Somebody to Love

Day Six of the Season of Love! How are we feeling? Mushy? I'm taking it back though. Back to old days of school and boys and in particular that one boy who could have done with a slap but if you used your lips instead, he'd totally get the point. What? What did I say?

Crossed Wires © Billy London 

Nina saw that idiot through her bedroom window and thrust the blinds down. Absolute fucking bully, how dare he turn up at her house? She was glad she’d hit him and she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Of course she’d risked being expelled for fighting but she wasn’t on the athletics team for nothing. The moment she spotted teachers heading their way, Nina legged it. Quite literally, the girl became smoke. If anyone knew it was her, it’d be because Connor said it was her. Twat. She was fed up of him. The Big I Am. He’d teased her for the last time and she lost her temper. Until that moment, giving Connor Sands dirty looks whenever he walked past her in the school corridors satisfied her. They weren’t in the same class for him to irritate the hell out of her. But he got away with it because he was the school’s football star. “He’s buff!” was the general consensus from the girls in her years, and a few boys too to be fair. Connor needed a smack in the face. And that’s exactly what Nina had done.  

Downstairs, Nina heard her mother opening the door, her slightly accented voice floating up the stairs. ‘Hello Connor, nice to see... Oh my word! What happened to your face?”

“Nina and I had a fight,” the bastard said bluntly. 

Her mother was silent and Nina cringed. She was so dead in three, two… “Marina Adeome! Get down here now!”

Nina folded her arms and sullenly made her way down the stairs. This was her turf. No way was this fool getting away with anything. “Yes mother?” She said with a straight face. Her gaze wavered to Connor, purple blooming around his normally crystal blue eyes. Served him right. Now he couldn’t play on his looks. Maybe. A small smile curved his lips. Dammit.

Nina’s mother pointed to Connor. “Did you hit him?”

She shrugged, not taking her eyes from Connor who mouthed at her, “You’re in deep shit.”

Her mother placed her hands over her face, and wailed, “Oh my god. What will his parents say? Apologise. You have to. Say sorry!”

“No!” Nina threw back. “I’m not saying sorry to him. He made me!”

Her mother started to argue with her with Connor interrupted. “It’s true Mrs Adeome. It’s my fault.” Both Nina and her mother stared at him. The hell just happened? Did he just take the blame for what was legitimately his fault? “Can I talk to her for a minute, please? Would you mind?”

Nina’s mother closed the door behind him and led them into the living room. “Connor, I don’t know what’s gone on, but don’t leave here without an apology from her.” Nina saw her mother’s fingernail too close to her eyeball. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

As soon as the door closed, Nina exploded. “So it’s not enough that you’ve probably got me in trouble at school, now my mother is going to beat me to death because you,” she hit him on the arm, “won’t. Shut. Up!”

He caught her by both hands. “Oi! Stop with the violence!”

They both looked to where he gripped her. Something in the air changed. Why did he have hands on her? She snatched her hands out of his grasp and Connor looked towards the doorway. They waited for her mother to return but the hallway remained silent. “Look, I wasn’t doing anything to your locker.”

“I saw you! You were!”

Connor chucked his bag to the carpet and rifled around in it. “No, I was trying to leave you this.” He shoved a red envelope into her hand.

“What is this?” She held a corner between two fingers, as if it was diseased. “What’s in this? What did you do to it?”

“Open it The Brain,” he snarled at her. 

“Don’t talk to me like that!” She warned. Connor caught her by the tie and pulled her forward so fast she fell face first into his chest. Scrambling to lift herself away from him, she found her hands pressed to his chest. “The hell?”

“‘This hell.”

He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. Lips that girls in her class had sighed and oohed over. A mouth that had only crossed her mind with a means for it being smacked severely; and that mouth moulded to hers. Connor Sands was kissing her. Had she really hurt his head that bad? Nina gripped his forearms to steady herself and nearly shrieked at the tense muscle beneath her fingers. Now she got it. Red envelope. Her locker. Constant teasing. God he was a wimp, why hadn’t he talked to her before? Oh yeah. She hit him. And had threatened to hit him before. Connor lifted his head. “I like you. Just don’t hit me.”

