Fabien Read online

  He would hit the roof if I told him the truth!

  ◊◊◊

  I walked home slowly, even though the clingy sleet was drenching my wool coat. It was the thought of facing his unhappy mug again—I wasn’t looking forward to it. When I reached the door of our three-bed semi-detached property on Leeman Road, I knew I should have felt glad to be back at home with my comforts and my husband after a long day, but I felt wretched. It was always the disappointment in his eyes, like I’d made him feel as if he wasn’t a man or something.

  I let myself in with my keys, hung up my bag and coat, then mumbled, “Hey,” as I popped my head in through the living-room door.

  “Good day?” His voice carried into the hall, where I placed my phone and keys in the teak bowl on the sideboard.

  “Not bad,” I replied, then dashed upstairs to shower and change.

  When I came back down in my pyjamas and robe, plus the Bagpuss slippers he always frowned at, there was some dinner waiting on the table. He had also dug out all the nice dinnerware. More surprising was that he was waiting for me there, too. He looked at me, dressed like that, and shrugged. I’d have dressed for the occasion if I’d known but usually we had batch meals from the freezer and because of our different shift patterns, we rarely ate together.

  He’d made my favourite—steak, chips and peas, with peppercorn sauce.

  I hated myself for smiling but I couldn’t help it when he poured me a glass of wine and then patted the chair next to him. We tucked in and I asked, “What’s all this for?”

  “My beautiful wife,” he said, and reached over to kiss my cheek.

  I looked into his chocolate-brown eyes and turned to mush instantly. He was a wonderful husband and all our problems were just centred around a big misunderstanding.

  I ate every single scrap on my plate and then the raspberry roulade he’d bought in for dessert, too. Louis knew I didn’t like cooking after serving up food all day long, so that’s why I batch-cooked on my days off and we ate most of our meals from the freezer. He’d made a real effort that night and I wondered why.

  When we sat on the sofa to watch TV later on, there was some stupid show on, but it was better than talking and risking the conversation that always ended badly. When Louis slid his hand over my exposed thigh, I turned and looked him in the eye and the wine plus my earlier stout gave me courage, so I crept up onto his lap.

  “Jaimie, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, kissing my throat. I slid my hands into his thick hair and his tongue made me wet, tangled with mine in my mouth.

  My robe and pyjamas were torn off and his suit trousers and shirt tossed away, too. On the sofa, I rode him until he came, but I still didn’t.

  He tossed me over his shoulder and carried me up to bed with a smile on his lips, but I was close to breaking point. My husband was a sexy office manager who I knew got chatted up on a regular basis by the young secretaries only too happy to bring him coffee. He wore suits and nice ties, smart shoes and combed his soft, wavy hair back into an effortlessly male style. Yet why couldn’t he make me come anymore? He was fit and beautiful and I loved him. Somewhere though, our connection had foundered.

  Cuddled in bed, it was lovely. I basked in his heat and the sound of his breathing against my ear. Yet for some stupid reason, I admitted, “Will you touch me? I didn’t come and I’m still all tingly down there.”

  “What?” He sat up, definitely annoyed.

  “Will you stroke me? Just a bit?” I tried to move his hand to where he’d not so long ago come inside me, but he looked repulsed as I tried to direct him.

  “You just don’t get it, do you Jaimie?” He rolled to his side, as far away from me as he could get, slamming his body in the mattress dramatically while he got ‘comfortable’ in a situation he clearly wasn’t happy to be in.

  “I’ll touch myself then?”

  “What?” He turned over, fury in his eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Nope,” I stared back at him.

  His eyes narrowed, his forehead creased, and then he switched off the lamp in a huff. I almost did touch myself, but I knew he was still awake and fuming.

  “Did I tell you my work’s do is Christmas Eve? Will you come to that?” he said angrily, obviously struggling to find sleep, though he was probably really tired.

  “Mine’s that night, too. I already said—”

  “Oh, god!” he exclaimed in such an annoyed voice. “So what? You work with deadbeats!”

