Taking small sips of wine, Ellie sighed as she watched him. He seemed to swing from melancholy when he’d first arrived to a high and false cheerfulness that wasn’t his usual personality. Maybe it’s his way of coping, she thought, and she joined in with his gay chatter.
Tom stopped at his dining chair, drew it away from the table and sat down. He eyed the beautifully wrapped gift. ‘Shall we have presents first and proper Christmas kisses?’
Ellie stood in front of him and handed him the gift. He pulled her on to his lap and with his arms around her, he tore at the paper and found Calvin Klein aftershave.
With claims of surprise and how it was his favourite aftershave, Ellie stood up, opened her legs wide and settled herself astride him on the chair.
‘Hmm,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘I’m loving it all so far.’
Ellie swallowed hard as she felt him stiffen beneath her. Waves of desire flooded through her and she put her lips on his, kissing him hard and running her tongue around his, which she knew drove him crazy. Finally she pulled her mouth from his and felt one of his hands cup her bottom and squeeze it firmly.
Tom put his other hand into his jacket pocket and presented her with the small box. This was more like it, he thought, feeling himself relax with the excitement of her young body on his. This was how they usually were with each other. This intimacy was going to be the theme for the next few hours – food and sex − it was all to play for.
Ellie gasped as she stared down at the small gold locket lying on the white silk padding in the box. It was in the shape of a heart with a tiny red stone in the corner. Her eyes watered as she fingered the locket and looked into his eyes. ‘Oh, Tom, it’s absolutely beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘Will you fasten it for me?’
As Ellie bowed her head forward Tom fastened the small clasp at the back of her neck. With a slight twinge of guilt he felt his cheeks warm, as he’d done the same for Anne just over an hour ago. But he reasoned, the offer in the jewellers, buy one locket and get another half price, had been too good to miss. He pushed the thought out of his mind and, as Ellie lifted her head again, he put his hands into the back of her hair, which was piled high with small hair slides holding it in place. He undid these clips and shook her long soft curls down as she smiled at him.
‘I like it loose so I can have my hands in it,’ he breathed in her ear.
Ellis felt him harden now and she wriggled on his jeans, craving the sweet feelings of desire to last. Tom ran his hands up her thighs, pushing the hem of the dress as he moved, and then groaned as he felt his way around the top of her black hold-up stockings. She watched him look down at her stockings and finger the silky material.
‘Ellie, these stockings are amazing! Will you stand up for me so I can see them properly?’
She stood up in her high stiletto shoes and he whistled under his breath, shaking his head in awe.
His appreciation and attention made her feel like a princess and she grinned down at him. ‘Well, all good girls get their stockings filled at Christmas, don’t they?’
He laughed out loud and pushed the dress up until it reached her waist, and then ran his fingers around her tiny lace panties.
His touch made her pant and lick her dry lips as the longing pulsated between her legs. ‘Now, please,’ she muttered.
Tom pulled the dress up over her head and moaned again at the matching black lace bra. ‘Let me look at you for a moment. You’re stunning, Ellie − absolutely bloody stunning!’
Standing astride him, she pulled down his zip and he manoeuvred himself into position. As she ground on top of him, he undid her bra and took one of her nipples into his mouth as she actually screamed in ecstasy.
*
The turkey was tender, moist and delicious. Tom complimented her upon every aspect of the dinner she’d prepared. The vegetables were soft, just as he liked them, and the roast potatoes were crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. ‘You’ve done an amazing job with this gravy,’ he said, ‘and the stuffing and pigs in blankets are truly delicious.’
Ellie basked. There was no other word she could use for the way his loving attention made her feel; she’d never felt so happy. As they ate their way through the Christmas dinner she explained what a great cook her mum was, and how she’d taught her to cook in their kitchen at home.
Although Tom reminded himself not to overeat, as he had turkey seconds later that day, he couldn’t stop himself tucking into the delicious food. They consumed the whole bottle of wine and pulled all the crackers, giggling at the silly jokes.
‘You know, Tom,’ she said, ‘as writers, we should be able to make up our own one-liners and mottoes.’