“I will if you deserve it,” she retorted.  

The floorboards squeaked and Connor near threw her across the room, folding his hands behind his back and looking at the ceiling. Nina sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs as her mother opened the door.

“You two made up?”

“Almost,” Connor explained and Nina had to admire his smoothness. “Would you mind if I came over a bit later?”

“For?”

“Girlfriend/boyfriend stuff,” he said glibly and Nina choked on the soul trying to escape her body in shock. “That’s why we fought. Valentine’s day. I need to make it up to her.”

“Well I hope your version of making it up to her doesn’t involve your penis young man.” Her mother said, arching her eyebrows.

Nina and Connor turned flame red. “Wow,” Connor said eventually. 

She had to be hallucinating. Connor kissing her and her mother talking about penises had to be a figment of her imagination. Nina got to her feet. “I’m just going to go and hang myself now.”

“Connor, come around at seven. Nina’s father and I will be in the next room but we can put some food aside for you both. Don’t let her get away with hitting you.”

Connor didn’t take his gleaming eyes from her face. “I won’t.”

As he left, Nina grabbed the card and opened it. A hideously cutesy rabbit hugging a teddy bear beamed at her. Inside Connor had written I promise I’ll stop winding you up if you come out with me. What do you think?

Nina had never been particularly concerned with boys and their ilk before, but the card and the memory of Connor’s kiss all seemed to promise one thing. She really was in trouble. 

Love Story

Day five of the Season of Love continues with an affirmation of love. Sometimes faith in your loved one is having a motivational speech just at the right time. The picture is the "Bride on the Rocks" a natural formation in the Amalfi Coast.You can see the mini tiara and the bouquet and the neatly coiffered hair. That reminds me, I haven't worn my BTP tiara for ages. May run around with it tonight...


The Bride © Billy London 

Cezar stared at his reflection in the toilet mirrors. Last time as an unmarried man, he thought with a lurch in his stomach. He could still feel The wooden pew of the registry office beneath his thighs and on examination he saw splinters in between the cotton weave of his one expensive suit.
He'd bought it for his aunt's wedding last year, always thinking if he ever was drugged into marriage, he'd buy himself something decent. Instead, there'd been an unnatural rush to make them man and wife. His fiancée waited outside for him. Somewhere. Could he call her his fiancée? They barely had an engagement. To be fair they barely had the time to fit this wedding in. As soon as they decided they were on the marriage conveyer belt at the first available date was Valentines Day. They'd travelled to the registry office on the tube, people staring at him in his suit and Lacey in her white prom dress. She looked like a girl from a Bruno Mars video. A throw back to the 50s. Her baby bump had barely showed with the froth of so many netted skirts. He'd eyed the man opposite who tried to take a sly picture and motioned shooting him. The phone was hastily put away. It wasn't like he doubted Lacey. She was too good for him and everyone knew it. Except Lacey...
"Oi," his best man and witness popped his head around the door. "Lacey's doing a runner."
Snatching up his jacket, Cezar ran out of the gents. "Where?"
"Back to the tube station. Her mate trying to talk to her."
Cezar hurried out of the registry office and sprinted in the direction of the beehive and white dress. "Lacey!" He yelled.
She turned around along with Amanda, a friend she'd had since her school days. Amanda made an apologetic face and mouthed, "Couldn't stop her."
"Lace, what are you doing?" He asked, breathing heavily.
She put her hands on her hips and stared across the road at the traffic instead. "Wrong question. What are we doing? Seriously what are we doing here?"
His first trial as a husband. Okay, he could do this. The words were in him somewhere if Lacey would give him a minute to think. Before she started off back to the tube again, he caught her by the arm. "Don't go."
"A little bit if humiliation now is better than a lifetime of me resenting you or you hating me for taking your freedom away."
Cezar's eyes nearly fell out of his head. "You think this is about embarrassment?"
Her lips tightened in disapproval. "You're raising your voice."
"Because you're not making any sense!" He burst out. It took him a moment to gather himself, closing his eyes briefly. "We talked about this."
"And then the actual day arrives and... Cezar, didn't you see all those people with their friends and family? Happy? Waiting for this day for years? And then there's you and me. Rushing in to cover for a mistake."
"That's not true," he denied. "Okay we weren't expecting a baby but you and I said we wanted something different than what we went through. I still don't know my dad and you said you wouldn't want your kid running between two homes."
Lacey's eyes filled with tears and she looked across the road at passing traffic. "I'm scared. I don't know anyone my age with kids but believe me I wouldn't have even asked you to marry me if I didn't fundamentally think you were the woman I wanted to spend my life with."
She took a step towards him and it was all he needed to embrace her. "We don't have to get married," she murmured.
"Tax credits, tax breaks and benefits. It's more money for Mini You."
Lacey pulled back. "You've looked into it?"
He rolled his eyes. "I read that mother care catalogue you left in the bathroom. Everything's fucking expensive."
Removing a packet of tissues from his pocket, he withdrew one and gently dabbed under her eyes. "Out of everything, this is the best bit."
"I can't drink," she reminded him, her face set in annoyance. "Bruh, you can still dance. Let's go."
With a deep breath, Lacey nodded and held out her hand. As they turned back to the registry office, his best man waved then over. "Don't worry about the freak out Lace," he called, thrusting a thumb in the direction of the rooms. "Some birds found out the groom's been sleeping with er stepmum. It's a riot."
Cezar glanced at Lacey, who released his hand and started backing towards the tube again.  "It's a sign," she muttered, her eyes darting to escape.
"It is not a fucking sign, Lace. Lace!"
He supposed it would be good practice for running around after a toddler...

