Saturday, May 29, 2020

By the time May ended, I'd started to wonder if this much sex would lead to permanent bow-leggedness. (And I say that as a former escort.) The ache between my legs made me worry about cystitis. Though not enough to stop me.

Sex first thing in the morning. Yes, even at 4am. The minute he returned from work. Before dinner and last thing at night. I'll say this for devout Catholics—perhaps all that time denying themselves made them desperate to try everything.

The Kama Sutra has 64 different positions. By now, we had tried them all—Tom's preference spoons and mine, the one where he lifted me up and we locked eyes as he thrust into me. Tom didn't have bulk, but he had tremendous strength—which you needed in bucket loads for that position.

"How are your family managing, Tom?" Josie asked. Tom and I had Zoom called her at the beginning of the month, him stuttering his way through the same confession he'd made to me. The man in his early 20s wasn't the same guy. How much he regretted that stupid assault and how he'd tried to atone for it.

Josie nodded. In the background, I heard TVs, shouting—Alastair, frustrated his home-teaching techniques were falling short as ever—and the too-long tick-tock wait where my sister decided whether or not she approved of me and what I'd chosen. "I hate rapists," she said, eventually.

"Especially the ones the courts fail to prosecute."

The Zoom call with Tom's mum wasn't quite as easy. She and I had grown closer during Tom's illness when I provided daily bulletins on his state and care. But she would never reconcile herself to us living together in sin, no matter the extraordinary circumstances. It would take more than a global pandemic to shift one Irishwoman's convictions.

"Sophie's a very nice woman," she said. (I was sitting right next to Tom.) "Better than most. But I'll only be happy once you're married to her."

Under the desk, he squeezed my hand.

A big discussion for another day...

But in the meantime, sunshine, family and laughter beckoned. Nicola Sturgeon, Scotland's first minister, had given the populace permission to meet up. Two households only. Don't use the loo in the house you visit and sit outside.

My gathering stretched the legal boundaries. We were three households not one. As two of the households were small in number, I reasoned three were okay, so I'd invited Mrs Whittaker and Roger who ran among us, doing his best to snaffle stray bits of food.

As for needing the toilet—my garden was extensive enough for a man to pee discreetly and my ginormous home had four loos. The guests were welcome to use the one downstairs, provided they sanitised it pre and post pee.

"Nobody will clean it to your standards," Tom remarked when I told everyone what they should do.

"No," Josie laughed. "Nowhere near it!"

My family siding with my boyfriend against me? I feigned a sulk and then joined in the laughter.

The seats had been set out so we were able to maintain distances. Josie, Alastair, Darla and her brother Josh in one corner, Mrs Whittaker allowed the recliner in deference to her age, and Tom and I on the patio. I'd made up a jug of weak Pimm's, the alcohol content low enough for Darla to have one and pretend her then stumbling against Tom once too often was purely a result of intoxication.

We raised our glasses to each other, unable to clink together but the gesture's meaning clear enough.

To Sophie and Tom...

"Nice dress, Darla," I said, pointing at what my niece wore.

"Dress?" her father muttered, nose buried in a large glass of wine and sat underneath the parasol I'd opened earlier. "I don't think it qualifies as one. It has nowhere near enough material."

True. The weather had been amazing—the thermometer hitting a balmy 26 degrees earlier. Darla was celebrating with a red summer dress that only just covered her bottom, its middle cut out and shoe-string sleeves. Oh, to be young and in no need of a bra. Tom, I noticed, did his studious best to avoid looking at her.

Darla did her studious worst to try to make him.

Such were the hazards of having a boyfriend your 16-year-old niece fancied like crazy.

Tom had insisted on cooking the food for the evening. He'd made his own brick pizza oven a week ago, me cooing in admiration at his practical skills. Our guests had brought their own cutlery and plates, and everyone waited in joyful anticipation as he slid discs of dough into the oven.

"I've never tried pizza before," Mrs Whittaker told us. Darla and Josh exclaimed, "What?!" unable to believe such a person existed. Tom promised he would top the pizza for her with caviar and quail's eggs.

She giggled—the sound almost the same as the one Darla made around him.

Josie told Tom how everyone in her family breathed a sigh of relief when we'd said Tom would be doing the cooking.

"Aunt Sophs' food," Darla said, "is so disgusting we pretend to eat it. And then spit it out in the toilet."

He smiled at that, telling the tale of the smoothie I'd tried to inflict on him after he'd recovered from the virus, glancing up to catch my eye as he did so. Oh, yes... that day was imprinted on my brain forever...

Tuesday, 28 April. Sophie and Tom try their hands (and everything else...) at sex.

"How's Cal?" I said now, and Josie's face lit up.

"On holiday, thank goodness. He's been working flat out. And the cases and deaths have dropped dramatically in London. He's not in as much danger. Tanya's so relieved."