Tom took a deep breath and held her hand across the table. ‘Nooo,’ he said, ‘you can’t include me under that title. You are the writer; I’m just a learner or apprentice, for want of a better word.’
‘But, Tom, you’re not,’ Ellie protested. ‘You’re a writer now, and as soon as you get one of your articles into print in a magazine or paper you’ll be what everyone calls published.’
Tom sighed and swallowed his last mouthful of Christmas pudding. ‘I still can’t believe this is happening to me,’ he said. ‘It’s all a little surreal at times…’
He thought about his latest character and the short story he wanted to write around him. When Tom had sat in the job centre the week before, he’d nodded at the man signing on at the same time as him each week. Mid-forties and at six foot three, Tom thought the man looked like Arnie Schwarzenegger from “The Terminator”. He had the biggest shoulders and neck he’d ever seen. He usually wore a fine sweater which was stretched across huge, powerful biceps and a wide full chest. Week by week Tom had watched as his shoulders become slumped and rounded. At the beginning of their signing-on sessions, Arnie strode around the small waiting room, ignoring the red plastic chairs, but now he sat in the same one every time. With his bald head in his hands, he would sit forward in what looked to Tom like the image of abject misery. Tom thought it similar to a balloon slowly deflating inch by inch, with the sense of failure and sadness that having no work had brought. He overheard Arnie tell another man how he’d been made redundant after nine years in a labouring job that he’d loved.
Tom sighed now, and sat forward across the table towards Ellie. He made a steeple with his long fingers. ‘I was just thinking about the man at the Job Centre and the piece I’m going to write around him,’ he said, and told her about the Arnie look-a-like.
Ellie smiled. ‘It’s an excellent description, Tom. I think it’s going to be a powerful piece, however, make sure the story has an upbeat ending. Even though it’s a sad topic and I know you’ll have the reader’s empathy, you’ll want them to finish reading with a sense of satisfaction.’
Tom nodded gratefully for the advice. He sighed, ‘Why do men take the blame of redundancy upon themselves?’ he said. ‘Especially when it’s obvious to everyone that it isn’t their fault.’
‘I know,’ Ellie agreed. ‘The slight on their pride is simply ridiculous to us as outsiders. But I think here in the North East it’s mainly due to the tradition that men have to work and provide for their families; maybe the whole theory goes back to caveman days.’
Tom rubbed the side of his jaw and remembered how he’d returned that day from the Job Centre and talked to Anne about her own father. Although he’d heard Anne’s account when they first met, this time he really listened to her words and made her describe exactly how her father had looked and felt as he’d withered away at the shame of having no work.
At the thought of Anne he glanced at Ellie’s small clock on the fireplace and realised with horror that it was nearly three thirty – he’d have to hurry to be home for four o’clock.
Tom had loosened the button on the waistband of his jeans and stood up with a full and heavy stomach, not even trying to fasten it. He sighed and pulled his sweater down over his belly.
The desperate look on Ellie’s face made him avert his eyes. H
e knew what she was thinking without her speaking a word; he could read it in her eyes. He said, ‘But I told you I would be leaving to go and meet the ex-in-laws for tea.’
Ellie could feel tears prick the back of her eyes. Yes, she’d known he would be leaving, but the time had flown so quickly that now the thought of being alone for the rest of the day was almost too much to bear. Tentatively, she asked if she could join him and go along to meet them, but Tom managed to dissuade her with tales of how upset they’d be, and how they wouldn’t welcome a stranger in their home when they were grieving.
As Ellie walked behind him through the hall towards the front door, she tried again, ‘So maybe you could come back later tonight and stop over?’
‘Look, I’ll try,’ Tom said, taking her hands in his. He could feel sweat break out along the back of his neck and prayed she wasn’t going to make a scene; he couldn’t cope with women in tears. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure how long I’ll be there, but I’ll definitely text you later. And, thanks again for such a lovely day.’
