Damn this perimenopause.
‘What about me?’ his face softened and he moved to take her in his arms.
‘I don’t want to be like Evelyn. I don’t want to be discarded with you figuring out how to appease me, how much money to give to me so you can get on with your new life—’
‘What gave you that idea?’ he demanded. ‘I’m going nowhere. There is nobody else. Why did you even think that? Hey, I was proud of you this evening because those idiots at the table nearby were staring at you and I was thinking “she’s my wife, guys – hands off!” Why would I leave?’
With his arms around her, Callie allowed herself to sink into her husband’s embrace. She leaned her head against him, letting all the pent-up worry flood out of her.
‘I love you, only you. And Poppy, our own Teenager From Hell!’ he joked. ‘I adore you both, you never have to doubt me. Don’t you believe me?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffled. ‘But you’ve been so preoccupied lately, busy, not talking and I thought—’
‘You’re one crazy woman,’ he said, and swooped her up in his arms. ‘I don’t care if you’re not finished with the creams and the serums, honey, you’re coming with me. Now. To bed. To have wild sex.’
‘I’m getting old,’ wailed Callie.
‘We’re getting older,’ corrected Jason, negotiating the bedroom door with his foot. ‘So what? You’re still as beautiful today as you were when I met you.’
He laid her on the bed, pulled off his shirt and trousers until he was down to his boxers.
‘Let’s get you out of those wet clothes and into a nice warm bed,’ he said.
Callie laughed.
‘They’re not wet,’ she said.
‘Work with me here,’ he said, unclasping her nude bra and letting her small breasts spill out into his hands. ‘Definitely wet,’ he murmured, leaning down to suck her nipples. ‘And these ...’
His hands found her panties, a wisp of lace. He reached past the lace to touch her and she arched her back.
She felt ready for him: soft and ready, unlike so often lately when she’d felt as if lovemaking was akin to having her desert body invaded.
But tonight, now, she felt sexual and loved. Desirable.
The next morning, Callie practically danced down the stairs to the kitchen. Her body ached pleasurably, the tiredness of lovemaking she hadn’t felt for a long time.
So, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror as she shrugged into a sweatshirt and sweatpants,you’re not twenty anymore.
Who gave a damn?
You’re a modern, intelligent woman with a man who loves you and get over yourself with your neuroses and your fears of your husband cheating.
No man who was cheating on his wife could make love to her twice in one night when they’d been together for over twenty years.
Beat that, you smug young things, Callie thought.
Mug of coffee in hand, she wandered into the newly completed conservatory, where Jason sat at one end of a huge Norwegian table, the Sunday papers spread out in front of him.
‘Hi honey,’ she said, leaning over Jason and giving him a lingering kiss on the mouth.
He didn’t kiss her back.
‘Your ex is all over the news again,’ he said.
Callie sighed. She hadn’t had enough boyfriends to wonder which one – and only one of them had become one of the most famous men in the world. Damned Ricky.
She’d dated him for three wonderful years, but by the time she turned twenty-one, Ricky was an addict. Callie had ended it, terrified by the ferocity of his addiction. Ricky had gone to London, made it big there and then vanished totally from her life.