Tom rolled an ice-cold bottle of beer across the lawn to Alastair, who astonished us by taking the lid off with his teeth.

"Woah, Dad! That's so street!" Darla said. He winked at her.

"I've gone up 100 percent in my daughter's estimation."

"Don't get carried away," she jeered. "Ten percent maybe."

The smell of baked bread and melted cheese drifted over. Tom pulled out the wooden paddle he'd also made and everyone ooh-ed in appreciation once more. The first pizza, as promised, went to Mrs Whittaker, her protesting she would never manage to eat it all.

(She did.)

Half an hour later, everyone had food and drink and silence descended. Pizzas were much better when cooked this way.

I cleared my throat.

"We've got something to tell you," I said. Tom edged closer towards me, his seat bunny-hopping over the decking.

Slices of pizza and glasses froze in the air. If I were a betting woman, I would have put the odds on everyone thinking I was about to announce I was pregnant. Or that we'd got married—persuading a minister in New York to do it via Zoom.

"I've got too much money," I said, "and it's never made me happy."

Alastair's expression made me smile—a man wondering at a sentence he thought defied all reason. Josie's wary half-smile touched me too. An 'are you sure, do you need a lawyer?' look. I shook my head at her and took a deep breath.

"So, I'm going to give most of it away."

I shot my niece and nephew an apologetic look. "I'm keeping your trust funds. They just won't be as generous as you might have expected."

Josie put her glass down. "Good."

"Tom and I discussed moving to a new house," I added. "Finding something smaller."

Mrs Whittaker looked up at that, dismayed.

"But we decided against it in the end. But I am getting rid of all the other properties I own, and the money will all go to charity."

What we had decided, though, was that we would open the house to refugee families. A bombshell to tell everyone on another day, though.

"And I'm giving up my job. When this is all over, the UK's going into recession. A depression, even. What is that they say—worse even than the 1930s? Unfair of me to hang onto a job when others will need it far more. I'm going to set up a charitable foundation and run that instead."

A non-profit that tackled domestic abuse and helped its victims. Also one that worked with other vulnerable members of society. "Tom," I'd said when we discussed it, "why not give up work too? Then you can concentrate on politics. God knows, we will need principled MPs when this is over."

He'd sat opposite me, tossing his phone from hand to hand. "No. Your plans are all for you. Not me. Which you are not to take to mean I don't want to come along for the ride... Not when I'm having this much fun..."

But yeah. For the meantime, Tom would continue to pound the east end of Glasgow delivering letters and parcels.

Mrs Whittaker clapped her hands. "I, for one, am delighted you won't be moving."

When lockdown lifted, she wouldn't want Tom to give up walking her dog and doing her shopping. Neither would he.

Josie nodded. Alastair still wasn't convinced, I could tell, but Josie was the dominant partner in their relationship. He'd think what she commanded.

"Do you want me to tell Cal?" Josie asked. I shook my head. I'd tell him myself, determined from now on to make more of an effort with my big brother.

She stood up and stamped her foot—a very un-Josie like gesture. "I wish I could hug you!"

"Me too!" Darla.

"I'll do it for you," Tom called out.

He wrapped me in his arms—that Lynx Africa aroma topped by wood smoke and sweat. If you bottled it up, I'd make an air freshener with it. I tipped my head up and his mouth met mine—a kiss that continued an indecently long time, its duration enough to make our audience protest.

We broke apart, giggling. Tom took a bow and I curtseyed. The crowd jeered. Josh stuck two fingers in his mouth, pretending he felt sick.

I don't believe in God or the afterlife, but my mother stood beyond Josie and Alastair, her hair blowing in the breeze. She blew me a kiss.

Mouthed the words, "I approve!"

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTES - thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story and found it plausible... I debated how rich I made Sophie - was her inheritance too much - but if her grandfather had invested in property in London in the first half of the 20th century when it was relatively cheap, then £24m may well be a conservative estimate. One thing I am not sure of (and I'll take your guidance as readers on this) is Tom's Irish accent. An Irish accent is sing-song, which was what I was trying to convey. The 'ting' for 'thing) and the me for my, for instance, but I wondered if it came across as silly or annoying? 

(If you want to hear the accent in action, I can highly recommend Foil, Arms and Hogg on YouTube. They're Irish comedians and incredibly funny.)

Anyway, thanks again for reading. I'm a bit stuck on what to do next. I should work on improving two of the books I have on Wattpad, The Art Guy and High Heels and Pink Glitter, but I'm also writing the follow-up to Beautiful Biters and the fifth and (probably!) final Highland book, Highland Christmas, and I ought to finish The Origins of the Artist... In other words, I might not start a new story here for a while but we'll see... Writing is an addictive thing!