by Jessica Ashe
“You need to meet my friends,” Damon says, wrapping an arm around me and stopping me from heading back to the kitchen.
“I’m just going to get your dad a beer.”
“He knows where the fridge is. Stop worrying about everyone else and enjoy your party.”
His friends are all in the game room crowded around the ‘snooker table’ Damon insisted we buy. I immediately get a bottle of beer shoved into my hand, and after a few minutes I do manage to relax and let the party happen without me worrying about it. People are having fun, and there are enough staff on hand to make sure people are stocked up with food and drink if they need it.
“When is you-know-who showing up?” Damon whispers.
“In about an hour.”
“How the hell did you swing it?”
“Remember I mentioned a short trip to New York next week? Well I’m performing at her Christmas party.”
“Oh, that makes sense. So there’s no bad blood between the two of you?”
“There never was. The whole rivalry thing was made up by the media.”
“I should have known.”
One of Damon’s drunk friends passes me a snooker cue and tells me to take his turn.
“Sorry, but Damon doesn’t let me play on the snooker table. He thinks I’ll ruin the felt.”
“Oh ignore him,” the drunk Englishman says, or at least that’s what I think he says. These people should come with subtitles. “It’s just like pool except the table’s bigger.”
“What do you think?” I ask Damon. “You trust me on your precious table?”
“Just this once,” Damon says.
I grab the cue and line up what I think is a legal shot, although I still haven’t worked out all the rules of this sport.
“Wait,” Damon says, as he puts his hand on the cue to stop me from taking my shot. “How many beers have you had to drink?”
“One,” I reply.
“Uh uh, you know the rules. Wait there.” Damon disappears to the kitchen and quickly comes back with another drink which I manage to finish off in just three goes. There’s something Dad would definitely have been proud of me for.
“Come on, hurry up,” one of the guys says impatiently.
“Yeah, we want to see—” another one of Damon’s friends is interrupted by an elbow to the ribs.
“What’s going on?” Damon asks. He stares at his friends for a few moments and then crosses his arms over his chest. “I do hope this isn’t just some thinly veiled excuse to check out my wife when she bends over?”
His friends all protest, but only after a silence that’s just a little bit too long.
“Disgraceful,” Damon mutters.
“Don’t act all protective,” I say. “I know you’ll be front and center later tonight when a certain special guest shows up.” There’s another pause which is also long enough for me to know I’m right. “Okay then boys,” I say loudly, bending over the table in an exaggerated fashion. “Let’s play some snooker.”
I picked up darts quickly, but it turns out I’m awful at snooker. It’s a good shot if I manage to actually hit another ball, let alone the one I’m aiming for. The only ball I get in the pocket is the white, and that’s a foul shot. Damon’s friends take it easy on me. They’re either just being kind, or they’re enjoying watching me bend over the table constantly. I don’t really care which. Time flies and soon I hear people talking about a limo that’s just pulled up out front.
It’s her.
I had hoped to do a big announcement, but even though I have a big house, it’s not exactly easy to sneak someone in and set them up on a makeshift stage in my living room without being noticed.
“Thank you again,” I say, just before she does a quick mic test.
“It’s really no problem. I love performing for small groups.”
If there’s one way to make everyone forget you’re a celebrity, it’s to bring in an even bigger celebrity to take all the attention. No-one’s looking at me now, and the second she starts singing, I might as well not be there. It’s lovely.
“She’s gorgeous,” I hear my make-up artist say to Calvin and his wife. “I try to copy her style, but I can’t pull it off.”
“She’s incredible,” Calvin’s wife agrees. “It’s crazy enough meeting Naomi Price, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d get up close and personal to—”
“How’re you doing, sweetheart?”
I look round and see Hubert standing next to me nursing a beer. “I’m good, Hubert,” I reply. “You want another beer?”
“No, I’m fine. You should relax. You deserve to have fun this night as much as your staff what with everything you’ve been through over the last few months.”
He’s referring to the trial. We don’t talk about it a lot. Veronica confessed everything to the police, but once lawyers got involved they quickly claimed she was mentally ill and couldn’t control her actions. Maybe she is; I don’t know.
“It’ll all be over soon,” I reply. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but one way or another she will be locked up. I don’t care if it’s a prison or mental institution, so long as she can’t get near Emma again.”
“Speaking of Emma, she’s going to be furious when she finds out what she’s missing here tonight.”
“She’ll soon shake it off. I’m going to take her along for the return performance in New York. That party will be a lot more exciting. Wall to wall celebrities, instead of drunk British guys. No offense.”
Hubert laughs a little louder than he usually does, and I notice he’s a touch red in the face. I’ve never seen him even slightly drunk before, so I take advantage and make him dance with me. Between the two of us, we have about six left feet, but no one pays much attention.
The rest of the night flies by in a blur until there are just a few stragglers left at which point time slows to a crawl. I don’t like asking people to leave, but Damon has no such qualms. Once he’s done picking up all the empty beer bottles he starts yawning loudly and everyone’s gone within ten minutes.