*
Tom’s full stomach made his walk through the park sluggish, as he was unable to stride out at his usual brisk pace. The frost had lifted from the morning but it was nearly dusk when he trudged his way down the path and two small boys whizzed past him on their shiny new skate boards. Just as he emerged through the bottom entrance of the park, a taxi cruised down the main road and Tom flagged it down, jumped in, and laid his head on the back of the seat.
Tom swore under his breath. Why the hell did women do this? At the beginning of a relationship they were always fine with the no strings attached scenario, agreeing that it was just a bit of fun, but within a few weeks they always wanted more. He shifted around on the plastic seat cover and stared out of the window. It was unfair of Ellie to start nagging just as he was about to leave, when all he’d done was stick to what had been arranged. She’d known from the outset that he would have to leave by four, but now she’d sent him off feeling miserable, which was a shame after the lovely day they’d had.
Tom saw Anne peer from behind the curtains as the taxi pulled up outside. Slowly he climbed out of the back and paid the driver. The extortionate Christmas Day fare and the large helping of sage & onion stuffing he’d so enjoyed made him belch loudly all the way up to the front door. Cursing himself for eating the stuffing, which he knew gave him indigestion, he caught Anne in his arms in the hallway when she practically threw herself at him.
‘Bang on time,’ she cried excitedly and led him by the hand into the kitchen.
The smell of turkey seemed to invade the whole of the downstairs rooms. Anne stood proudly in a red flowery dress. Her face glowed with happiness as she waved her arm across the bench laden with food, and the enormous turkey sitting majestically in the centre of the table.
Tom groaned silently at the sight of the huge meal she’d prepared, but determined not to upset her at any cost. He smiled and congratulated her. ‘What a fabulous spread!’
Anne grinned. ‘Come on, then,’ she chattered. ‘Get your jacket off – I’m starving.’
Remembering that she’d had to wait until late for her dinner Tom readily agreed and slipped his jacket around the back of the chair.
With a flourish Anne placed a small glass bowl of prawn cocktail on his plate. ‘Here is our starter,’ she said, ‘this should sharpen our appetites for the turkey itself.’
In his mind Tom had geared himself up for the turkey dinner, but hadn’t reckoned on prawns to digest with everything else he’d already eaten. Bloated gripes of wind began in his bowel following the previous sprouts and turkey he’d eaten, and his mouth felt stale with a mixture of Christmas pudding and red wine.
He stood up. ‘Just need the loo first, Anne,’ he mumbled and hurried upstairs to the bathroom where he noisily passed wind and rubbed his bloated stomach. Standing up from the toilet he knew there was no way he could get his jeans to even meet at the waist, and quickly went into the bedroom to pull on jogging pants with an elastic waistband. Taking a deep breath of determination he plodded downstairs again.
‘Not sure I can do the prawns on top of everything else you have here, darling,’ he said, but saw her shoulders slump.
‘But the chef at work bought them for me. They’re top quality king prawns,’ she protested.
He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment in her eyes and bolstered himself. ‘Okay then, let’s try a few.’
Tom drank two glasses of water to help him swallow down the plump, meaty prawns, but firmly declined as Anne offered a second helping. ‘Noo,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m saving myself for the main event.’
They sat facing each other, wearing the gold party hats from inside the crackers while Tom made up stories to tell her about the imaginary homeless centre, and Anne carved thick, succulent slices of turkey. She nodded enthusiastically and brought bowls of sprouts, parsnip and turnip to the table, with roast potatoes and pigs in blankets.
Tom’s stomach groaned at the thought of more of what he’d already eaten, but he pushed on and gave up trying to protest as she heaped his dinner plate with food. Slowly, he ate small bits of everything on his plate, declaring all the while how delicious it was, but as he loaded a piece of turkey on to his fork and lifted it to his mouth the smell overpowered him and he belched loudly, ‘Blurp, blurp.’
Indigestion rose up into his gullet, which now had the added flavour of prawns, and he covered his mouth with his hand, apologising profusely to his wife.
Anne smiled. ‘That’s okay, it’s a well-known sign that you’re enjoying the food,’ she stated happily.
