was dressed in a cream velour track suit and he looked at his wife then sighed. Her face was clear of any make up and her newly washed hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She looked vulnerable and he could read the wariness and unease in her eyes. Anne didn’t respond well to change of any type and he could see that this new career of his, which was what he now called it, was causing her concern. Tom also knew that just because he relished new and exciting adventures it didn’t make Anne any less of a person because she didn’t. In fact, as he watched her lift a fork of chicken stir fry to her mouth, it made her a better person, because he knew her concern was for both of them.
Tom shifted in his seat, smiled and began to explain what he’d learnt about writing in different genres and people’s viewpoints until Anne seemed more assured and he could tell by her relaxed shoulders and smile that she’d understood. As they ate, Tom lightened the mood and made her laugh at some of the articles he’d read in magazines and then explained two outlines for humorous stories that he’d put together for his next assignment.
Anne giggled at his descriptions and looked at him with adoration shining from her eyes once more.
That’s better, Tom thought. He hated to see her look unsettled as she’d done earlier, and cursed himself for doing this to her. He remembered Ellie’s words about noticing atmospheres and situations which he could use in his writing and he decided that here, in the warmth of their small cosy kitchen with the curtains pulled against the cold north wind, he felt content and happy.
‘But it’s not easy writing and thinking about hot summer holidays when we’re in the thick of the winter and only ten days away from Christmas,’ he ventured.
Anne nodded and stood up. Tom knew she was going to clear the plates away, but he stopped her and did it himself by dropping the plates into the washing up bowl. ‘Let’s go through and I’ll do them later,’ he said.
As they walked into the lounge Tom saw the long cardboard box and two carrier bags from John Lewis propped against the settee.
He knew Anne must have brought them home and he spun around to look at her ‘What’s this?’
She grinned. ‘It’s our Christmas tree and decorations.’
Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘But I thought you said we’d be using your old family tree; the one that’s up in the loft?’
Anne opened a carrier bag and pulled out a box of bright red and silver baubles. ‘I know. But then I decided that as this is our first Christmas together it should be special to us. Those old memories are from my family Christmases, not yours. So, I figured we should start our own traditions together…,’ she paused and looked into his eyes. ‘And, if our children come along later then we’ll have our own mementoes to tell them about.’
Tom pulled at his ear and hung his head slightly. ‘Oh, Anne,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry I was in a crabby mood before.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said and reached up to him, draping her arms around his neck. ‘I’m just going to have to get used to this new artistic temperament of yours.’
He laughed and pulled her into him, breathing in the fresh smell of shampoo from her hair. He thought of the Christmas classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life”, and sighed happily.
‘Come on then,’ he whispered, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’
The silver Christmas tree stood in the bay window with the red baubles, bows and tinsel twinkling from its branches in the lounge’s dimmed light. Anne had finished winding and interweaving the lights throughout the branches.
‘There now – it’s all ready,’ she said, clapping her hands together as Tom walked to the socket and pushed in the plug.
Tom gasped in awe as the tree lit up and the red decorations stood out vividly, shining against the silver backdrop. ‘Ah, it looks lovely and it blends perfectly with the red settee,’ he said. ‘So, who’s a clever girl, then?’
Later, as they cuddled up in bed together and Anne began to fondle him, she told him how wonderful she wanted to make their first Christmas together. ‘It has to be very special and one to remember,’ she said, climbing on top of him. ‘I’ll make sure the turkey will be perfect, with all the trimmings. Ooohh,’ she exclaimed, ‘I can hardly contain myself I’m so excited.’
Tom wasn’t sure if she was filled with excitement because of the sex they were having, or the turkey. But, he played his part well and, although he too was excited, it was in a different way. As Anne pounded up and down on him and he rose spectacularly to the job in hand, his mind was elsewhere, constructing a short story and trying hard to remember the atmospheric words that would best describe their tree in all its Christmas glory. As soon as they were both satisfied and he heard Anne’s breathing deepen as she fell asleep, he crept out of bed and along to his office. Booting up the computer he began to type quickly, noting down all the words he’d thought of earlier and then, after reading one of the humorous outlines he’d written, he actually began to write a funny short story losing himself in a world of loving Christmas spirit.