Strange Love

Day Four of the Season of Love continues with a blind date and low expectations! Aren't they always? 

Red Dress © Billy London 

Patrick despised his friends. Truthfully, they were interfering bastards. All of them making him feel like some ageing, desperate, eternal bachelor who would die alone, or most likely propped up on a bar trying to flirt with eighteen year old girls; his dentures falling out of his mouth. Nice. Why he was still friends with any of them, he had no idea. Habit, he supposed. Fine. He’d suffer this blind date on the most overpriced, overly sensitive, commercialised clap trap of a day to see what bird was so special his friends thought to keep her out of his way for the four years they’d known her. 

The six of them were having an informal dinner, like a joint Valentine’s Day dinner. He knew whose idea this was. Bryan’s long term “partner”. Sodding Bryan. Habit. He’d known him for a thousand years, from playing rugby together. Polly’s determination came from Bryan’s own stupidity. He’d told the woman he shared his home, his fridge (greedy dick), his whole life with, that he’d only get married when Patrick was in a stable relationship. And fuck if Polly didn’t want to be married. Three years ago married.

Hard faced Polly opened the door to him, her face instantly set into a manic grin. “Hello IPad. Don’t you look smart?”

Patrick smiled and handed her the bottle of Moët. “Hi Pol. Alright?”

“Marvellous. Everything’s ready we’re just waiting on your late arse.”

“What did you make?” He asked genially. “Beans on toast?”

Polly’s smile turned into a grimace. “Just get in here.” 

Patrick made his way to the dining room located on the right side of the house. The table was set in red and cream with rose petals strewn between the cream coloured dinner service. Candice and Tom, Tom being another of his rugby friends, were cuddled together. Elliot, a friend from university, and his wife Flora gave him intently unsubtle thumbs ups.

Bryan had his arm around the chair of probably the most ridiculously beautiful women he’d ever seen off the pages of magazines. Five years after the date, Patrick was asked in the future what she was wearing the first time they’d met and all he could recall was the colour red. Chinese New Year red. London route master bus red. Poker chip red that clashed so fantastically with the auburn tint to her loosely curled hair and the cocoa of her skin. 

“Paddy!” They all suddenly chorused and Miss World turned to him and smiled. And that’s how you break a man’s heart. With a smile. Bryan looked disappointed and stood up. “IPad this is Emelie.” 

Emelie stood up and caught his hand in her own, simultaneously leaning over to kiss Patrick on both cheeks. His face felt as if it were on fire and the scent of a rich perfume clouded his mind. “Nice to meet you, at last. I've heard so much about you. All in the advertising and you're not as scary as some would have me believe.”