  “Oh,” I threw my hands up in the darkness, “for god’s sake! Your lot aren’t exactly much more fun! Bloody pissed idiots singing karaoke and dipping their fingers in the chocolate fountain!”

  He tutted, he actually tutted. “So? Maybe we shall agree to disagree on something else then? I’m going to mine.”

  “Fine. I’m going to mine!” I harrumphed.

  I reached into my drawer for a clean pair of pyjamas and put them on. He reached for his long johns and was snoring within five minutes.

  On my side, once I knew he was definitely under, my vibrator said a little hello to my clit and finally gave me some relief.

  Stupid man.

  He didn’t understand. He was okay—like everyone else—he had a job he wanted. I didn’t. We’d met at university and stayed together but I couldn’t help thinking that I’d forgotten to fulfil myself. Perhaps I’d focused so much on him, I had forgotten to find myself a place in the world that suited me. I had a management degree but I just… never seemed to find the right opening.

  ◊◊◊

  CHRISTMAS Eve was a doddle; shops shut early and all our usual custom was already indoors for the holidays. Louis had to stay at the office until five o’clock (no rest for the wicked) so when I got home at three after doing a bit of last-minute shopping, I dove straight into the bath and began a mass-cleansing I usually saved for special occasions, like our anniversary or a birthday or something.

  I shaved every piece of me away. I even went bald. I had to have an orgasm from his cock. I didn’t know why I needed that, but I had to prove to myself that I still loved my husband. If going bald might help, shit, then I was prepared to wince as I scraped bare what I had rarely looked at before. He had to go nuts over it, there was no other reaction I could possibly fathom Louis having. He had to love it.

  After shaving myself more naked than I already felt, I scrubbed and exfoliated until I could see the bottoms of my pores. Working in a café, even a nice, upmarket one, sometimes the grime of the day and the people who walked through the doors just wouldn’t wash out. I even scrubbed under my toenails and clipped them while I lay back in the big ceramic tub my husband and helpful father had lowered into this very space, all by themselves. That was another thing—Dad and Louis were best pals—so that meant I had fewer people to talk to about what was going on in my marriage, in case it got round and those two had a falling-out too. That’d no doubt make me feel even better about the whole thing…

  I plucked my eyebrows and squeezed a couple of those annoying white pimples you get when you’ve touched grubby money and greasy counters all day long and you can’t help but sometimes rub your jaw or your forehead, thus transferring muck. I swear, I didn’t know why I worked in that damn café! It not only gave me blisters on my feet plus spots on my face, but carrying too many trays around was also calling for a chiropractor to get involved!

  After my bath, I rubbed cream in everywhere and was careful to powder in between my legs a little bit, just to keep me fresh. I don’t know… it was just one of those things my grandmother used to tell me. It’s strange, I know… maybe I shouldn’t have listened to her. Except I was aware there was suddenly nothing between my legs anymore except skin and it was cold! Anyway…

  I blow-dried my hair and used some tongs. By the time Louis arrived home, slamming the front door to notify me of his arrival, I was sat at the mirror in my robe with my hair done and a face full of make-up. I just needed to get dressed but I was going to put that on later.


  As I listened to him grumbling to himself downstairs, putting the kettle on and warming his own dinner, I laughed to myself. It was all rather silly, whatever this was going on between us. I think he thought I was being disrespectful of his manhood or something, telling him we couldn’t have a baby. He just hadn’t calmed down long enough for me to tell him what the real issue was. Not yet.

  In the mirror I surveyed the contrast of my blonde hair and green eyes which was stark against some dark eye make-up. As I painted my toenails black and red to match my dress and shoes, I got lost thinking about Jodie and wondered if maybe I could force her to play me for a night—could she sort him out? She would know what to say, she was the queen of resolving cases after all. Then I thought, No, he can tell us apart. Not only did we have different mannerisms, but my nose was slightly straighter than hers. She’d played women’s football at university and once had it broken. Another chalk and cheese example: she loved everything sporty, whereas I judged nightclub dancing my exercise for the week.