“Sounds like you need a good night’s sleep,” I say after shutting the door to our last guest.
“I need nothing of the sort,” he replies. Damon grabs my hand and drags me through the house to the game room with the snooker table in it.
“You really want to play snooker right now?” I ask wearily. “I still don’t know the rules and—”
Damon interrupts me with a firm kiss—the best type of interruption—driving me back until my ass hits the table. His hands reach under my skirt and within seconds I’m kicking off my panties and pulling open his jeans.
“We need a condom,” I warn him, even though I’m guiding him to my entrance.
“What? Why?”
“I told you—I’m on a new pill and it takes a cycle to kick in.”
“Fuck,” he yells, squeezing my thigh in frustration. “I’ll just have to come over your arse instead.”
Damon’s not good at pulling out in time, but I’m not good at passing up sex and I know we don’t have any condoms left.
I spread my legs and pull Damon towards me. He has other ideas. Damon flips me round so that I’m facing the table. I grip the edge and bend over, thrusting my ass out to him invitingly.
“Have you been waiting for this all night?” I ask.
“I thought they’d never leave.”
“You’re not worried about the felt?”
“Couldn’t care less.”
His tip parts my dripping wet folds and soon the entire length is sliding deep into me. I’m still not used to his size, and I’m not sure I want to be. I love the feeling of being impaled on his huge cock as he slams his girth into my petite frame and goes at me with all the passion that was there two years ago.
As always, I’m coming within minutes. As always, Damon does the same shortly after. As always, he doesn’t pull out.
* * *
We moved to London permanently just after Christmas
, and true to form, it’s rained nearly every other day. I can handle it. England can get cold, but I grew up in New York and it got cold there, too. The weather’s all anyone talks about when I meet people.
You must hate the weather here.
Why would you ever leave California for England?
I hear it’s going to snow next week.
People exaggerate how bad the weather is in England, but they certainly don’t exaggerate how much the English love to talk about it. I swear, if they’re not talking about soccer or baking shows on television, they’re talking about the weather.
I haven’t worked much since moving here. I’ve stopped touring for the time being, and it’s been nearly two years since my last album. I don’t think that’s a huge deal, but according to the media it means I’ve basically retired and become a hermit.
It’s hardly that drastic—I just don’t want to work on an album now because I’ll end up having to promote it while being heavily pregnant. And I certainly don’t want to tour when I have a newborn baby.
It’s all official now. The doctor confirmed it yesterday. There’s still the small matter of telling Damon. We’ve been talking about trying for a baby recently, but no official decision was made. Now it’s been made for us thanks to Damon getting horny at the Christmas party. It might be a surprise, but I know it will be a good one. The discussion wasn’t so much whether or not we should have a baby, it was just when.
A couple of years ago, I would have tweeted out the news seconds after leaving my doctor’s office. Nowadays, I’m a little more restrained. Besides, it’s only fair to tell Damon first.
I head downstairs and find Emma sitting at the table eating breakfast while watching kids shows on an iPad. She’s going to be a great sister.
“Emma, where is Daddy?”
“He’s gone to buy milk.”
Of course he has. At this point, I’m fairly sure we run out of milk on purpose. We have people to do our shopping, and yet we never seem to have enough milk and Damon has to go out and buy more a few times a week. He secretly enjoys it. It’s a part of normal life that he’s clinging on to desperately and it’s adorable.
“Why do you call him Daddy?” Emma asks. “He’s my Daddy, not your Daddy. You should call him Damon. Calling him Daddy is silly.”
“Good point,” I say with a smile. I love this girl.
I start preparing my own bowl of cereal until I remember that we don’t have any milk. When Emma has finished her cereal, she puts her bowl in the sink and heads upstairs while singing the song Damon wrote for me. The song made a small fortune for charity, and it’s one of Emma’s favorites. She has no idea her dad wrote it, though; she just thinks it’s another one of my hits.
Not many people notice the slightly dark ending to the song, but I hear it all the time. It seems a shame that such an upbeat, popular song has a sad ending, so I decide to write a new verse. That new verse quickly becomes two and then three, and before I know it I have an entire song on my hands.
The song starts with a couple who have broken up, but still love each other very much. A shocking incident brings them back together, and then they get married, ready to live happily ever after.
I suddenly know how I want to tell Damon I’m pregnant. I write an additional verse on the end that will never be released. It’s not easy to write about “our family of three becoming four,” in a pop song without it sounding too specific. Pop songs need to be all about the general; they need to apply to everyone, or at least as many people as possible.
Later that day, I sneak out the house and head over to the music studio where I record the song by myself. For now, I use the same guitar track that Damon wrote all those years ago. I can’t release the song in this form because it sounds too similar to the last one, but I put together a cut that will serve my immediate purpose.
