Miriam would never admit it to her mother, but she even enjoyed the long beach walks Claire insisted they do every few days or so, dodging the incoming tide as they walked round tight coves overhung by cliffs garlanded in purple flowers. Her mother loved to walk in the fresh sea air. The
ocean
, as Martha called it. Everything her father did felt contrived. Jonah was completely different. He made it up as he went along. There was a quiet casualness about him which she found incredibly appealing. She felt wicked for admitting it but part of her wished that Jonah was her real father. He was
fun
. He was cool. She saw people turn their heads, recognising him when they were out and about, and he never alluded to any fame or past history. He just
was
.
She wished her father wasn’t coming to America. She feared that wherever they went, whatever they did, wherever they stayed, she’d wish that she was at Lily Beach instead. She loved Jasper. He was sweet, but after a few minutes he was boring and Ali was always focusing on him instead of her, as if Miriam was a slightly tiresome afterthought. With Jonah she never felt anything less than part of the family. She never felt less than equal.
Miriam was in a state of turmoil. She felt bad for having these mean thoughts about her Dad, who she knew loved her. But these last few days she’d been wondering if she dared ask her mother if she really had to go. Her father, Ali and Jasper could all have a great time without her. Heck, they’d probably have a
better
time without her.
Much as Claire loved the children, her favourite moment of
the day was after they’d gone to bed. She always put in maximum effort to ensure that a good time was had by all, and so the peace and quiet that came after the youngsters were asleep felt well and truly earned. It had been the same back in the UK and it was no different here in the US. Only now, with Jonah in her life, there was more of an incentive to achieve that precious child-free solitude earlier rather than later. The girls were always so active, swimming, body surfing or flying kites that most evenings they were happy to be tucked up by 8 pm. In fact, most nights they were
begging
for bed. Plus she
was
more fatigued than usual. That was the problem with her long Mondays. She was so exhausted from the pressure of performing in front of the camera for what wasn’t far off a twenty-four hour shift, that for the remainder of the week she felt as if she was playing catch-up. And the whole Orlando Goodman situation was preying on her mind. Their regular skype conversations always left her feeling as heavy as if she were shrouded in a blanket of lead. Her meal plans for him weren’t working. He said they were but every time she saw him when they video-spoke the sunken hollows on his cheeks were deeper, his complexion slightly greyer. His illness was being completely kept under wraps and he was still somehow managing to perform on the West End stage.
The show must go on
. She’d repeatedly asked if he might reconsider conventional treatment but he was adamant. “If I die on stage, then I die happy,” he’d said. “Better than dying in a hospital bed somewhere.”
Now though, she tried to block out such thoughts. The girls were sleeping and the “mm” that left her lips as she lay back on the patio sofa said it all, the sound conveying ecstasy and relief. She raised her feet on the pile of cushions scattered at one end. Today had been, quite possibly, one of the best days of her life. Jonah had taken them all to Coronado Island, one of the most desirable zip codes in the USA. It’s not a real island, he explained, but just looks like one because a bridge attaches it to the mainland. A beautiful two-hour coastal cycle ride had been followed by an al fresco lunch at the Hotel Del Coronado, overlooking the ocean. The girls were delightfully entertaining and well behaved, charming the waiters and appreciating their breadcrumb coated cod with Yukon mashed potatoes. “This is the nicest food to ever cross my lips,” Miriam praised. Claire felt the same way about her meal – lobster risotto followed by diver scallops covered in orange pine-nut gremolata. At one point Jonah had taken her hand and lifted it to his lips. She could tell that he felt it too. That here, at this table, as they ate, chatted and drank wine, it all felt right. They’d somehow evolved into the perfect, blended family, a special unit. She wished she could pocket the feeling of elation and for nothing to ever change.
It was a sultry evening, heavy with the type of heat that sticks to you, wrapping its moisture across your skin in an invisible sheen. Despite the mercury on the thermometer tipping 80 degrees Fahrenheit, Claire had brought out a mug of boiling water into which she’d added a slice of lemon. This was the only drink that seemed to quench her thirst at the moment. As she waited for her laptop to fire up she took her cup and blew the steam across its surface, watching it waft in curly squiggles towards the sky.