It took him a moment to recover and said with an honesty that had abandoned him the entirety of his dating life, “I’m sorry, you are absolutely gorgeous.”

Emelie laughed. “Thank you. Did you have some Dutch courage before you turned up?”

“I didn’t think I’d need it. Why haven’t I met you before?” He asked, not releasing her hand even as they sat down.

“I don’t think you were allowed,” Emelie teased. “Apparently, you’re a bit of a man whore. But, you’re now a born again virgin and therefore permitted to communicate with us normal folks.”

“You’re not normal folks,” he disagreed instantly. They still hadn’t let go of each other’s hand.

“Hello Patrick,” Bryan interrupted. Finally, Emelie and Patrick released each other.

“Alright Bryan?” Patrick replied, his gaze sliding from his friend back to Emelie. “Why didn’t you introduce us before?”

“She called it,” Bryan huffed. “Man whore.”

Emelie coughed. “Do you have room to talk?”

The table fell silent as Polly brought in a large, steaming dish. Never one to be affected by awkwardness, Patrick ignored the tight look on Bryan and Polly’s faces to engage his date in lovely, exclusive conversation. And how they talked. He didn’t remember there were other people in the room. Bryan did his best to involve himself in the chat that skipped from their mutual travels through Scandinavia and South America, to their mutual love of the country side and the importance of a fry up on a Saturday morning. All the time they riffed and rubbed each other for being sad sacks who needed help on “V” day, he couldn’t help thinking that there had to be something fundamentally wrong with her that she was single. He hardly touched the Shepherds pie Polly had made – to be honest, it was burnt to a cinder – and instead made sure Emelie’s wine glass remained topped up.

“Dessert in a bit,” Polly announced, looking frazzled. Patrick risked a glance at Bryan who seemed surly, picking at the label of his beer bottle rather than talking to his girlfriend or their other friends for that matter. Emelie got to her feet and Patrick rose immediately. She laughed at him. “I’ll be two minutes. What have you been watching? Downton Abbey?”

“Preparation,” he retorted, not sitting down as Emelie gathered a scarf and her handbag.

“Oh if you want to smoke, you can go outside.” Polly said, directing Emelie to the garden. Gracefully, she left the table with another of her blinding, Hollywood smiles. Patrick took a half second before following her. 

“Oh god, don’t lecture me about the dangers of nicotine,” she begged, a cigarette dangling from her bottom lip. “I told my brother I’d give up.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows and nicked a cigarette from her packet. “When are you trying that? New Year’s Resolution?”

He flicked on his lighter and touched the flame to the end of her smoke before lighting his own. “Sod off,” she grinned. “You know Bryan didn’t say you smoked.”

“I bet he didn’t. Can’t believe he’s kept you to himself for all this time.”

Emelie blew a plume of smoke to her left. “Actually that’s more my fault.”

“Why?”

“Come on. You know your mate is a massive player.”

Patrick glanced down at his shoes. Fuck. Would she lump him in the same category. “And I thought if that man’s got any single friends then they’ll be the same.”

He tapped ash from the end of his cigarette. “Do you still think that?”

“We’ve just met,” she reminded him kindly. “Can’t judge you so fast.”

He felt a slither of relief before Emelie returned to the subject of Bryan. “Polly met me for the first time last week. We were all having a post work drink. We landed this humongous campaign for this clothing company. Bryan was being… a little over familiar and Polly… wasn’t entirely happy. I get her thinking. If I’m taken up by a friend of his, he may not go there. It beggars belief. Rather than talking to her boyfriend, she’d rather set me up. Even if he was as good looking as you, he’s taken. He may not believe that…”

Patrick didn’t speak for a long time, his thoughts a jumble of Emelie calling him good looking and Bryan trying it on with her and Polly managing as per usual. Instead, he watched his and Emelie’s breath misting and mingling in the cold. “Polly believes it.”

“And I get it. She’s invested a lot of time in this relationship. Why wouldn’t she believe that her boyfriend is faithful and hasn’t looked in another woman’s direction?”

