by Annie Lyons
He smiles at her. ‘It will be fine, try not to worry. We’ll find a way to manage your mum. We probably just need to put her in charge of something like the cake or flowers or something.’
Emma feels a little consoled and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I knew there was a reason I was marrying you.’
‘What, apart from my infinite charm and the fact that I’m so much better looking than Daniel Craig?’
‘Yeah, that as well.’ Emma’s phone beeps and she flicks it to read the text: ‘Hope you’re not too nervous re tomorrow. Get an early night, lovely. Exx’
Emma smiles at Ella’s message and is suddenly filled with nerves at the thought of what lies ahead tomorrow. She is pitching for a new book, which, given the buzz in publishing circles, is destined to become the next big thing. Her anxiety and waning hangover make her feel tired so she foregoes Sunday evening TV and a glass of wine for an early night curled up with Allen Chandler’s potential new bestseller. Martin comes up to find her and picks up some of the scattered pages.
‘The Red Orchid. Sounds a bit poncey.’
‘It’s not poncey: It’s going to be huge and I’m going to publish it.’
‘Well I hope you do, my sweet. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?’
‘Never,’ says Emma with a grin.
‘Would you like me to show you?’ asks Martin, prising the pages of the book from her fingers, kissing her hand and along her wrist.
‘I really should finish this,’ sighs Emma, as Martin works his way up her arm and onto her neck.
‘Well if you really have to,’ he adds, continuing to kiss her chin and face and the corner of her mouth.
‘Oh sod it. I’ll do it on the train!’ says Emma, casting the manuscript to one side, wrapping her arms and legs around him and pulling him down on top of her. There is an urgency and intensity to the movement so that minutes later they are pulling at each other’s clothes and Martin is exploring Emma’s body with his tongue: down the curve of her breast to one nipple where he toys awhile, inciting and enjoying her reaction. Emma’s body rises and she lifts her pelvis in a moment of pure pleasure and lust. And suddenly, he reaches down, moves her underwear to one side and is inside her, causing Emma to gasp and pull him deeper into her. Later, after they have both come and Emma has retrieved her underwear from the nose of an indignant-looking giant toy frog they won on a trip to Brighton, they lie together like spoons, both heavy and warm with sleep.
‘I do love you,’ says Emma, reaching an arm up to stroke his face.
‘’Course you do,’ says Martin and she can feel the grin on his face. ‘I’m bloody lovely.’
***
Rachel throws miscellaneous chunks of Lego and tiny dolls’ shoes into whichever receptacle is nearest.
‘Glass of wine?’ asks Steve.
‘Lovely,’ she answers without looking up.
He returns smiling, placing the glasses on the coffee table and stretching out an arm to her. ‘What a day, eh? At least Alfie’s OK though.’
Rachel nods, accepting the embrace for a second and then pulling away. ‘Just got to reclaim the living room before I sit down.’
‘Sure, sweet-cheeks, you do what you gotta do,’ says Steve turning on the TV and flicking to the sports news.
‘Maaaarm!’ yells a small voice from the top of the stairs.
‘Alfie,’ says Rachel in a weary voice.
‘I’ll go. You sit,’ says Steve.
Rachel accepts with gratitude, slumping onto the sofa and sipping her wine.
‘He’s fine. He’d just dropped Raggy,’ reports Steve on his return.
‘Good. Thanks. So, do you want to watch Grey’s Anatomy or The Wire? I’ve got them both on Sky Plus.’
‘Actually Rach, I need to talk to you.’
She looks at his weary face and realises how little she actually looks at him these days. The early months of their relationship had been spent memorising every part of each other’s face and body, but with time and children their faces became somewhat obscured as they were replaced by younger, smaller and more impatient versions of themselves. Looking at him now, she recognises the man she fell for, but his face is punctuated with more lines and his eyes are underlined with purple-grey shadows. She looked at her own face in the mirror recently and had been shocked when she realised that the lines were now caused by too much frowning rather than too much laughter.