  I was finishing my last fingernail when he walked into the bedroom and gasped, “By ’eck, what’ve you been doing? Painting your nails with bleach?”

  I turned to eye him and saw he had his forearm over his mouth and nose, protecting him from the stench. “Nice to see you too.”

  He started pulling off his clothes and I finished off my nails with some clear varnish on top, ignoring his chiselled contours as best I could before he took himself into the en suite shower.

  With the shower spray loud against the tiles and basin, he probably thought I couldn’t hear what he was up to in there as he got on with a quick wank. The odd ill-timed grunt gave him away. Sod. I couldn’t help myself and I cracked the door open an inch to get a look, spotting him with his back turned to me. He had one hand on the wall and was obviously using the other down below.

  I was fascinated as I watched his glutes squeeze tight with each thrust of his manhood into his own hand. Despite all the arguments we’d been having, I still thought he was bloody gorgeous, and I shut the door quickly and had to take some deep breaths. The image of his muscular back, thighs and buttocks working as he wanked himself off… none of that was easily forgettable. A small, despicable part of me wondered whether the sight of me in just my robe, with all my face and hair made up, had prompted him to grow a hard-on and that’s why he needed to deal with it in the bathroom. At least I knew he wasn’t getting it elsewhere, anyway. Not that Louis would ever do that, I knew he wouldn’t. Some people would ask how could I be so sure. Well, I just knew Louis. He’d rather fight me every day of the week than admit something was wrong between us and lose me. He was a committed man in so many areas of life and I knew, he’d never hurt me. Which made it even harder to try and understand why he couldn’t see that I didn’t yet want a baby. Not ever, just not yet.

  I heard him whistling moments later and the sink filling up, so I knew he was having a shave. That gave me a few moments to put underwear on before he came back in.

  I went to the back of the wardrobe and dug out a Victoria’s Secret bag. Inside was a purple, lace set of balcony bra and cheekies. Not only that, but something I had never worn before.

  Suspenders. Yes. And stockings.

  I must have really been desperate because I had never bought anything like this before! I just needed him to know I loved him and I envisioned us both getting back home later that night, falling drunkenly into bed, him seeing me in all this and with a bare fanny too—then hopefully hot, passionate, orgasm-producing sex would ensue!

  Oh my. I needed more powder, suddenly hyper aware.

  I shuffled my C-cups into the bra first, plumping up what Louis often termed, “Just enough of a handful, more than enough of a mouthful!”

  I pulled up the knickers and was pleasantly surprised how they felt against my bare flesh. Then I got to grips with the suspender belt, fastening it shut. I took the stockings from the packet and was careful not to ruin my nails, nor put a run in the nylon. I slid them slowly up my legs, not for dramatic effect but as aforementioned, I had a slightly sticky nail-versus-delicate-nylons situation going on.

  That was when I turned and saw him stood at the open door with a towel around his trim waist and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. His jaw dropped and his brush almost fell to the floor but he scrambled for it before it did.

  “Something wrong?” I laughed but my amused expression didn’t have the desired effect.

  He stood taller and reached for the doorframe to cling onto while he scrubbed his teeth nonchalantly. With a deep frown, he stared down at me, “Who’s the lucky feller, then? You’ve never worn that stuff for me.”

  “For fuck’s…” I muttered.

  I finished with the stockings and pulled my robe back on, defensively lashing the belt tight around my waist. I stood to face him and he chewed the brush in his mouth, clearly angry with me over something I hadn’t even done yet, his arms folded tight across his broad chest.

  It’s for you, dickhead!

  I scowled, however, and walked past him downstairs to get myself a glass of wine and one of the batch meals from the freezer. While I waited for the beeper to sound off on the microwave, I heard him throwing open doors and drawers upstairs, all with the radio playing as loud as he could crank it up.

  I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Maybe I was mean but he deserved to suffer, just a little bit.