“He doesn’t value what he has.”

Emelie tapped her cigarette and watched him, contemplation in her liquid, onyx eyes. “I was always told to measure a man by the company he keeps.”

“You’re my company at the moment,” he countered. “Feel free to measure.” The smile she sent him was pure mischief and he wondered how he’d managed in his life without seeing that lift of her lips on a daily basis. “Listen, I can be sorry for my friend spraying the neighbourhood like a tom cat or I can instead take you out and prove to you that I’m different.”

“That was a pitch and a half,” she praised.

He chuckled. “I’ve done better.”

Emelie extinguished her cigarette and did the same to his. “Let’s hear it.”

Patrick placed his palms warmly on her waist, his thumbs dragging back and forth over her abdomen. There were words he’d need to say, something to convince this woman that he was worth her time. Worth Saturday breakfasts together, planning trips to the Lake District, crosswords on the tube to work, worth putting up with Bryan and Polly or maybe extracting themselves from that disaster area altogether. That he wasn’t his friend. Or a man whore. That instead he could be someone she could look at in ten, twenty, fifty years time and think I’m so glad I gave him a chance. “Time share in Columbia.”

Emelie threw her head back and laughed. “You can do better than that.”

Patrick swore that was the moment he fell in love with her. Because he definitely pitched better than that.

Photo courtesy of Ed Isaacs/Dreamstime Stock Photos

Made To Love

Day Three my love bunnies! I'm on a couples' trip; celebrating all the machinations that couples have to engineer in order to be alone on the most romantic day of the year. It's good for all of us. Oh and the photo is a Plasticine model of a married couple doing the naughty. It's not my creation. One is not as talented...

Set On You © Billy London 

Aisling

“She’s not going,” my husband announced before I even finished the sentence.

“Babe…” I started, only to be on the receiving end of his bowel loosening stares. Oh dear. I’d already told Philly that she could go on a date with one of Joseph’s friends. The boy was very sweet and they were only going to the pizza place and follow it up with one of those guns, machines and explosion films at the cinema. Joseph would drop them and pick them up at the film’s end.

“What did I just say?”

Rather than seeing the bigger picture, my normally docile as a rabbit husband was focused on a hormonal teenager being within touching distance of his baby girl. It would mean both our children out of the house and we could enjoy one night, just one night in bloody ages – after examinations and tutors and collecting people from sporting activities and driving them to see grandparents who would only have them for a few hours. Selfish geriatrics. I’d picked out, or rather my daughter allowed me to pick out a date appropriate outfit for her. If my husband saw, even he couldn’t disapprove. Maybe. He was far too overprotective. I just wanted rid. And if I needed my plan for Joseph and Philly to be out of the house within the next three years to work, then this was stage one. Valentine’s Day alone. Pitch the good life to the House Master General.

“Babe, listen,” I said, my tone suggestive, “you know Joe won’t let anyone put a hand on his sister. And he’s really good friends with Pete. They’ll look after her.”

My husband dissolved into full Irish rage, his accent so thick I could barely understand him. I caught the words “fucker” and “precious” and “Virgin” and “dies”.  But that was about it. I left the room to get myself a glass of water and came back. He was still raving mad. Taking a deep breath I placed my hands on either side of his bearded face and squished. “I told her yes.”

His dark eyes flashed and I nearly bottled it. “You did what?”

“It’s for us.” I soothed. Tried. God he was mental.

“What did I say to you about making decisions about our children without talking to me?” He’d said a lot and he’d been right about it. Poor Joseph, he had been the guinea pig for our parenting, but he’d turned out fine. And would I ever admit that my husband was right? Would I fuck.

“It is just this once. Because Philly’s going with the equivalent of the Queen's Guard.”

He crossed his arms and looked over my shoulder “I’m so angry with you right now.”

Liar. I dotted kisses all over his face until he protested, trying to edge me away with a tattooed arm. “Stop your madness!”

“Oh come on, don’t be a grouch!” I begged. “I want us to have a nice night.”

“A nice…? How are we going to do that if I’m worried about if some little dicked cunt is trying to fiddle with my child?”

“She’s sixteen.”

