‘What’s your resolution?’ I asked Hugh, as I did every year.
‘Patience and fortitude. Not to mess things up,’ he said. ‘And you?’
I thought about it. A single mother, with no idea how to give birth to or raise a child, a large number of whose genes were a complete mystery.
‘Patience and fortitude sound good to me,’ I said. ‘And finding George, obviously. And I should write my damn book, I guess.’
The next morning, probably the first time in years I’d seen nine in the morning on New Year’s Day, I sat in my office and tried to summon patience and fortitude. It was a new year, a new heroine, a new start.
I flexed my fingers. Outside, it was the kind of eerie quiet you only get when everyone else in the world is hung over. I began to type.
Two days later I rang my agent in despair.
The original plan had been to have Lucy Sharpe sleep her way to the top of modern politics. I’d envisaged a massive orgy scene in the secret pleasure basement of Number Ten, with Lucy helping each cabinet member to indulge his or her own private kink.
But my new heroine only wanted to sleep with one person: the Chancellor. I’d attempted to write a scene where she’d spanked the Home Secretary, but she’d ended up chatting with him about stretch marks and haemorrhoids.
I was doing a lot of cutting.
And yet when I tried to write about her having sex with the Chancellor, I couldn’t do that either. I ended up in such a frenzy of sexual frustration describing his tall, lanky, yet muscular body, that I was sorely tempted to peg it next door and fling myself into Hugh’s arms.
I needed more time. Hence phone call to agent.
Bryce answered the phone with an exuberant ‘Estelle! Happy New Year! How’s the book? Nearly done?’
‘Um, not quite.’ I crossed my fingers for luck. ‘Actually, I’m pregnant.’
‘Really! How marvellous! I love little bitty babies!’
I tried to imagine Bryce with a little bitty baby, whom he could probably crush with a curl of one finger.
‘Um, yes. So, the thing is, I’ve had a lot on my mind.’
‘Of course, darling, of course. Hormones. Et cetera. Oh God, this doesn’t mean the book is going to be late?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How long do you need?’
‘As long as I can have.’
‘Let’s see.’ I could hear him flicking through his diary. ‘Well it’s due to be released in May, so I can ring Duane and beg for the beginning of March?’
Two months to finish the book, and February a short one. I crossed my fingers harder. ‘Okay. I think.’
‘Well, try your best, darling, that’s all anyone can ask of you.’
‘All right. Uh, Bryce?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘What do you mean by “the whiff of reality”? I mean, all my books are completely improbable sexual fantasies.’
‘That’s the thing, darling, that’s why I signed you when I read your first novel. You have this fantastically dirty mind but there’s something about your writing that’s so
you
, and that’s what makes it realistic.’
‘So
me
?’ I was in more trouble than I’d thought if Bryce thought my June-wannabe heroines were so
me
. What was he going to make of Lucy Sharpe?
‘Yes. So relax, darling, let your feelings shine through. You’ll be fine! Must dash, off to lunch, byeeee!’
I was glad to have extra time, but the phone call didn’t help at all. In the days that followed I avoided my computer and watched daytime telly. Mostly chat shows,
Judge Judy,
and episodes of
Friends
. Except the episode where Phoebe has to give up the triplets she’s carrying for her brother. The idea of giving away a baby made me cry so much that I’d had to go straight out and buy two pints of ice cream and eat them both in order to regain my equilibrium.
I was lying on the couch in an old pair of stretch track suit bottoms and a Status Quo T-shirt I’d bought ages ago, watching the episode where Joey buys the V volume of the encyclopaedia from the tall half of Penn and Teller. My hand rested on my stomach beneath my T-shirt, because it was getting to be quite a satisfying shape. Then I felt it.
It was like a little finger inside my belly poking upwards. Then a flutter. And another poke.
I sat up straight, holding my breath, both my hands on my belly. There was a bit of an uncertain roll.
I jumped up from the couch and ran outside to pound on Hugh’s door. In the minutes before he answered it, I felt the baby moving twice.
‘I felt the baby kicking! I felt the baby kicking!’ I cried as soon as Hugh opened the door.
His eyes got wide. ‘Really?’
I rushed inside his house and flopped down on his sofa, belly-up. ‘Quick, feel before it stops.’ I pulled up my T-shirt.
Hugh sat beside me and put his hand on my stomach.
Warm hand. Warm hand and big, big enough to span my bump and make what I’d thought was enormous look small and delicately rounded. His skin was slightly darker than mine.
I could not breathe.
‘Where did it kick?’
I nodded at where he touched me. ‘There,’ I said, though it came out more like a hiccup.
He stared at his hand. I stared at him. He was intent, focused, eager, gorgeous.
Long moments passed.
‘I don’t feel anything,’ he said, almost in a whisper.
You’re feeling me,
I thought.
‘It was going crazy before.’
He waited some more. My heart was beating so hard I was surprised he didn’t think it was the baby kicking. He must be able to feel it. And the shortness of my breath. And the heat from my skin.
His hand shifted. Only slightly, but it was so like a caress that I bit my lip.
