Page 40 of London, Can You Wait?

Thirteen

Manchester suburbs, four days later, Boxing Day

The double bed had surrendered its duvet and most of its plump pillows to the floor, and a discarded white top sheet lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. Damp with perspiration, Mark laid his head down on Alex’s bare chest, his breathing still ragged. “That…was the best Christmas gift…ever.” His fingertips traced small circles over the slight slope of her breast.

Alex hugged him and wrapped one leg around his hips, pressing him closer. “Better than the signed George Best football when you were eleven?”

Mark looked up, eyebrows deep in thought. “Hmmm…okay, maybe not that good.”

“Ungrateful!” Alex pushed Mark off and onto his back. She climbed on top of him, straddling his abs, her mouth crushing his with a hard kiss. “Give it back, then.” She leaned back, leaving the dare between them.

“Oh, I will.” His hands slipped up her thighs. “Once I catch my breath…” He stretched upwards from the bed, kissing her just as hard.

Alex wrapped her arms around his neck. “We were a bit loud. God, I hope Dad didn’t hear, and we’ll have to hide the condoms in the trash again. I don’t want Dad seeing them.”

Mark played with her hair where it pooled over her shoulders. “I think your Dad knows we have sex…”

“I know, but still. I don’t want to draw him a picture. Let’s be quieter next time, okay?”

“Don’t tell me, tell the ancient springs in this bed. I think it’s older than Joan.” He leaned in closer, his gaze intense and wanting. “I’ll show you how quiet I can be.” His hands pulled her back down on top of him and then travelled up into her hair.

Bruno Mars burst into song from the floor.

Alex jumped, and Mark broke away mid-kiss. He sighed loudly, his hands taking flight.

“Leave it.” Alex returned to his lips and pinned his hands under hers, pressing them into the mattress.

“I can’t.” He eased himself out from underneath his girlfriend and followed “Locked Out of Heaven” to his jeans, lying in a heap on the floor. He squatted quickly and stood back up, rifling through the pockets and giving Alex an unobstructed view of his bare ass.

He was a bit leaner than the last time she saw him. A wolfish smile overtook her face. God, he was hot. Please be a wrong number. She was desperate to resume what he had started.

Mark looked back at her. “It’s Freds…Hey, mate! What’s up?”

Goose bumps tickled Alex’s arms and chest. Without Mark’s warmth against her skin, the room felt chilly. She pulled the duvet off the floor and wrapped it around her, flopping back down on her stomach, stretching out like a starfish on the bed.

An ear-to-ear smile rose in the midst of Mark’s stubble. “Bollocks are you! Up here? Should I alert the authorities…” He sat down on the bed, listening intently. “No worries, mate. I’ll let Alex and Michael know. Hold tight, see you soon!”

Alex stretched, scooping up a Quality Street orange cream from the bedside table, her crinkled brows wondering why Freddie was holding tight. “Everything okay?”

“Not sure. Something happened yesterday with Simon, and Freddie’s at the train station with Lucy right now.”

• • •

“I’m sorry for just showing up like this.” Freddie’s eyes darted from Alex to her dad, Michael. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Michael patted Freddie’s shoulder. “Our door is always open.”

“It was awful. Si’s parents flew over from Montréal to surprise him for Christmas. I answered the door in a bath towel, said I was his flatmate. I made up a story about meeting Si volunteering—there was no way I could tell them we met on Grindr.” Freddie slipped out of his slim wool coat as he ambled beside Mark, who was walking hand in hand with Alex.

“Sorry, mate. That must’ve been bloody awkward.” Mark gave Freddie a tight-lipped smile as his eyes followed framed images of local football legends David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and Gary Neville passing by. This corridor at Old Trafford, home to Manchester United, was carpeted, accessorized with potted plants, and buzzing with smartly dressed hospitality representatives and well-to-do football fans—no terrace chants, sloppy drinkers, or vulgar language here. Michael, Alex’s step-mum Helen, and her grandmother Joan walked closely behind, all agog at the foreign surroundings inside their favourite football ground. They had sat outside, shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow die-hard Reds in the Stretford End on occasion, but this…this posh experience was a world apart.

“Awkward, times a thousand.” Freddie hugged his coat against his chest. “Every time I opened my mouth, I worried I’d drop Simon in it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Lucy saved me.”

“That was the first and last time I pretend to be your girlfriend, Freds.” Lucy unzipped her puffer and threw Alex a fed-up look. “Worst Christmas ever. When I wasn’t fawning over my ‘boyfriend’, I was hiding photos—shots of them smooching, shirtless holiday snaps—”

“Yeah, all there on display for parental disapproval.” Freddie smiled at her.

“And to top it all off, just like Simon, they talked all the way through the Doctor Who Christmas special.” Lucy scowled.