Tom threw her a grateful smile and, as he pronged a small sprout, he remembered one of the classic films, “Cool Hand Luke”, where Paul Newman had a contest with a prison inmate to swallow fifty boiled eggs. Now Tom knew how Paul must have felt as he actually had to push the sprout into his mouth and lock his lips around it to chew and swallow.
Anne poured sparkling white wine for them both and Tom gulped at it, hoping this would make the food easier to swallow. Unfortunately all this seemed to do was fill his stomach with more gas, and he desperately nipped the cheeks of his bottom together so that he didn’t break wind in front of her.
Finally, he stopped to take a breather half way through his full plate and clink glasses with her as they once more wished each other a Happy Christmas. By this stage Tom felt that he never wanted to eat another mouthful of turkey ever again, but somehow he managed to keep up his cheerful banter.
When Anne had cleared her plate and pushed her chair back from the table, his hopes rose. Surely now he’d be let off the hook. All he wanted to do was crawl on to his beloved settee and lie down to nurse his bloated belly.
‘That was absolutely delicious, Anne,’ he managed to say, placing his knife and fork together on the side of the leftovers.
Anne stood up, smiling with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said. ‘If I say so myself, it was one of my best dinners.’
She removed their plates and turned towards the worktop, lifting the cover from a pudding basin. She exclaimed loudly, ‘Ta Dah! And now, the pièce de resistance: Christmas pudding with brandy butter!’
Tom felt his stomach heave and he fled from the table; upstairs to the toilet once more with Anne staring after him in bewilderment.
Chapter Twelve
Before Christmas Tom had submitted a letter to Take a Break magazine and on Monday morning, when he opened his email inbox, he read with incredulity a message from the editor announcing their intention to publish it within the month. The editor asked for a photograph to go with the star letter and said he was to expect a cheque for £75.
Tom bellowed loud enough for the entire street to hear, and jumped up and down on the spot. Flinging his arms in the air he laughed and shouted, ‘I’ve done it! I’ve only gone and bloody well done it!’
He heard Anne, who was in bed with flu, call from the bedroom and he ran in. She looked a sorry sight, with a streaming red nose and blo
tchy eyes. A large box of balm tissues sat on the quilt cover and she was propped up against three pillows.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Anne grumped and blew her nose. She felt lousy for the third day in succession and hadn’t an ounce of energy to get up from the bed. Her mood wasn’t good, either. Usually she was fit and healthy and not used to feeling poorly so, as Tom had said yesterday, she didn’t make a very good patient.
He hurried over to her. ‘I’ve done it,’ he shouted. ‘I’m to be paid by a magazine for my ghostly letter. I’m actually going to get paid for the honour of seeing my name in print!’
Tom jumped on the bed next to her and clasped her hand tightly. With his other hand he waved the email in the air. ‘As soon as the money arrives I’m going to give it to you, Anne, so I can start to pay off the money for the course.’
Anne could feel her heart swell with pride and happiness for him and, although she was feeling wretched, she did her best to smile. ‘Oh, Tom. Well done, love,’ she muttered and then sneezed into a sodden tissue. ‘W…was it the story about my jewellery box?’
Tom sat cross-legged in front of her and grinned. ‘Yeah, I wrote the piece around us moving in here and how that night your jewellery box suddenly started to play the lullaby while we were asleep. And how spooked you were and wanted to move out.’
‘Hmm,’ Anne sighed, remembering the night and how scared she’d been. But wrapped in Tom’s strong arms over the next few nights she’d gradually calmed down and accepted his explanation that a draft of wind through the windows could have caused it.
She knew now that this reasoning was ridiculous. First, the windows were triple glazed, and second, there was no gust of wind strong enough to open the lid on the jewellery box. But, she mused, it was amazing what she could believe when she really wanted to. ‘Yes, it did take me a while to settle down in the house,’ she agreed, ‘but now I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’
Tom hooted and let his imagination run away with him. ‘Well, when I’ve written my best-selling novel and I’m a famous author, we might want to move out to the country. Or up to a coastal retreat in Northumberland. I can just picture myself sitting on a veranda, staring out to sea while I write.’
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