SHELLY
The last week of the holiday flies by in a whirl of horse riding, dinners out, dinners in, beach days and pool days. The child-free afternoons have been few and far between with the nanny developing a sick bug, and in what little time Marcus and I have had alone, we’ve chosen to ignore the proverbial dancing elephant between us. I need to address it tonight, and not just because Aaron Wright rang earlier demanding an answer by midnight.
It’s our last evening. Ana and Rodrigo offered to babysit so we can go for dinner alone, promising the girls a movie night with popcorn. After a full day at the beach, Erin and Emily are wrecked, more than happy to flake on the couch. I would too, given half the chance, but when it comes to marriage, you get back what you put in. And ours needs a little TLC right now, especially before we head back to Dublin.
Our bags are packed, ready for tomorrow afternoon’s flight. Because we’re here three or four times a year, most of our stuff stays behind, meaning we can travel light.
We kiss the girls’ foreheads, but they barely glance up from the screen to acknowledge us leaving. A private hire car awaits to bring us to the marina, with the driver booked to collect us again at midnight.
‘Have fun, you guys!’ Ana raises her hand slowly in a lazy goodbye from her position in the reclining armchair.
‘Don’t let them stay up too late. They’ll be like a couple of weasels travelling home tomorrow,’ Marcus warns as he ushers me out the front door. His huge palm presses against the base of my spine. After ten years of marriage and almost seventeen years as a couple, he still manages to create a zinging sensation that snakes up my spine.
In the earlier years we were both insatiable. He was away a lot, either training or on tour. Whenever he got home we’d take straight to the bedroom, barely surfacing for entire weekends at a time. Through the years we’ve mellowed, other commitments taking our time, though the attraction still burns bright. Which is why it isn’t right that we’ve only had sex twice this week. Both times were frantic and rushed, the connection purely physical and not exactly emotional. I’d like to think it’s because we’ve been busy with the girls, but deep down I know it’s because we haven’t fully teased through theSexy Come Dancingbusiness.
Outside, the sky is a vivid shade of burnt coral and the gentle breeze blows with the scent of French lavender from the front garden. A ripple of anxiety whips through my tummy. Why am I anxious? I’m going out for dinner with my husband.
Trying to shake the uneasy feeling, I flick my honey-highlighted hair off my shoulders. The driver holds the car door open for us and we slip into the backseat. Marcus glances at my choice of outfit, a hot-pink slim-fitting dress with a slight plunge at the front. It rides up over my thighs as I sit, the charcoal leather seats cold on my bare legs thanks to the air conditioning. Hazel and gold flecked eyes drop to the top of my legs and his hand follows suit, settling a couple of inches above my knee. The touch of his warm skin is familiar and comforting against mine. Sighing, I release the last niggle of tension I’m holding. Everything will be ok. We’ll be ok. We always are.
‘To the marina?’ The driver checks with a brief glance in his rear-view mirror.
‘Please. We have a reservation at Rare,’ Marcus informs him.
Rare is our favourite restaurant in Vilamoura, a steakhouse serving the most succulent melt-in-the-mouth steaks. The triple-cooked parmesan chips are to die for.
The driver nods and starts the engine. We sit, each gazing out of our respective windows at the lush green scenery. It’s unlike either of us to be so quiet. Clearly, we need to talk, but where to start? I place my hand on top of his, the one that rests on my leg, and offer a gentle squeeze which he reciprocates. Within minutes we reach our destination, with the driver reassuring us he’ll return at midnight. That’s four and a half hours away. Hopefully it’s enough time for us to resolve our differences.
After recovering from the initial shock of being invited on the show, I’ve been thinking of little else all week. I’d love to accept. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to shine on my own and step out from Marcus’s shadow. I’m flattered they’d even consider me.
Accepting would give me a sense of independence; a chance to earn a bit of money for my family. Each contestant gets five hundred thousand upfront and the winner gets another five hundred thousand for themselves and a million to donate to a charity of their choice.
I know we don’t need the money, but I’d like to see where this chance might take me. I might land a permanent part-time job out of it – where, or what, I don’t know. Who knows? I could get voted out the first week. Or I might hate being away from the girls, but at least I won’t be left wondering.
A waiter in a black tuxedo leads us through the glass and chrome decked restaurant to an elevated window seat in the corner. Overlooking the stunning cerise sunset and the twinkling lights of the hundreds of docked boats, it’s one of the most romantic settings you could imagine.
Marcus orders a bottle of our favourite wine, Uivo Vinhas Velhas. At almost three hundred euro a bottle, I still flinch at the price. I was raised in a terraced house in Bluebell, Dublin, not exactly the nicest part of the city, despite its pretty name. We didn’t have a lot growing up, and we had even less after my father left. If it wasn’t for Marcus, I might still be sitting in that freezing hovel to this day.
As if he can read my mind, he leans across the table and takes my hand. Rough, powerful fingers stroke my skin with such tenderness.
‘Don’t feel bad, Shelly. We worked hard to be where we are today.’ His voice is gruff and low and tinged with a hint of pride.
‘I know. But sometimes I still can’t believe it.’ Crossing my legs under the table, my sandalled foot finds his calf and strokes. Whether it was fate or just luck that the man before me took a relentless shine to me when I was only seventeen, I’ll never know. But I’m so grateful for his persistence. I wasn’t an easy girl to crack, especially because I’d recently witnessed my father abandon my mother, and the repercussions. I vowed I’d rather spend a lifetime alone than be let down by a man the way she was. Marcus changed all that. He saved me.
‘Believe it, Shelly. It’s real.’ He winks at me as the waiter returns and uncorks the bottle. Marcus gestures for him to fill the glasses – we already know what it tastes like. We order the tomahawk, the restaurant’s signature dish, and chicken wings to start. The waiter leaves us to our own devices again.
Marcus raises his wine glass and clinks the crystal against mine. ‘Cheers,’ he says, solemnly.
‘Cheers. Thank you for a fabulous holiday.’ I blow him a kiss before taking a sip of the wine. It’s to die for. No wonder it’s so expensive.
‘Think how many bottles we’ll be able to buy with that extra five hundred grand you’ve got coming in.’ His expression softens, a grin pulling at his full lips as he winks at me once again.
‘Seriously?’ My shriek is loud enough to attract the attention of several neighbouring tables. Clutching my hand over my pink painted lips, I rush round to Marcus’s side of the table to plant an embarrassingly public display of affection on his face in the form of fifteen kisses. Lipstick marks line his freshly shaved jaw line.
‘Easy, girl,’ he warns with a snigger, catching my hand and brushing it discreetly over his hardening groin.
Returning to my own seat, I notice the two tables nearby grinning at us, both couples look to be in their twenties. I’m not sure if they recognise us, or if they’re just enjoying the show.
‘Marcus, I won’t let you down. You know I’d never do anything to jeopardise us, or this family.’
