Chapter 1 #2
He much prefers to visit my mum in Fort William. She adores him and always brings out the best china like he’s royalty or something. She cooks his steak just the way he likes it too—so rare it’s mooing—and fusses over him like he’s the son she never had. Callum laps it up.
So you see, everything is all fine with us—it really is.
I’ve just been dissatisfied with the physical side of our relationship lately.
More so than usual. I just wish he’d make an effort to please me.
Yes, I’ve tried talking to him. To be honest, things did improve after I did.
He really seemed to get what I was saying about the sexual response cycle and listened intently when I was going on about the plateau phase.
Well, he nodded a lot at least, and his eyes didn’t glaze over.
After the talk, he was very attentive, and we spent a few amazing evenings together.
He didn’t even open the Financial Times.
But it hasn’t lasted. Callum’s lapsed back into three-thrust Freddie, and I know if I say anything again, I’m going to come across as a nag.
The unfortunate part is that I’ve started looking at other guys on the street and wondering why I’m putting up with it. I’m thirty-two and in my prime, for God’s sake!
The kettle finishes boiling, and I pour scalding water into our mugs and dunk the Earl Grey tea bags distractedly.
Besides, what if we get married and he’s so focused on his career that I don’t have a baby until I’m forty?
Is his swiftness in the sack going to be a problem?
If he barely manages to get me aroused, then surely it’s going to make it ten times harder to get pregnant at that age.
OK, he’s never actually mentioned anything remotely along the lines of marriage or kids, so I could be completely barking up the wrong tree . . . Maybe I need to find out subtly before I get too ahead of myself.
Callum wanders into the kitchen, raking his hair back into place and tucking in his business shirt.
He opens the fridge and peers in optimistically.
He does it every time he comes into the kitchen.
I can tell you exactly what’s in there: a bottle of ketchup, a mouldy lemon, a bottle of milk, half a bottle of flat champagne, and a wilted bunch of lettuce.
I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see if he doesn’t go food shopping. One of these days, I’m going to smuggle in a chocolate gateau just to see the look on his face when he opens the fridge.
‘Can you hand me the milk, please,’ I say.
He gives me the bottle, and I sniff it gingerly.
It smells freshish. He leans against the counter, then flicks open today’s copy of the Financial Times and starts reading an article.
I bring over his tea and lean next to him, blowing on my own to cool it down.
‘Callum?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Er . . . Do you want kids?’ Whoops, so much for subtle. Callum jerks like I’ve prodded him with a red-hot poker.
‘What?’
‘Kids. Do you want them?’ I repeat slowly.
‘Uh, I haven’t really thought about it.’ He avoids my gaze and sips his tea.
‘Well, you’re thirty-six. Surely it’s crossed your mind?’
‘Perhaps. But not in a fully formed “I definitely want this” kind of way.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re getting all clucky.’ He sounds slightly panicked.
‘Not especially.’
Callum puffs out a breath and smiles at me. ‘We’re all good, aren’t we? No need to rush into things. We’re just barely getting started.’
‘We’ve been together two years,’ I state pointedly. ‘Shouldn’t we be discussing things like this?’
He turns me around to face him and puts his hands on my shoulders. He’s wearing his realtor expression, and I know what’s coming.
‘Having a baby isn’t the answer to your problems, Em. You need to sort out your flat situation.’
‘It’s not my fault the landlord keeps putting up the rent!’
The shitty bastard’s done it twice now. It’s the main reason why I haven’t been splashing out on sexy lingerie and why I’ve started buying discounted microwave meals.
I’m always complaining to Callum, but he says the landlord is within his rights to do it as long as he gives me three months’ notice.
He soothes me now with, ‘I’ll find you a cheaper flat. Just tell me where you want to live.’
‘I want to stay where I am,’ I state firmly. ‘I just can’t afford it.’
Callum drops his hands from my shoulders and returns to his newspaper. After a pause, he suggests casually, ‘Why don’t you get a flatmate?’
‘A flatmate?’
‘Yes, you’ve got two bedrooms, Em. Just rent out the other one. Problem solved.’
I shake my head slowly. ‘I don’t want a flatmate.
They’ll have friends over and be using my kitchen and lounge.
And they’ll want to chat.’ I shudder. ‘You know what I’m like.
I’m an introvert. When I get home from work, I just want my own space—to read, watch Netflix, or think—without someone nattering in my ear.
And I’ve got my library set up in the spare room. ’
‘Sorry, Em. Unless you move to a one-bedroom in a cheaper area or move in with me’—Callum shrugs his shoulders—‘I don’t think you’ve got any other choice.’