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.”

No Ordinary Love

I went a bit Alias - Sydney forgetting two years of her life Alias - but then I remembered that we're now in the season of lurve! The endlessness of January is over and we're starting to plan the wonder of Valentine's Day. As a romance writer - alright, alright, erotic romance writer, this really should be my favourite time of year. (bugger off blogger, that's the right way to spell favourite). And amidst the booze and the shots and the champagne and the rolling around in rose petals and finding them in funny places the next day and the "we're not in the same time zone let alone the same city so let me send you some naughty photos" and the, "I actually do like you as a person and not just an appendage attached to a body..." Love, a rekindling, reawakening, renewed love may bloom. So for your entree, a mature romance. Again. I know...

Betty Tinted Glasses © Billy London

Betty adjusted the glass case of the cake stand she held, so the design on both items aligned perfectly. All this nervousness over a cake. For her next door neighbour. Her wonderful, terribly sweet next door neighbour. He’d only moved in last year bringing with him suave and sophistication and a frisson of excitement through the neighbourhood. Smith took one look at Dom and announced, “He dyes his hair.”

Betty thought it utterly bitchy of her husband to comment on another man’s well groomed looks.

Dom opened the door, black hair damp and a towel around his shoulders. “Hello Betty!”

“Oh I’m sorry,” she gabbled her words as the very masculine scent of sweat washed over her. It nearly made her drop the cake. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Don’t be silly. I was just practising for the competition. Come in. Come in.”

He stepped to the side and allowed her into his home. It was almost a mirror of her own house, but Dom’s hallway was filled with trophies he’d won over the years for his ballroom dancing. Betty’s hallway was scattered with Smith’s various shoes, golf bags and the walls were scuffed with his irons. Bloody husband.

“Come through.” Dom led her through the kitchen to a glass conservatory, the setting for an autumnal garden party last year. All the neighbourhood strays had meowed and whined around him, hankering for his attention. Betty worked the old school method. Sugar.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He asked. “If that cake is for me, it’ll go nicely.” 

“Of course it’s for you!” She handed it to him a coffee mousse cake, a recipe she’d found in a Sunday paper and practiced on her husband who had never in the forty years they’d been married enjoyed a cup of coffee. Dom deserved only the best. He lifted the casing and inhaled. 

“That smells delicious, Betty. Every time you bring something over it really is your best.”

Blushing, Betty tweaked a silver streaked curl at the back of her head. “Thank you.”

“How’s Smith?” He called from the kitchen. Betty barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Smith had no ambition, no hunger for anything since he retired from his job with the telephone company. Instead he golfed, painted, went horse riding, infuriating Betty daily. Horse riding? At his age? With his hip? The man had lost his marbles. She thought they’d be on cruises, holidays, looking into a holiday home abroad. Maybe nearer their son and grandchildren who lived in France. Smith was going through a second childhood. “He’s fine,” Betty dismissed. “What about you?”

“Working on the championships...” He walked back to the conservatory chairs with a tray of cups and a teapot. “Here we are. The doorbell just went. Dig in and don’t wait.”

He disappeared and Betty made herself busy, cutting generous slices of cake. Good work, she thought. Dom was all hers for at least an hour or two. She glanced up and saw Fiona Gould from number 48 sauntering in, carrying in a large bouquet of flowers. “Oh,” she said, her tone conveying her disappointment upon seeing Betty sitting there. “Hello Betty.”

“Fiona.”

Dom edged Fiona into a chair, taking the flowers from her hands and placing them in the kitchen sink. “Betty brought some delicious cake. I’ll bring another plate and cup.”

No! Betty wanted to scream. It’s meant to be the two of us! Fiona sat down, flicking immaculately coiffured hair over her shoulder. In the silence the two women examined each other with barely concealed dislike. “How is Smith?”

It was bad enough Fiona had spent most of the Carmichaels time on this street flirting abominably with Smith, but to muscle in on Betty’s tenuous relationship with Divine Dom was too much. “He’s keeping himself busy.”

“For a man turning seventy in a few years, he is looking very trim. Very well looked after.” Fiona picked up the plate of cake and delicately forked it between ruby red lips. “Yummy. You should sell this. Some women are made to feed men.”

Betty could have clawed her overly made up eyes out. Dom returned with a cup for Fiona.

“Cappuccino!” Before he could open his mouth the doorbell rang again. “It’s like Kings Cross station today! Excuse me ladies.”