My husband pointed at me. “If she gets pregnant, and we survive the Apocalypse I will reign if she does, you’re raising that baby.”

I swivelled around to look for the other person he must be referring to. He couldn’t possibly mean me. I was fully over babies. I was only excited about tonight because I’d had a thorough bikini wax, my back wasn’t giving me any problems and I didn’t feel gassy. “Me? And what will you do?”

“Time for murder, woman, what do you think?”

With another huff he left the room. Hell. Why was he being so irritable? He knew how important it was for us be alone with each other, which had been lacking. I was fed up of quickies and muffling my good time. I wanted to have oysters and caviar and asparagus and be freaking loud! No dirty looks from either of my children, who had – and it was best for their psyche – no idea that my husband could make me black out. Not remember the last half hour, whole body pulsating, have to crawl to the bathroom black out. Mummy wasn’t getting any and mummy was getting irritable. Fucking irritable.

Philly would talk him around. If she wasn’t my daughter, I’d be jealous of how my husband accepted her words of wisdom and doubted mine unless they featured food or my breasts or what was happening in the government. My dinner better be spectacular if I was to get my way. Really. All this effort just to have my husband’s head between my legs for five minutes without being interrupted. 

Diarmuid

I watched my daughter perched primly in the back seat of Joseph’s KA. I had to give my wife props for selecting her date outfit. Plus it was too cold for her to be wearing anything other than four layers and a coat and scarf. With her wild curls gleaming in the street light, she grinned at me and waved while Joseph sent me a sarcastic salute and drove off into the distance.

Quite frankly if I punched something, I’d have a right to. My baby, the one who still called me Daddy, was out on a date. I’d been so annoyed with my wife I nearly forgot what day it was. Sneaky mare that she was, she’d put a reminder in my phone to make sure I didn’t forget. The gift was half hearted. A voucher for her salon so she could enjoy a day of pampering. Not that she deserved it after this little stunt.

What I really wanted to do was drive to the complex and put little Pete in my cross hairs and take a shot if his hands hovered anywhere near the personage of my baby. With a sigh I headed to the kitchen for a beer. Deep down I knew Philly was sensible and like her mother, had a vicious streak in her if she ever felt threatened. We’d talked a lot about boundaries only for Philly to tell me, “Daddy, he’s in the gospel choir. He knows the bible better than you.”

Church boys were even worse, I thought in disgust. “I just want to make sure…”

“Daddy,” she said, big eyes focused on me with nothing but sympathy. “I remember everything you taught me. Aim for the nearest artery. I’ll be fine.”

She’d hugged me and for a silly moment, I felt emotion clog my throat. I’d blinked and she’d grown up. When she was little, no more than five, she’d gone to nursery and they’d made paper hearts and baked heart shaped biscuits. She’d given one to me as soon as I got home from work, telling me I'd always be her Valentine. I’d happily kill a bloke over my wife. My daughter? I’d raise a fucking city. But my wife and son and said daughter all told me that she was safe and protected and I shouldn’t mop…

Ah. That’s why the wife wanted everyone out. Wearing a nightgown that seemed to be peekaboo all over, with lace cut outs, my wife leaned over the dining table, lighting three candles in the centre of the darkened room. The kitchen looked like a boudoir, with silk scarves scattered over the room, draped over the windows. She caught my stare and smiled. “Now, do you think if your baby was upstairs demanding a can of diet coke and playing The Wanted at full damn volume, we’d be able to do this?”

Sneaky, sly, terribly clever woman. Sometimes when I looked at her, all I saw was the cheeky girl from communion who spent the service turning up the hem of her dress. Other times, I realised that I’d married a nympho. She snuggled up behind me and edged me into a chair. “For your starter, my darling, mango and lobster salad.” 

“You never let me eat lobster any more,” I reminded her, her breasts pressing to my shoulder as she leaned over me to drape a napkin on my lap. My body hummed in response to her sweetly scented skin warmly seeping through my shirt.

“And for main, we have veal chop.”

“You don’t let me eat red meat either.” One word from the doctor on cholesterol and she’d lost her damn mind.