Now for the finishing touch. At the back of the wardrobe, I have a large box which is full of smaller boxes. Usually shoeboxes, because I have a plentiful supply of them. Inside those shoeboxes are keepsakes and mementos. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to keep when you are given so much free stuff like I am and have so many cool experiences. Other times, it’s obvious.
I pull out the USB stick that Damon gave me—via Katrina—with his song on it. It’s fairly generic, so he might not remember, but it’s a nice touch and I like it. I transfer my recording of the new song to the USB stick and pass it to Damon.
“I want you to write a guitar track for this song,” I say casually.
“I thought you didn’t want me writing music for your own songs,” Damon replies.
“I’m thinking of giving this song to Leona. It’s been in my head for a while, but I’m not sure it’s suitable for me. Will you have a look at it?”
“Sure,” he says, putting the USB stick down on the table and carrying on reading something on his iPad.
“Will you have a look at it now?” I ask.
“Have I ever told you how much I love married life?”
“You don’t have to say; I can see it in your eyes.”
He smiles and grabs the USB stick. “I’ll go listen to it in my office.”
His office is a soundproof music studio where he spends more time than he likes to admit. Damon insists he’s cutting back on work, but he just can’t help himself. The songs keep popping into his head, and he has to record them. We both have that in common.
I sit in the living room patiently watching television. He’s been gone for twenty minutes. How long does it take to listen to the song? Were the lyrics too subtle?
“Is Leona pregnant?”
I spin around and see him standing in the doorway. “No,” I say laughing loudly. “I probably shouldn’t have said the song was written for Leona. That’s a lie. The song is for me.”
“So that means… you’re pregnant?”
“It does.”
“Holy shit. Fucking hell.”
“I really want to take a picture of your reaction right now.”
Damon smiles and suddenly realizes he’s standing in the doorway looking lost and confused. He runs over and picks me up off the sofa, embracing me in a tight hug, before covering my face in kisses.
“This is… shit, I just can’t fucking believe it.”
“Daddy, you just said lots of swears. You’re not supposed to say swears, because I might hear and say the swears too.”
“Sorry sweetie, I won’t do it again. Not for another eight months or so anyway.”
“What’s happening in eight months?” Emma asks.
“You’re going to have a new brother or sister.”
“Oh.” There’s a long pause while Emma thinks the news over. “Boy or girl?”
Damon looks over at me, his eyes asking much the same question.
“We don’t know yet,” I say.
“I think I’d prefer a brother. Yes, a brother would be best.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say with a smile.
“You have to keep it a secret for the time being,” Damon says to Emma. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, I think so. I kept the other secret about Naomi becoming my mummy.”
“What secret?” I ask.
It’s hardly a secret that I’m Emma’s stepmom now that Damon and I are married.
“Yes, sweetie,” Damon says through gritted teeth, “you did a great job keeping that secret.”
“Told you I could do it,” she says, before heading back to her room, leaping the stairs two at a time in that carefree way only children can manage.
“What did she mean?” I ask.
“I just got the papers through. I was reading them on my iPad earlier, but got a little distracted.”
Damon grabs his iPad and passes it over to me. I flip through the contract on the screen, but none of the words sink in. I have a kind of selective blindness when it comes to contracts, and I rely on lawyers to tell me what I’m signing. I dread to think some of the things my signature’s attached to, but
I’ve not had any problems so far.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“Adoption papers. The lawyer has the hard copy version, but if you’re happy we can head over there and sign later today.”
“I’m adopting Emma?” I choke the words out, trying to hold back tears. I managed to write an entire song telling Damon that I’m pregnant; this is much harder.
“If you want to.”
“Of course I do,” I blurt out. “I love that girl. Is she okay with it?”
“What do you think? You’re the only mum she’s ever known and she loves you to pieces.”
“Let’s go now,” I say. “I want to sign the papers today.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I’d do anything for Emma. Besides, signing a piece of paper is a hell of a lot easier than growing a child inside my body for nine months.”
“You’re right there. I am not looking forward to you getting hormonal.”
“You’re not looking forward to it?”
“Pregnancy isn’t easy on the man either, you know.”
“Tread very carefully, mister. I’m going down to our lawyer’s office to adopt Emma, but while I’m there I will happily sign divorce papers too.”
“And so it begins….”
* * *
Damon’s mom is absolutely determined to teach me to cook. We keep telling her that we have people who cook for us, but she won’t hear a word of it.
Whenever we get together for a meal, she comes over and drags me into the kitchen to cook and gossip, while the men sit on the sofa and watch soccer. Maybe that will change when she knows I’m pregnant, although I kind of hope it won’t. I still don’t like cooking, and I never do it with Damon, but I love hanging out with Norma in the kitchen.
She gossips about the most inane things imaginable. If one of her friend’s children has got a girl pregnant then I hear about it. If a friend is getting divorced, I hear about it. If a cousin’s child is dropping out of school, I hear about it. I don’t know who any of these people are, and I don’t want to. I know it’s a little hypocritical of me to listen to gossip, but hearing Norma talk about these strangers keeps me grounded in a way that Damon never could by himself.