Fifty-one weeks of pleasure.
Poor me!
It’s amazing how only a week has passed. I feel like I’ve been living this life, the high life, for way longer. Daisy and I get on like a house on fire. As in, she sometimes looks at me as though I’m scary. But she’s slowly coming out of her shell around me and loved being in the gallery again on Tuesday.
Unlucky for her, she was back to school the following day. I’d assumed that would mean I’d have to go back to slumming it and using public transport. But when I came downstairs on Wednesday morning, phone in hand, trying to work out the Tube timings, I found a new face in the kitchen.
New to me at least because Luis’s face looks like it’s been around a few years.As well as a few fists. Anyway, he introduced himself to me as my new driver and has barely said a word more since. It’s all a bit strange. I can have a conversation with Sam, the chef, no problem. He speaks to me like I’m a regular person. Antonio will answer if I ask him a question, but Leo won’t even look me in the eye.
I don’t think it’s completely unrelated to how I’d found a Harrods bag on my side of the bed on Tuesday evening. Inside was something I hadn’t brought with me from my flat: a dressing gown. My old dressing gown was once fluffy but is now a littleratty. It has a hood with teddy bear ears, and you could probably soak it and make a pan of soup from the stains.
My new dressing gown, more rightly a robe, is made from oyster-colored silk, full-skirted and bell-sleeved. I feel like a silver screen goddess when I’m wearing it. But boy, are those sleeves annoying when you’re eating porridge.
And speaking of finding things on the bed, I’ve discovered bliss—multiple times—in Raif’s bed. Not that we’ve… at least, not all the way.
The first evening after our bathroom experience, shall we say, we found ourselves lying on opposite sides of the bed. I’d huffed and puffed, trying to find a comfy position, ending up on my back with my arms clamped over the bedding like one of those clips that keep your cornflakes fresh.
I stared at the ceiling, my breathing audible and awkward, while Raif inhaled and exhaled like a normal person. He’d smelled of soap and shampoo, and I’d wanted to snuggle closer. But that would’ve meant knocking down one or ten of my walls. Instead, I’d fussed and huffed and wished I was a braver person because I really wanted to cuddle, but instead, I’d shot myself in the bloody foot! I was just about to fling back the covers—maybe go get a drink of water—when Raif’s arm crashed over me like a wave, pulling me closer. Without saying a word, I’d nestled my head on his shoulder and dropped off to sleep.
It’s how our nights begin… my body fizzing with anticipation and somehow ending up with our mouths fused to one part of the other. No, that’s not true. The night usually ends with me staring up at the ceiling, smiling so brightly, I bet it can be seen by the stars.
I’m making hay while the sun shines. It won’t always be like this, I know. I do wonder how long it’ll be before he starts to get grumpy. Starts to pressure me. Expresses his disappointment with the situation.
So far, he hasn’t. But then again, I’ve gotten more action this week than I’ve had in the past five years. Maybe that’s the difference between men and boys. I don’t know. What I do know is I spend a lot of time being all “oh, no, please. I don’t think I could cope withanotherorgasm…”
And he dishes them out anyway.
Seriously, the man should give up his business and start a how-to school. It could be a philanthropic move, and his graduates highly sought after.
Seriously, men everywhere need to learn his technique!
“Thanks so much.”
I come back to earth as the door to the gallery opens, a woman in a tweed jacket and fedora slipping out.
“Oh yes. Have a lovely day!” The door closes, and I go back to my musing.
I wonder what Sam’s making for supper tonight? I could go for that duck ravioli again.
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus!” I cry as Tod materializes next to me. “You scared the daylights out of me.”
“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but.
“Have you dyed your hair?” I press my hand to his cheek to turn his head. “It’s shorter.” Not to mention golden in the sunlight.
“Yeah.” He tips his head, running his hand up the back of it in that adorably self-conscious way he has. Except I don’t seem to find it adorable anymore. “Do you like it?”
“The barber does highlights?”
“What?” He gives his head a quick shake. “I didn’t go to my usual place. Vinny did it.” He glances out the window to where tourists, yummy mummies, and office workers on their lunch trundle by in the sunshine. Everyone seems to be smiling, such are our reactions to British summertime.
“When?”
“Wednesday night. After work.”
“Oh.” Am I a bit miffed? Vinny is super skinny, super cool, has blue hair, and is full of piercings. But she’s also the owner of the salon across the way, so she also must be pretty astute. Or maybe not if she has a thing for starving artists.
