‘That sounds lovely,’ I say brightly, even if I’d prefer a week in bed.With James.I pick my coat up from the chair and open the cloaks cupboard, hanging it inside.
‘It sounds like they’ve shoved all their shit onto you.’
‘That’s not true. Stuff just keeps going wrong.’
Wednesday it was an issue with the industrial generators hired for the event, yesterday it was the portable powder rooms. The rich and fabulous don’t use common old porta-potties.Heaven forbid they should be faced with rubber floors and cheap tissue. Their bums would probably stage a revolt.But fixing the issue, sourcing more, all fell to me. And yes, the job has been bigger than I’d expected, but I wouldn’t change it for the word. It’s been like a baptism of fire and next time won’t be half as hard. Because yes, I want to do this again. Even if it means begging contractors to deliver portable bathrooms that look like they belong in hotels, at prices that would make your eyes water.
Next time, I’m going to add in a commission of this type of thing.
‘Anyway, I managed to find some glittery boxes and some lovely matching ribbon.’
‘Fuck glitter.’ James’s clipped enunciation tightens something deep and twisty and entirely pleasurable in the pit of my gut. Not that he’d realise. ‘And yes, I called Heather when you didn’t turn up for dinner.’
‘I grabbed a sandwich from Tesco’s.’
‘That’s hardly dinner,’ he says, taking my hand and leading me up to the stairs. ‘And you might’ve answered my texts.’
‘And I would’ve done, but my phone went flat. Where are we going, anyway?’ With any luck, my tone sounds less hopeful and desperate and more slightly perplexed. But then again, if we’re going to the bedroom to resume our sex life, I might just beat him to the top of the stairs. And I expect I’d unrobe with the speed of Jim Carrey in that scene from the filmBruce Almighty.
‘I’m going to run you a hot bath. And if you’re a good girl, I’ll soap your back.’
‘Oh.’ Well, I suppose that’s a pleasant second.
35
James
It’s hardlylike she’s living here. Not at the minute. I’m just hanging on for the weekend when everything will change.
After the wedding.
After she tells Olivia she’s pregnant
After everything becomes official.
And she becomes mine again.
Hopefully.
I hate sharing her time and I’ve become... resentful. Resentful of the fact that Beckett and Oliva swanned off to Mustique, leaving the wedding planning in the hands of a woman who has only this week stopped hugging the lavatory. Not that they’re to know that yet. Or at least, Olivia isn’t to know. Beckett on the other hand, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind. Tear fucking strips off the man. Take my frustrations out on him, because it’s not like I can pick up the phone and bawl him out over this. Not without risking telling Miranda that he knows. He won’t have told Olivia. The facets of that man’s personality are many and varied. And, quite frankly, a bit shit.
Meanwhile, I feel almost impotent. Though notthatkind of impotent, proven by the heat seeking missile that is my penis most nights. It’s almost torturous sleeping next to her, keeping my hands, and missile, to myself. But the ball is in her court and I’m just waiting for a serve. A serve of Miranda spread out across the bed.
Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night.
I’m not intentionally withholding sex. Just waiting for her to make the first move.
And when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.
And Iwillfall on her like a thunderbolt. And expect it’ll be over just as quick as a lightning strike. Meanwhile, as I punch my pillow for the seventieth time tonight, I glance at her sleeping soundly, before I turn and try to get some rest myself.
* * *
Later, much later, I wake to a Miranda stirring in my bed.
Stirring. Crying out. Her hips rocking upwards.
My response a primal thing, even as my brain plays catchup, sleep dragging at it. I reach out and touch her hand, a shadow at first. But as my eyes adjust, I make out her palm held upwards on my pillow.An invitation I’ll take.
