Chapter 69
Cal
‘I’m going upstairs to check on dinner,’ I say after about twenty minutes. The boys have the hang of the game—it’s truly unbelievable how quickly kids pick these things up—and their disinterested grunts tell me their interest level in where I’m going is zero.
Excellent.
After a quick peek in the oven to confirm the lasagne is on track, I take the stairs two at a time to Aida’s room.
I wasn’t focused on anything but her the other day, but her home is undeniably stunning: an enormous fuck-off Georgian villa with a seemingly effortless mix of style and comfort.
It wouldn’t look out of place on the pages of a glossy interiors magazine, but it’s very much a home, too.
Once again, this formidable woman makes it look easy. And by it I mean juggling an insane career, single parenting, and running a household big enough to be a hotel.
‘Hey,’ I say softly, mainly as a warning, as I head into her ensuite bathroom.
The room is dim, lit only by a scattering of candles on the shelf, the air a warm, fragrant cloud.
Aida’s lying in the tub, her head resting on a towel and the water level high enough that her tits are completely obscured by bubbles, more’s the pity.
Her collarbones and shoulders glint in the candlelight, but when I crouch down by her side and she turns her head towards me, I can see she’s been crying.
She sniffs. ‘Are the boys okay?’
‘They’re fine.’ I take the hand resting on the side of the tub and run my thumb over her wet knuckles. ‘They’re like pigs in shit down there.’
‘Thanks.’ She gives me a weak smile.
‘Want to tell me what’s up?’ I ask gently.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ She looks away and shifts below the water.
‘Try me. You upset about the coverage again?’
She blows out a breath. ‘No, not really. I mean, yeah, obviously I am, but I’ve managed to zone the majority of it out. And I can’t tell you how many shitty, judgemental passive-aggressive comments I’ve gotten from the moms at school this week. But I can handle most of it.’
I wait, the skin of my dry hand flush against her damp one. If these are parents who think it’s all right to name their sons Milan then I can only imagine how obnoxious they must be.
‘I’m just… I dunno. I’m spiralling and being pathetic.’
In light of my observation just now, this judgement seems inaccurate at best. Aida Russell’s idea of pathetic is what most normal people would call crazily high-functioning.
‘I bet you’re neither. But it’s okay to be both. If you can’t lose your shit in the bathtub, where can you?’
That earns me a weak smile. ‘True.’
Again, I wait.
‘People keep asking me what I want. You asked me what I wanted, that very first time.’
I frown. ‘Right…’
‘And I realise being asked what you want is the epitome of privilege, and—’
‘Baby. You don’t need caveats with me. Spit it out.’
Her expression is defeated as she turns to look at me.
‘It’s like they ask—other people, not you—but they’re really asking what I think I should want.
Or should think. The production team. Mara.
Lizzy. I feel like I’ve created this persona of Aida Russell, progressive superwoman, who’s always on message and never lets her mask slip and is, like, this paragon of perfection who gets paraded around. ’
‘That sounds fucking exhausting,’ I say. It’s true. Her accomplishments, her pace, the number of balls she has in the air at any given time… they all make me feel tired. I just didn’t realise they made her feel tired too, and it’s reassuring, somehow.
‘Yeah,’ she mouths, then snags her bottom lip between her teeth. She looks as though she’s deliberating on something.
I brush my fingers lightly over her jaw. ‘So,’ I say as gently as possible, because I don’t want to come at her like a bull in a china shop and risk her clamming up, ‘if I was to ask you what you really want right now, would that be helpful or unhelpful?’
Her eyes are huge and dark, luminous with unshed tears.
She’s not deliberating anymore.
She’s on a fucking precipice.
‘I want,’ she says slowly, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyebrows, ‘to find the courage to enjoy this process without feeling endlessly beholden to a million parties.’
‘And what process is that?’ I whisper.
She lets out a long, shuddery sigh, but her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘This process where I’m falling deeply, terrifyingly in love with you.’
The silence that follows her words is one that splits my heart open. If anyone is capable of delivering a mic-drop comment, it’s Aida, but there’s something about the simplicity of her words and her willingness to let them hover between us, in this damp, scented air, that has me reeling.
I can’t stop staring. It’s as if I’m terrified that, by dropping eye contact, I’ll shatter the sheer magic of this moment.
But I can’t leave her hanging, either.
Nor can I resist the smile that’s growing, threatening to split my face in two.
‘You’re in love with me?’
Her eyes dart over my face. She’s on the brink of reneging. Of turning and throwing herself onto solid ground, saving herself from that sheer drop. ‘I know it’s quick,’ she gabbles, pulling her hand out from beneath mine. ‘I mean—’
‘No.’ I grab her wrists. ‘No. I’m not going to let you ruin this with logic.’ I bend further over the side of the tub so my face is inches from hers, my thumbs taking the frantic pulse beating through the thin skin of her wrist. She’s a deer in the headlights, but I’ve got her.
‘Baby,’ I say, my gaze searching her face, ‘are you saying you love me?’
It’s the most important question I’ve ever asked anyone, and the way she inhales tells me she understands that.
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice and gaze steadying in my grip.
‘Good.’ I close the gap between us, my kiss as emphatic as my tone. I don’t know how this happened; I don’t know how on earth a muppet like me has caught the heart of a woman like Aida. But, as I’ve said before, I’ll take whatever she has to give.
No qualms.
No shame.
No regrets.
Her mouth is soft, her lips tear-slicked when I suck on them. I release her wrists so I can cup her jaw. My cashmere-covered elbows hit bubbles and hot water, but I don’t care, because the most captivating woman I have ever met loves me, and everything else is dust.
When I seek out her tongue, her kisses go from tentative to hungry.
Then I’m invading her mouth properly, pouring my disbelief and gratitude and adoration and hope into her through the language in which I’m most conversant.
She responds in kind, her body arching into me, lips and tongue sliding against mine, hands weaving through my hair.
It’s heaven, this kiss. It’s unconscionable, really, that flesh on flesh can feel so like soaring. But after a few moments I pull away, because it’s time to try out a new language for size.
It’s time to come out with a phrase I’ve never uttered to a woman before, in a language I’m far less fluent in.
I throw myself off the precipice to join her in the exhilaration of this free-fall.
‘I’m in love with you, too,’ I tell her, and I see a thousand fireworks flare in those black eyes of hers at my words.
Is this what it’s like?
Quiet, simple utterances that, when whispered to another human being, can cause planets to shift and suns to rise and stars to burst?