“Hey you,” said Jonah, coming out with a bottle of Budweiser.
He clanked the beer onto the glass coffee table, tossed the cushions onto the floor and placed her feet on his lap as he sat down. He started gently massaging her arches.
“Mm, that’s nice,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Pretty toes,” he admired.
The girls had given her a pedicure when they’d got back and it actually wasn’t half-bad. They’d removed her blue polish, filed and scrubbed, and had repainted her nails with a chocolate-colour varnish. It was a fairly professional-looking job and they’d done the same on each other. All three of them now had matching pinkies. This lovely girlie session had been tainted with a touch of sadness. In two days’ time both Miriam and Martha would be handed back to their respective other parents and, whilst Martha would return for a weekend in a couple of weeks’ time, Claire wouldn’t be seeing her daughter again until she got back to London. She knew the girls wished it was otherwise. Martha would be celebrating her ninth birthday in a fortnight and she so wanted Miriam to come to her party.
“I know,” she smiled, trying to focus on the good and not the bad. “San Diego’s beauty salons better watch out. The girls will steal their trade.”
The screen of Claire’s laptop was facing Jonah. He scrunched up his forehead quizzically.
“Who’s Will Ryan from ABC?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea,” said Claire, turning the screen to face her and clicking on the mail. Her jaw dropped as she started to read. “Ah yes,” she muttered, remembering. And then: “Oh. My. God,” she gasped.
“What?”
“Will Ryan is this Executive Producer who introduced himself to me when I was filming at SeaWorld. He’s asking if I would like to do a screen test for some new healthy eating programme they’ve been commissioned to make. Apparently accents are in vogue at the moment and they’re keen to hire someone British, if they can find the right person.”
Jonah pulled the laptop closer and read the mail.
“Wow, babe, that’s amazing.”
Claire sipped her hot water, although now she had a sudden urge to celebrate on something stronger. She was reaching for Jonah’s Budweiser when her tummy was wracked by one of those irritating cramps. She was on the brink of crying out, but happily the pain disappeared almost at once. Perhaps the pills Jonah bought her were starting to work. Luckily he appeared not to have noticed, his eyes still fixed on Will Ryan’s email.
“It’s a screen test,” she carried on. “I’m sure they’ve got lots of other candidates lined up. And, besides, how many viewers does ABC have?”
“I don’t know, tens of millions for sure.”
Claire’s jaw dropped even wider.
“Exactly,” she said. “I don’t think I can cope with that. That’s just insane. And I’m completely inexperienced, so let’s not get too excited.”
Nonetheless, Claire could feel a rush of adrenaline racing through her veins. This was madness. She had to tell Georgia. She drew her laptop closer and started clicking out of her mails and onto Skype.
“What are you doing?” asked Jonah.
“I’m going to call Georgia.”
“It’s four in the morning in London,” Jonah reminded her.
Oh damn! In her excitement she had forgotten about the time difference.
“And besides,” Jonah murmured, tracing a teasing line up her inner leg towards her thigh, “the thought of you being some international TV superstar plus the gorgeous dress that you’re wearing is making me hot.”
The dress
was
nice. It was Martha who spotted it in one of Coronado Island’s chichi boutiques, her eye drawn by its pale grey fabric and funky pink floral print. The top had narrow straps and a tight-fitting bodice that enhanced Claire’s breasts. Its long floating skirt was asymmetric, shorter in the front than the back. Jonah began to ruche up the material gathered around her legs as his fingers inched higher. Words formulated in Claire’s head as well as the feigned angry tone she would assign to them.
You mean you weren’t hot for me when I was just plain Claire Jackson, the Nutritionist?
But the second Jonah’s palm found her panties and rested itself there, the words evaporated into the ether, forgotten. Moments later he wriggled his way onto her bare flesh, his fingers tickling her clitoris and then thrusting inside her, deeply. Her breath hitched as she closed her eyes. She could sense Jonah watching her and felt uncomfortably exposed.
