ARCHER
Two years on,and I’ve persuaded Heather to put those whisky and cigarette tones to use in an effort to revitalise the sex line business.
Only joking.
She uses those pipes for only good.
Oh, and on me.
Which is also good.
Except when those pipes are used to yellatme.
Usually because of something one of the dogs have done. Dogs plural because Elvis has a friend now; another rescue we found while on holiday in Greece. He was a tiny puppy, no bigger than the palm of my hand and he was so sickly. We took him to the nearest veterinary surgery, promising to pay for his treatment, and Heather got so attached to the little fella that we ended up visiting him every day.
There was no way we could leave him. So at the cost of many sleepless nights due him being unwell for quite some time, and a few more due to dealing with a foreign bureaucracy, plus the not insignificant cost of bringing him here, he arrived in London six months after we last saw him, approximately the size of a small horse.
Yeah, so I’m exaggerating. But not much. Ambrosius is bigger than Elvis and he’s not finished growing yet. And while I’d like to say he was named for the Roman fella who features in cool Arthurian legends, you know, Merlin and stuff, Heather named him for a character in the Labyrinth. Apparently, there’s nothing as sexy as David Bowie wearing tights. But I think she meant nothing as sexyafterme.
‘Can’t we leave yet?’ I slide my hands around her waist as Heather continues to fill the tray with child-sized canapes. Tiny hotdogs in slightly less tiny buns, crostini made to look like pizza, star shaped sandwiches—no crusts—and pigs in blankets.
‘No, we can’t leave.’
‘But we’re always at bloody parties.’ I press a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck. I love it when she wears her hair up. And I love when it’s down, too. Spread about our pillows like sunshine or held tight in my fist.
‘Mmm. That’s nice.’ She tilts her head to the side, allowing me better access. ‘Comes with the territory. I’ve got to earn a living.’
But she does it for more than that, and Little Red has gone from strength to strength under Heather’s attentions, Heather going from strength to personal strength during the process. It really has been a major boost for her confidence. She’ll always have those quirks of personality that she’d rather be without, but to me, they’re just facets of what make her Heather. Unique. Loveable. A wonderful woman. The woman I intend to one day be my wife.
One day. Possibly even today.
But for now, we’re stuck in the kitchen feeding guests.
‘It’s like that song, isn’t is?’ she almost purrs. ‘We’re always hanging out in the kitchen at parties.’
‘Because the kitchen is where the good stuff is at. Care to step into the pantry for a little fumble, good stuff?
The sultry sound of her laughter does nothing to turn down my ardour. In fact, it does the opposite.
‘What about the downstairs bathroom?’
‘Good try.’ She presses a quick peck to my cheek, ignoring the fact that my hands have migrated to her breasts.
‘I’m all partied out.’
‘That’s because you’re thirty now. Come on, old man, your guests are waiting.’
‘If there are anymore gag gifts, more pipe and slippers, and incontinent underwear, I’m throwing them all out.’
‘If you’re going to be grumpy, you won’t get my present when everyone is gone.’ She reaches across the worktop grabbing a pile of napkins.
‘Why can’t I have it when they’re here?’ I ask, taking the opportunity of her slipped attention to slide my hand up her thigh, gathering her dress to my wrist as I tease the silken skin of her thigh.
‘Archer we shouldn’t.’
And yet she’s pressing back against me, her palms on the countertop, her breathing a little rapid as I rub my finger over the lace of her underwear.
‘You were right!’ bellows a small child’s very loud voice. ‘They are doing the kissing thing!’