  Yet I’d underestimated him… I realised that when he came downstairs in what he’d decided to wear for his work’s Christmas party.

  He stood in the hall looking for some shoes and found them, then came into the kitchen to get some polish from under the sink, taking himself to the dining room table to shine them up.

  “Newspaper,” I growled, and he smirked, finding a couple of sheets to rest his tan lace-ups on.

  Even when my dinner was ready, I didn’t take it out. I just stared at him, the hunk of love that was my angry husband. I drank my wine in case he wondered what I was up to.

  Unusually, his hair was slicked and parted to one side, demonstrating just how thick his mane really was. His throat gleaming and no doubt drowning in cologne, the sight drove me mad.

  He’d bought a new shirt and I didn’t know where from or how long he’d had it for. It was white with a thin paisley pattern. He’d done his usual of rolling the sleeves just to mid-forearm. Even in winter, he hated a full sleeve. He was the type of man who even resisted gloves in snowy weather, preferring to be all caveman.

  Times like then, I remembered exactly why I had married him, why I had given my heart to just one man. You just had to look at him. Plus he was wearing my favourite jeans, the ones that hugged his thighs and bum and made his groin all the more tantalising.

  Except this one night, I wouldn’t be the one enjoying the sight of him. I’d forgotten… we were going our separate ways. As he scrubbed and spit-polished his shoes to shine, I realised why he might be angry too. Our nights out, the ones where we got dressed up for one another, were so few and for the first time, we’d not even be spending that precious time together. My heart sank.

  “Something wrong? Your dinner beeped ages ago?” he muttered, glancing my way.

  “Oh… yeah.”

  I grabbed the dinner out and took it to the sofa, switching on the TV while I ate macaroni and cheese on my lap.

  “What are you wearing tonight?” he said in a calculating tone, and I glanced back at him, my husband still shining already shiny shoes.

  “I bought a new thing… not sure if I’ll wear it now,” I said sheepishly, staring at the twelve-inch neon Christmas tree that stood on the fireplace and constituted our attempt to decorate the room. It changed colour from red to green to white and was actually quite pathetic, yet neither of us had the heart to embrace Christmas. I don’t know why, but I wondered whether that was because we didn’t have children… so, anyway, I snapped myself from that train of thought!

  He’d hate what I planned to wear, because he’d know that it’d n
ot be for his eyes, but for other people’s. Other male eyes.

  “Why don’t you show me, and I can help you decide?”

  Trick question or not, I nodded and mumbled, “I’ll put it on after I’ve finished this.”

  “Okay,” he said in that continued, short manner.

  I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher after I was done and took the steps slowly back upstairs, heading for the wardrobe and the dress bag I’d hidden my new purchase inside.

  I could hear Louis watching some game show as I changed, laughing with a beer in hand as he waited for seven p.m. to roll round. We were even taxiing together, just not partying together…

  After half an hour trying to do up the zip at the back, I gave up. I slipped my feet into my black velvet sling backs and walked down the stairs holding my dress against my chest, hoping he would zip me up without any sort of negative, critical comment.

  I stepped into the living room and asked in a quiet voice not becoming of me, “Louis, will you zip me up?”

  He turned and saw me, startled because I’d crept down so slowly. He dragged his eyes the length of my body and I saw him visibly tense. He pressed the remote and the TV switched off.

  He stood without effort and strode to me, his face set in anguish as he came up behind me to zip me up. We both listened to the agonising creak as he slowly helped me into my outfit for the night.

  He placed his hands on my waist after I was in and settled his chin on my shoulder.

  “Who’s it all for?”

  I turned suddenly and he looked sad. He actually… no… I thought… I thought he was joking.

  I actually thought he was joking.

  Yet the look in his eyes said he actually thought I didn’t want his baby because there was somebody else involved!

  When his expression didn’t change, I slapped his face. My hand stung and I was shocked at myself, and he was shocked at me, too. He must have known he’d hurt me.