‘OK, sounds serious. What’s up?’
‘Well – ’ Steve looks unsure where to begin and Rachel is starting to feel a little worried.
‘You’re having an affair? With Kate Winslet? Again?’
Rachel’s attempt at humour makes Steve smile, but only just.
‘Yeah, but apart from that. It’s about work. They want to promote me.’
‘Wow, that’s fantastic! Congratulations! To do what?’
‘To open up a new office.’
‘Brilliant. Where?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘What?’
‘I know. It’s a long way from everything but it’s a huge step up and a big pay rise.’
‘It’s in Scotland.’
‘I know, but it could be fantastic.’
‘How?’
‘It’s an amazing city.’
‘It’s in Scotland.’
‘I know.’
‘That’s north of here.’
‘Yes but – ’
‘Where it rains.’
‘OK, but – ’
‘A lot.’
‘Look, Rachel, I knew you’d be like this but I’d at least like to discuss it rationally.’
‘Oh, so I’m irrational now, am I?’
‘A tad.’
‘You want to drag your family a billion miles up north for the sake of your career?’
‘No, of course not, but we do need to consider our future and I am the breadwinner.’
‘Yeah and don’t I know it!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’ve given up everything for this family. Everything. You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘Not very often, no.’
‘Ha bloody ha. So that’s my lack of job and sex drive at fault, is it? I mean, do you ever actually think about me or what I need?’
‘That’s why I’m trying to talk to you. Why do you always get like this?’
Rachel can’t speak. She lets out an enraged yelp like a trapped animal and storms out. The phone interrupts her moment of fury and she snatches it to her ear.
‘Hello?’ she says.
‘Rachel, darling?’ trills her mother, oblivious to her daughter’s tone.
‘Oh hi, Mum.’
‘We just wanted to check how Alfred is.’
‘He’s fine thank you. He’s sleeping.’
‘And what about my other naughty grandchildren?’
‘Naughty.’
‘Excellent. Now darling, listen, we need to take that sister of yours in hand. I thought a spot of dress shopping might be in order.’
‘OK.’ Rachel can’t even muster any glee at the thought.
‘Super. I’ll call Emma and set a date.’
‘OK. Mum?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Nothing.’
‘All right. Kisses to the children.’
‘Will do. Give our love to Dad.’
‘I will if I can ever persuade him to come out from behind the Telegraph.’
Rachel replaces the receiver feeling about three years old again and wishing that there was someone to look after her. She can’t remember a time when she felt anything less than exhausted. She loves her kids and Steve but can’t always find the energy to tell them. She feels so far away from her previous life of skinny cappuccinos and dynamic, creative ad agency meetings. Life now is all about trying to leave the house in a non-stained top and asking everyone if they want ketchup with their fish fingers.
She is still angry with Steve but is too tired for an encore. Unl
ocking the back door she retrieves the secreted packet of Marlboro Lights kept in the shed for occasions like this. After padding a little further down the garden, she curls herself up on a garden chair tucked out of the sight of the house, behind a sickly rhododendron. She lights up and inhales deeply, shivering against the chilly evening air. Feeling herself relax she gazes out into the night but can see nothing but the molten orange glow of her cigarette.
‘Gotcha!’
Rachel shrieks and then laughs as she sees her neighbour Tom’s amused face grinning over the fence.
‘You bastard.’
‘Good evening to you too, Mrs Summers.’
‘Good evening, Mr Davies. What are you doing, creeping round the garden like a pervert?’
‘Snail patrol,’ he says flashing torchlight over the fence. ‘It’s the only way to catch them, you see.’
Rachel looks amused.
‘All right, I know. It’s a sad life but I’m a single man with only my hostas for company. And I do love my hostas.’
Rachel laughs. ‘And there was me thinking you were coming to rescue a damsel in distress.’
‘Do you need rescuing then?’ asks Tom, suddenly serious.