“And for dessert,” she whispered, filling my glass with champagne, “you get to eat the sweetest thing that ever gave you two beautiful children.”

Game, set and match. We never had time for dessert these days. She was right. Time alone would be worth it. “For the next two hours, I don’t have children,” I growled. My wife laughingly pressed her mouth to mine.

“What children?”

Love Me Again

Day two of the season of love and one moves on to expectations behind the glory of Valentine's Day. Now I'm not saying I've done anything near what Eden does in this story, but... Yeah. Not answering that one. I dunno, there's something about this day that turns normally sane women into... AHS: Asylum inmates. Sister Jude, singing and dancing on tables in choreographed moves, insane. 

Undercover Love © Billy London

“Going for a shower, E,” Henry threw over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom, not even bothering to wait for a reply. Eden waited until the door was shut and the shower ran before she grabbed his phone. “Gimmie the goods,” she whispered, going first to where Henry organised his entire life.

Reminders 

Flowers - not those fkn expensive ones. Tesco does nice bunches for a tenner.

Chocolates - Waitrose is on the way from home. Not going to the poncy place in Selfridges.

New threads - I is worth it.

Not getting jewellery. Woman’s expectations far too high. Last ones I bought her she fkin exchanged them. Like I wouldn’t notice! I didn’t. I just heard her on the phone with her awful flatmate.

No jewellery? Eden thought, her lip curling in disgust. What the… Emails. He must have changed his mind. No way he could turn up to their dinner tomorrow and not give her something from somewhere that hopefully ended with either Garrad or & Co or Fennel.

From: Mattthelad@g...com>

To: HMarkham@g...com>

Re: Le Monde

12 February 2014 15.29

Sorry mate, I really tried to get you a booking where Sarah and I had our party. They can give you a discount for the day before. Say you’ve got meetings for Valentine’s Day? She may buy that. Or here. Have a look at these. They’re the ones that Sarah said weren’t good enough. Your bird isn’t mentally unstable so... Give it a go.

From: orders@SeleneReyceDesigns.com  

To: HMarkham@g...com

Re: order confirmation order no 5897851

12 February 2014 16.05

Dear Henry,

Thank you for your glorious purchase. It’s fancy. We know because we made it. The details of your order are below. If anything is wrong, shoot us an email back and we’ll get it sorted.

Best wishes and enjoy.

Order No: 5897851

‘Klark’s Girl’ dress size 8 quantity 1 price £350.00

Subtotal: £350.00

P&P: £0.00

Grand Tota: £350.00

Promo code: NXTDYDELIV

From: Spotify.com

To: HMarkham@g...com

Re: The Woman’s Terrible Choice In Music playlist

12 February 2014 20.58

Hello Henry, your friend hmarkham@g...com wants to share this “The Woman’s Terrible Choice In Music” playlist with you. Download the link to play anywhere.

Me: Hmarkham@y...com

To: CastleE@y...com

FW: Re: VD goodies

13 February 2014 10.07

No. No. No.

Don’t buy anything, don’t order anything, don’t arrange anything. No. I know this is the one day shit is forced upon me and I will get to it therefore I beg you on the fur of your aged cat, stop. Hassling. Me. About. It. If you don’t stop, you’re not getting anything. Not even a touch of the wang. I’m not even lying. Xh 

How disappointing. The information read all at once flattering and insulting. Good thing he’d ordered something from her favourite designer. Selene Reyce fitted her perfectly, whether she was having a bloat day or having a skinny day. Nothing on the jewellery. Terrible man. Why not? Two years! Eden sang louder than anyone to Beyoncé but now Single Ladies shamed her each time it shuffled in her gym playlist. They’d talked marriage. Well Eden mentioned it and Henry changed the subject after declaring it was a one day party that often cost a person’s yearly salary. He wasn’t wrong about that but still. Eden’s father was limping worse than ever, his old knee injury had put a strain on his walking. How he’d be able to escort her down the aisle without a cane... Ooh maybe she could work canes into the wedding scheme. 