Betty heard the voice long before the person appeared. Camille Passey was too loud, too brash and exposed her crepe-like bosom to all and sundry too often. Smith said to Betty it was probably the way she’d held people’s attention in the past and she’d never change. 

“Betty!” She cried. “I just dropped Smith off from the country club. He looks so well! Obviously enjoying the highlife. Cake? My goodness that’ll go straight to my hips. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about your weight Betty. Smith loves you just as you are, never mind how many young women want to seek his golfing advice!”

What? Women, young women showing interest in her husband? Jealousy bloomed in her generous bosom. No. Not today. Smith was her stable. The one surety in her life, even more than the bond she’d been given for her fifth birthday. The man was to her what the crows were to the Tower of London. Dom sat down and grinned between all three women. “Isn’t this cosy?”

Betty got to her feet. Looking at Dom she could see his hair was coloured and the dye had tinted his ears. With cake in the corner of his mouth and the street tarts all over him, she had never more wanted to hear her husband’s grisly voice. More accurately, she wanted to hear him explain what he was doing messing around with girls young enough to be his daughter. Or worse, granddaughter.

“I’ve got to go.”

Dom made a moue with his mouth. His lips disappeared into his face. Goodness, the scales truly had fallen from her eyes. He was bloody old. What on earth had she wasted her time on? “Are you sure? You’ve barely touched your food.”

“Don’t worry yourself. I better check on the ball and chain. See you.”

Hurrying home, she called her husband’s name as soon as she closed the door. Peeking into the living room she saw Smith had set up a picnic spread on their coffee table. The over baked coffee cake sat in crumbles on their wedding china, along with a beaded bottle of Dom Perignon. The irony, she thought. And he’d made such an effort. Poor Smith, he didn’t deserve a flaky eye wandering minx for a wife.

“Finished flirting with Dom?” He asked next to her. She yelped. 

“Don’t do that! You know I’ve got a weak heart!”

“And yet you keep baking.” He teased, flashing the dimple in his left cheek. “You think all that sugar and lard is good for you?”

All guilt for being flaky dissolved in irritation. “You still stuff your face with it.”

“Come in here, you moody mare. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He took her by the hand and sat her down. With a flourish, he popped open the champagne, his eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had been in his eyes when he’d chatted her up at the pub two miles from their house, forty two years ago. “Why’d you come running home, Bet?”

“Your friend Camille drove you back from the club.” She could hardly keep the irritation out of her voice. It made Smith chuckle.

“And?”

“And what?”

“What else made you come running over here?” He handed her a flute of champagne. “You never miss an opportunity to slather over Dom the Dye Job.”

Betty giggled, “That’s really unpleasant, Smithy. Just because you’re grey.”

“Silver fox, m’darling.” He poured himself a glass and rested the bottle back in the ice bucket, taking a seat next to her. It wasn’t as if she’d tried anything with Dom the Dye Job, but the guilt in comparing the two men was still lingered. “Don’t make that face. You didn’t do anything.”

“So certain,” she teased, hiding behind her glass of champagne.

“He’s still got legs, hasn’t he?” Smith asked mildly. His face flittered with emotion and he curved a hand around her knee. “I know you’re restless, Bet. And I haven’t helped. But this is for you. For us. Me really, I just want you to come along and get your boobs a tan line.”

He handed her a red envelope and Betty took it from him warily. Opening it, a squeal escaped her throat. The crafty beggar had bought a three week Caribbean cruise for the two of them. Oh god, the guilt was going to last a lifetime. Every time she saw blue waters and white sand, she’d feel that wrench of guilt for making cake for the bloke next door. “Then,” Smith added, “we can visit George in France for a bit.”

Sobbing, she threw her arms around Smith’s shoulders. Betty had a wonderful husband. A silver haired fox who was, despite her butter-laden cooking, looking very trim. “Just a minute,” she lifted her head and stared at him. “Who have you been flirting with?”

Smith blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You must have to let this go so easily.”

“Not at all. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. And let’s be honest, Bet, that div next door couldn’t handle you.”

She wiped away tears of laughter. Her husband the comedian. “I remember a Smith who barely escaped an assault charge after a man made a comment about my bottom.”

Smith pressed his mouth to her neck lingeringly. “I don’t fancy prison at my age. I’d rather take you away and make you remember why we’ve been married for forty years.”

Ooh, Betty thought as his mouth moved lower. Good point.