In the half-darkness Rachel can just make out his face. At first look it could not be described as drop-dead gorgeous, in fact it is slightly pudgy at the edges, but there is a twinkle in his eye that Rachel has decided is handsome and she has always wondered why he’s never been snapped up.
Steve and she had assumed he was gay until she’d been chatting with him for a bit one day and he’d said, ‘I’m not gay by the way.’ After that she’d worried that he’d heard them through their paper-thin walls and had felt guilty for gossiping.
‘I don’t really need rescuing,’ Rachel says, feeling disloyal. ‘It’s just been a bit of a day.’ She recounts the saga of Alfie but doesn’t mention her row with Steve.
‘Ahh, you love it really.’
‘Do I?’ asks Rachel. ‘Do I really love all this? When will it all end?’ She loves the kids, that’s a given, and Steve has always been her best friend: ‘Sod ’em all!’ they used to sing when times were tough. But now they barely have time for themselves, let alone each other.
Tom is eyeing her now, looking uncertain of what to do next.
‘Well, back to your snails, saddo,’ says Rachel, trying to put him at ease.
‘If you ever need to chat, you know where I am,’ Tom says, and Rachel is touched.
‘Rach?’ Steve’s voice echoes across the garden. ‘Are you out here?’
Rachel makes a face at Tom like a scolded teenager. ‘Yeah, what?’
‘Alfie wants you.’
‘Great. I can’t even have a sneaky fag now. See you later, neighbour.’
‘Bye, Mrs S, and remember what I said.’
‘Thanks.’
She stalks down the garden and into the house, ignoring Steve. When she enters Lily and Alfie’s bedroom, she feels a little sheepish as her maternal role suddenly washes over her again. Their room still has that sweet scent of young children. Rachel remembers the intoxicating smell of them as newborns and although it fades over the years, she still finds breathing them in, especially after a bath when it is restored, gloriously satisfying.
Alfie is blinking at her, holding out his fat palms. ‘Want Mummy.’
‘Alfie, you should be asleep. Is your arm hurting?’
‘No. All better,’ he says. ‘I am a big boy.’
‘Yes you are, darling, but you need to go to sleep.’
‘Want Mummy,’ he insists and she cannot refuse. She lies down beside him and strokes his mop of hair.
‘Poo-ee, Mummy smells.’ Rachel remembers the cigarette.
‘Alfie love Mummy?’ she asks.
‘Naaaaooo,’ croons Alfie, teasing.
‘Boo-hoo.’ Rachel feigns weeping.
Alfie laughs. ‘Mummy, cry again.’
Rachel plays along for a bit, and then says, ‘Sleep now, baby boy.’
‘Mummy sing,’ demands Alfie, and after a couple of rounds of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ his eyelids droop and Rachel creeps out.
Steve is watching the news as she skulks back into the living room, uncertain of what to say next. He flicks off the TV and pats the space next to him, eyes imploring. ‘Sit. Please?’
She does so grudgingly, not wanting to be the one to give way and hating herself for it.
‘Friends?’ he asks stretching out an arm like a peace offering.
Realising it would be churlish to refuse, she leans towards him. ‘Look, Steve, I know we need to talk but I’m just too tired tonight.’
‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we see if Emma or your mum can babysit at the weekend? We’ll go and have lunch, talk properly, get drunk and say sod ’em all! Waddya reckon?’
Rachel chews her lip and looks at her husband. Dear dependable Steve, her best friend and constant; she finds it impossible to stay angry with him for too long. ‘Sod ’em all!’ she says, kissing him on the cheek and feeling instant relief. ‘I’m going up. Are you coming?’
‘Just going to watch the end of Match of the Day 2,’ he says, picking up the remote and flicking on the television again.
She nods and pecks him on the cheek before climbing the stairs, exhausted by life and longing for the passion and energy of her twenties.
CARINA™
ISBN: 978 1 474 03652 8
Life or Something Like It
Copyright © 2015 Annie Lyons
Published in Great Britain (2015)
by Carina, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18–24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
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