‘You’re really starting to show,’ he said, still quietly, still with his gaze focused on my stomach. Slowly, he drew his thumb along the curve of my belly.
Before I could stop it, a small moan escaped my mouth. Hugh looked up quickly from his hand on my stomach and our eyes met.
Instantly he knew it. My weeks of hiding my desire from him were completely worthless because his pupils dilated and his lips parted and I could see that my emotions were written all over my face and he had read them.
No use saying anything. I stared back.
‘El,’ he said. He swallowed and said my name again. ‘Eleanor.’
It wasn’t quite the same as he’d ever said it before.
‘Hugh,’ I said back, quietly.
This time there was no mistake; Hugh was the one who leaned forward, his face towards mine. But when he reached me I was ready for him and I kissed him, open-mouthed and wanting. Our tongues touched and Hugh leaned into me. His hand was on my belly, stroking me with the same cadence as our kiss.
This is Hugh,
I thought, and unlike the last time we’d kissed, the words weren’t an alarm bell. They were sexy and correct.
And he was such a good kisser. He was ardent and gentle but he felt as if he could get rough whenever we wanted to. He was lying half on top of me, his chest a solid weight against my gorgeously aching breasts, and this time there was no avoiding the fact that he had a huge erection pressed into my thigh.
It’s not just me, he feels it too
, I thought in a burst of joy. I buried one hand in his hair and pulled him closer.
That made him lose a bit of his gentleness. He rasped his teeth against my lip and his hand slid up and around one of my breasts through my bra. I moaned into his mouth, fumbled with the buttons at the top of his shirt, and slipped my hand inside to his hot, bare skin.
Hugh tore his mouth from mine and stared into my face, breathing hard.
‘Eleanor, this isn’t -’
My hand wasn’t listening to my brain because it had found Hugh’s collarbone and the soft hair at the base of his throat. It was greedy and touched him and touched him.
‘Eleanor.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Stop it.’
I stopped. But couldn’t withdraw my hand, or keep my hips from arching up towards him. ‘Why?’ I was crazy enough to say.
‘Because - oh, good Lord.’ He took his hand away from my breast, wrapped it around my wrist, and lifted my hand from his chest. Then he sat up.
I had to look: his erection was visible as a thick ridge beneath his jeans. Who knew what I’d done, but whatever it was, it had worked.
‘We said we wouldn’t do this,’ Hugh said.
‘Actually, we said we shouldn’t have kissed that time,’ I corrected him, my mind still swimming. ‘We didn’t say we wouldn’t snog and grope each other.’
I was sprawled on the couch with my belly and bra showing. My mouth burned. Hugh shifted so that he wasn’t touching me.
‘You’re pregnant,’ he said.
‘And you don’t find pregnant women attractive?’
Hugh raised his eyebrows. He gave his crotch a significant glance.
‘You find pregnant women attractive, but think it’s too kinky to do anything about?’
‘I find
you
attractive.’ He reached towards me and I melted, but he only tugged down my T-shirt to cover me up. ‘But we need to keep things uncomplicated.’
I forced myself to sit up. ‘I thought you didn’t like brunettes. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing’s changed.’ My leg was brushing his; he moved so it wasn’t. ‘We’re friends. This is a bad idea. Do you want to get out, or do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Neither.’ I put my hand on his thigh. ‘Hugh, I think we need to talk about this.’
‘So help me God, Eleanor, stop tempting a desperate man.’ He took my hand off his thigh. ‘We don’t need to talk about this. It’s obvious. We can’t have sex with each other.’
I couldn’t argue with that, much as my body wanted me to. After my weeks of unsuccessful seduction attempts, though, I needed to know a little bit more. ‘But you want to have sex with me?’
‘You’ve written sixteen erotic novels, and you don’t know the signs yet?’
I took that as a yes. ‘Is it because of my breasts?’
Hugh ran his hands through his hair. ‘What? No. Well - no. It’s because of you. Can we stop talking about this now?’
‘You have noticed my breasts, though, right?’
‘I’m not going to answer that.’ He stood up and opened his front door. ‘Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I got up, and felt a little thump. ‘The baby just kicked again.’
Hugh reached towards my stomach, then stopped and put his hand on my shoulder instead. ‘I’ll feel it later,’ he said, propelling me out the door. ‘Goodbye.’
I went back to my own house, my hand curled around my belly. Feeling the rolls and flutters, under skin made alive by Hugh.
23
I spent that night writing the most torturous scene of sexual tension I had ever created, topped off with a description of the best kiss in the universe. Lucy Sharpe hardly knew what had hit her.
I finished at four in the morning and then went to bed and slept till noon. My dreams were full of Hugh and the Chancellor, morphed into one person. When I went downstairs my head was blurry and my body was exhausted. I picked up the post from underneath the door and took it to the kitchen table to read while I had tea and porridge.
It was less than exciting. Bills and a magazine from the Society of Authors, whom I’d joined in a fit of optimism, though I hadn’t attended any of their events. I leafed through the magazine anyway, trying to avoid thinking about Hugh and what I was going to say to him today. Once I’d exhausted the interest in the magazine I opened the bills, one by one.