“We haven’t baptised this sofa yet,” he whispered.
“We can’t do it out here,” she whispered insistently. “What if the girls aren’t properly asleep yet?”
His finger was now nudging her G-spot, causing her to wriggle and writhe under his intense gaze. The sensation was divine. So divine she was starting not to care who did or didn’t see them. So divine she didn’t want it to end. Jonah placed his spare hand lightly on her collar bone, slowly lowering it towards her breasts. Whenever his fingers grazed her skin she felt nothing less than beautiful. How was he capable of doing that to her with just a touch?
“Ok,” he said, removing her panties and leaning forward far enough that his lips hovered a millimetre above hers. “Let’s go inside.”
-------------------------
Jonah locked their bedroom door behind them. In this heat he would always be found bare-chested around the house, but Claire wasted no time in removing his khaki shorts and Calvin Klein boxers in one deft move. As he stood there, a sculpted, perfectly-formed naked Adonis, it was clear that Jonah was more than ready. Claire pulled the hem of her dress upwards, about to take it off.
“No,” barked Jonah, “leave it on.”
He scooped her in his arms and carried her to the bed, landing her on top of him as he fell backwards onto the mattress. “I want to watch you,” he said, manoeuvring her to his centre so she could straddle him. He placed his hands on the sides of her lower waist, controlling her as she eased herself onto him until he was filling her completely. He loved that look of unadulterated ecstasy on her face as she rode him and circled him and taunted him, moving slowly and tantalisingly up and down and around, driving him to wild places that made him feel he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He scrunched her dress up so he could see her sex, caressing the skin on the divine, creamy soft flesh of her thighs. He loved her ripe breasts and how they spilled when she wasn’t wearing a bra. He reached up to touch them, feeling her swollen nipples hard underneath his hands and rolling his fingers over them. The dress had four buttons down the front. He undid them, slowly, one by one as Claire pushed him even deeper inside her, moaning as he hit her core. He unhooked the lowest button and freed her breasts, fondling them in his hands as he observed her, watching her red corkscrew curls dangle in a sexy mass down her spine as she tilted back her head, a few stray strands sticking to her face in the heat of the room. The extra heat their connected bodies generated as they rocked was tempered by a gentle breeze blowing from the overhead fan. Jonah didn’t mind the heat. If anything, it increased his libido. There was something inherently horny about the combined sweat of two people intertwined whilst making love. He pulled her face down so he could kiss her, their tongues matching the gyrations of their hips. It was exquisite.
“I love you,” he said.
He loved her so much that four more words formulated in his head, as a question. He was about to vocalise them when he felt a much more urgent desire building within. Instead he concentrated on that, watching Claire to see if she was close too and when he saw that she was he pulled her harder down on him and found her clitoris with his finger, bringing them both slowly and deliciously to climax.
---------------
In the aftermath Claire placed her head on Jonah’s chest. He gently stroked her hair, hooking curls around his fingers. Her focus was glued on the ceiling fan and the whirring rotation of its blades, its action almost hypnotic.
“What are you thinking?” asked Jonah.
She was about to tell him what an amazing day it had been and to ask if he’d care to give it marks out of ten, when the appendix side of her stomach went into sudden spasm. It felt like being speared with a hot dagger. The agony was so excruciating that the shriek which left her lips sounded wild and bestial.
“What is it?” Jonah sat bolt upright.
She wanted to tell him that she was experiencing pain on a level which was off the radar, but she was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea and summoned all the energy she could muster to make a mad dash to the toilet. She only just made it in time, kneeling over the bowl, retching violently. Jonah must have come with her and held her hair in a ponytail, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.
“Do you think its food poisoning?” he asked her in between retches.
“I - don’t - know,” she mumbled, barely audible, indicating with a hand on her pelvis that she was still in pain.
“Claire, I’m going to take you to the hospital. I don’t like it. Something’s not right.”