She was a girl who’d planned her big day on a daily basis. Her little wedding plan (directory) was stored under her bed with every little detail worked out. All she needed was the man to slip into the role. And while Henry Markham wasn’t perfect, he... He existed. Shared her meals, toothpaste and bed three times a week. She could bear his bodily odours and his commentary on her own weren’t entirely soul destroying. When she had fibroids, he was the one who’d taken her to the hospital, waited for the operation to be over, driven her home and waited on her hand and foot for her to recover. Henry made a damn good brunch, knew how to grill a tuna steak to perfection, knew when to leave chocolate in the fridge for her and when he could snap her knicker elastic for a good time. Honestly, the man knew her cycle better than she did. She supposed it was in his interest to know it better than she did. Wait, wait, wait. “Mum’s email address.”

From: Vera.Castle@g...com 

To: HMarkham@y...com

13 February 2014 19.23

All this technology and I still can’t see why you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me...

“Because you and Dad live in Spain, Mum and it’s bloody expensive,” Eden murmured.

But I can be grateful that you did ask me and Mr. Castle before you sucked up any more of my daughter’s reproductive time. If you need to know anything else, do let me know. I doubt anyone knows my child as well as I do. 

Kind regards,

Pamela Castle

Wow, mum, Eden thought. If you’re advertising for mother in law, you failed that interview.

Just as she began to scroll down to see Henry’s message that prompted the email, a voice disturbed her. “Eden Castle that is not your phone.”

The phone flew out of her hand and landed with a cracking sound on her wooden floor. Tucking her hands under her bottom, she turned her head and sent her boyfriend a disarming grin. Wearing only boxer shorts, Henry Markham made quite a visual statement leaning in the doorway of her bedroom. 

“Why are you trawling through my phone?”

Well bugger it. “I wanted to know what you were getting me for Valentine’s Day.”

His voice lowered, his precursor to roaring at her. “Why?”

“So I wouldn’t do what I did last year which is get you something ridiculously expensive and you get me something from the clearance bin in Primark!” Henry started laughing, riling her temper. “It’s not funny you prick! That Formula One experience was expensive!”

“I hate driving. You shouldn’t have spent so much money on something Matt would have told you I despised.”

“Matt was the one who told me to buy it,” she said through her teeth. Henry laughed even harder. She sat back on the bed and folded her arms.

“Can I have my phone back now please?”

She wanted a hand towards the floor. “You can collect it.”

“You’re so rude. I’ve never known anyone so changeable.”

She blew a raspberry at him. “I just don’t worship you.”

He bent down to pick up his phone and started tapping away at the screen. “You would if we were talking the symbol Au.”

“I’m not that shallow,” she sniffed. Finished with the phone, Henry put it in his jacket pocket and perched on the bed, his arm braced against her thigh. He smelled good. Really good. Good enough that she considered biting his nipple good. And he liked it when she did that. “What do you want?” she asked as he continued to watch her, eyebrows arched like an owl’s.

“Say you’re sorry.”

She held up her hands defensively. “I’m just preserving my bank balance.”

“Eden...”

Sighing, she tapped her feet impatiently. “Sorry.”

He curved his palm over her cheek, trailing his nose over her skin. “Like you mean it.”

“I’m sorry.”

He pecked her on the mouth and shifted her to the left side of the bed. “Good girl. As long as you act surprised when I propose tomorrow, we’ll be fine.” Her mouth fell open. He tugged the duvet to his chin and yawned heavily. “Night E.”

The bastard was double bluffing her, she thought. She’d rumbled him, no way he’d go through with it. Glancing down she looked at his hands. He’d had a manicure. Gaaah! She’d be an engaged woman on the cheesiest day on the planet. But engaged! 

“Henry,” she nudged him. “Look. The only way I’m going to sleep is if you bang it out of me.”

Through an almost incomprehensible yawn Henry pulled back the duvet. “Jump on then.”

Grimacing, Eden pulled her nightie over her head. “Don’t be so sure I’ll say yes tomorrow. You have an opportunity to earn it right now.”

Henry became alert. “Really? Your decision on whether to marry me or not is now reliant on my penis action?”

Eden leaned down, folding her arms on his chest. “Absolutely.”

He leaned up, dragging her against his torso. “As you wish madame.”