*
The next morning Tom rubbed his eyes, which felt gritty with the lack of sleep, as he sat staring at the computer screen that he’d only left at three a.m. It was unbelievable, he thought, that something as simple as writing could engross him so much that he completely lost track of time. In the past there’d only been the sight and feel of a beautiful woman writhing underneath him that would entrance him enough to stay awake until the early hours of the morning. How fast my life has changed, he thought, happily sipping his coffee and reading through what he’d written the night before. The tinkle of a text message on his mobile distracted him and he read Ellie’s words with dismay.
‘Hi, Tom, really sorry but I’m in bed with a horrid cold, sore throat, and stinking headache so I hope you’ll understand if we give today a miss? But on a happier note, I hope I’ll be feeling better by Friday as my parents are coming for the day to take me out for lunch. I’m hoping you’d like to meet them and come with us? Love and big snotty kisses, Ellie. XXX’
Tom grimaced and sighed heavily with disappointment. It wasn’t so much the thought of not seeing Ellie today that irked him, as he’d wanted her to read his story, but the last thing in the world he wanted to do was meet her parents. This invite, he sulked, smacked of a certain type of permanency, which as far as he was concerned hadn’t been discussed. But as peeved as he felt, he knew it would be best to consider his options before replying. Tom chewed the end of a pencil. If he made up an excuse to avoid meeting her parents, Ellie would be hurt and might not be as convivial as usual. And, if she had just been one of his ordinary flings he would simply say goodbye and walk away, but there were two things that stopped him from doing this. First, he needed her help with his writing, and second, it would also mean that he’d never have those delicious breasts in his hands again. Tom sighed with longing at the thought of the soft mounds of flesh, which stirred him so much that he squirmed around on the chair.
*
On Friday morning Ellie dressed carefully before making her w
ay to work. The pounding headache had gone along with the sore throat and now all she needed was a box of tissues for the steady stream from her runny nose. Her parents were due at one and Tom was calling for her as usual in the market where they would walk down to Zizi’s for lunch. She pulled green woollen tights up her legs and then pushed her arms through a short knitted dress that clung around her body like a sheath. Teamed with knee-high brown boots, she stood back from the mirror, deciding the effect was casual yet striking at the same time.
It was only three days since she’d seen Tom, but she’d missed him so much, and now she longed to feel his arms around her. He had emailed his funny Christmas story and, after Ellie had read through it twice, she realised that Tom certainly was talented, articulate and she could tell that his writing was driven now by more than just a beginner’s enthusiasm. Tom had learned quickly how to reach out to the reader with his own unique voice and she could foresee great success ahead for him. She thought of his lovely face and eyes and breathed out heavily. Not only was he a good-looking guy, but hidden behind those looks was an intelligence she’d never known existed. And probably, she thought, neither had he. Ellie smiled to herself. How could she feel like this about a man she’d known for such a short time, had she actually fallen in love for the first time?
Packing her handbag with tissues, Ellie remembered his texts: twice a day, full of commiseration and his offer to rub her chest with vapour ointment. Lightly, she traced her hands over her breasts and grinned, knowing the attention they’d receive from him later in the day. He made her feel special and loved and wanted, which none of her other boyfriends had ever done, and she also knew he had boosted her confidence to an all-time high.
As Ellie left the flat, picking her way gingerly on the frosty, slippery pavement towards the metro station, she recalled her school days and the bullying she’d endured because of her bright red hair. Ginger nut, she’d been nick-named by other girls in her class, which had also made her grossly self-conscience of her tall, gangly figure. But, she’d learnt to pull her shoulders back and walk with an air of confidence instead of with adolescent slumped shoulders. Reaching the station, she dropped coins into the ticket machine and marvelled at how the self-doubt was well and truly behind her now and, although she was still tall and skinny, her breasts, as Tom often told her, were her most striking feature, which, she grinned, made a difference to her red hair.
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