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“Lara? You awake?”
“No.” My voice is croaky and sleep-thickened. I try to unglue my lips, running my tongue across the dry skin.
“Max is crying.”
Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “It's your turn.”
Alex smiles, making the stud in his eyebrow rise up. He's a sexy bastard and he knows it, even at four o’clock in the morning.
“I've been up three times, but he won't settle. I don't have the right equipment.” Alex is still smirking when he glances at my chest then looks down at his own. I follow his gaze to his taut, muscled skin, and the vibrant ink etched upon it. I know every line, every colour. I’ve kissed my way across them so many times.
Slowly, I sit up and swing my legs to the side of the bed. My head starts to swim at the suddenness of my movement, and I have to brace myself on the mattress.
“Whoa there, dizzy girl.” He reaches out to steady me, his hands warm and strong, the pads of his fingers rough on my body. “You okay, babe?”
“Yeah, give me a minute.” I'm not sure if I'm talking to Alex or Max now. Not that it matters since Alex lies back down and closes his eyes, while Max decides to up the ante by screaming louder. I lift him out of his cot, cradling his soft, warm body, but he won't be comforted. His face is vermillion red, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth so wide I can see his tiny tonsils. They vibrate with the screeches he makes.
“Shh.” I press my lips to his forehead. The fine hair covering his scalp tickles my face. Beneath it his skin is overheated, smelling of burning baby shampoo.
As soon as I pull him to me, Max starts to root, turning his face into my chest while his screams turn into sobs. I carry him back to the bed, climbing in and leaning against the headboard, unbuttoning my top and opening my bra.
When he latches on there's a moment of blessed silence. The ringing in my ears dulls to a faint buzz, and I let my head fall back and my eyes close. Then, he starts snuffling and grunting—sounding more of a pig than a baby—and I resign myself to another sleepless night.
I've never known exhaustion like this. It's as if I'm walking around in a constant haze; everything seems slowed down, deeper, heavier. Each movement requires an effort I'm not sure I possess. I don't own anything anymore. My time, my body—they all belong to this tiny bundle of flesh curled up in my arms. It's the side effect of childbirth they don't warn you about at prenatal class. You find the love of your life and lose yourself in the process.
Max finally falls back to sleep at six, after a nappy change followed by an hour of gurgled kicks on the mat. Moments such as these make it all worth it: his smiling eyes, his rosebud mouth, the way he looks at me as though I'm his personal angel. I lift him up to kiss his lips, and he sighs contentedly, his breath warm and milky.
One of my favourite smells.
Alex gets up at an hour later and is annoyingly chipper, considering our broken night. He showers then walks naked into our bedroom, and though I pretend to be asleep, I crack an eyelid open to watch his movements.
While childbirth has made me feel leaden and doughy, it's only made Alex more attractive. It's so annoying how that happens. All he has to do is take Max for a walk in the park and he's got a gaggle of admirers staring at him. I, on the other hand, find myself tucking my stomach into my jeans, along with whatever baby-drool decorated T-shirt I choose to wear that day.
“I can feel you staring.” Alex turns round. Although this frontal isn't full, it still takes my breath away. His stomach is pale, ribbed, with a line of dark hair from his navel to waistband. The coloured edge of a tattoo peeks out; though I can't see it, I know it's the point of a star, the rest covered by his shorts.
I never found tattoos attractive until I met Alex. Back then, I tended to date clean-skinned, suited types; the sort of boys I grew up with back home. We shared the same kind of upbringing, backgrounds, cultural experiences, and the whole thing was downright boring.
Alex was a blinding light cutting through the darkest of nights. He unravelled me, thread by thread, until the old Lara was somebody I hardly recognised. Within the space of two years I was married, retrained and working in a drug clinic, counselling addicts and helping them get clean.
He pulls the covers from my body and crawls into the bed, nudging my legs apart with his knees. Putting his hands either side of my head, he hovers over me.
“Lara.” He breathes my name out, lowering himself down until his body touches mine. I watch as the wiry muscles in his arms flex, then turn and kiss his forearm, tracing my name with hungry lips. His skin is warm, still damp from his shower, and I can smell the woody fragrance of his soap. When I finally turn my head to look at him, my chest clenches at his expression. He's hot and needy. I shiver as his fingers drag down my side, trailing from my chest to my waist, sinking into my hip, pulling me towards him. “Fucking beautiful.”
That's how I feel when he holds me. In spite of the stretch marks that spider across my less-than-perfect stomach, and breasts that seem more milk factory than erogenous zone, Alex has this way of making me feel desirable. Wanted.
It's not only me who feels this way. A few minutes with Alex is enough to have young girls and old women eating out of his hand. Unlike other men I've known, he's totally at home with females, happy to talk, flirt, and grin his way through any situation. I guess it's a side effect of being brought up by women; his divorce
d mum plus two sisters. He doesn't blink twice at buying tampons, isn’t squeamish about periods or leaking breasts or tears. I'd go as far to say he's at home with all bodily fluids. Positively encourages some of them.
He presses his body to mine a final time; hard planes against my soft chest. “I'm going straight to the studio after work.”
Since being laid off from his printing job, he's been picking up work at building sites. Spending his days carrying bricks and wood, layering plaster and laying floorboards, while his nights are spent recording music with his band. The manual labour has honed his already tight muscles until he's taut and lean. He’s a scrapper, a man ready to fight, the tattoos inked across his body only enhancing that effect. He's the sort of bad boy I'd spent my life avoiding.
The only one who knows the real me.
“Don't work too hard,” I say.
“Never.” One last kiss to my shoulder and he pushes himself up, hovering for a moment before jumping off the bed. Then he's fastening his tight, faded jeans. Before he can do anymore, a loud cry cuts through the morning air, piercing the little bubble we've built around us. My focus is shattered, pulled to pieces by the tiny little human who has taken over my world.
* * *
When Max wakes up from his afternoon nap, I strap him into the buggy and take him for a walk. We don’t go anywhere in particular, simply meandering through the streets of Shoreditch, breathing in fresh air, inhaling the aromas wafting out of the restaurants. We pop into the local supermarket on the way back to our flat. Max has got it into his head that he doesn't enjoy his buggy and like a little dictator he groans and shuffles, his burbling turning into a full-on scream when he realises he isn't getting his own way. In the end, I lift him out of the pushchair and use it to store the carrier bags full of food. The Bugaboo is turning out to be the world's most expensive shopping trolley.
Typically he coos as soon as he's in my arms, his wet cheeks plumping when he flashes a smile at the checkout lady. She reaches out and tickles him under the chin, coaxing out a giggle that comes perilously close to a burp.
“He's gorgeous. How old is he?”
“Nearly six months.” God, is it actually that long? I haven't had an unbroken night's sleep in almost half a year. Surely that must be some kind of record. Score another one for the tiny dictator.
“Bless him, he's going to break some hearts when he gets older.”
I don't tell her he breaks mine every night. Just one cry and I'm torn in two.
With Max still in my arms, his tiny fists grabbing hold of my shirt, I manoeuvre the buggy out of the shop, one-handed, silently thanking the gods of sliding doors as we pass easily onto the pavement. I adjust him on my hip and we walk the two blocks to our flat, past the closed-down charity shop and boarded-up pub. Somehow, I manage to make it home without dropping anything.
There are three stone steps leading up to the front door. Another thirteen to climb up once we are inside. This is where I long for an extra pair of arms, and start to calculate what to carry up first—the groceries, the buggy, or Max.
In the end, I attempt to lift all three. Holding Max up with one arm, I pull the buggy with the other, bumping it up each step in turn. The plastic bags slide across the seat, contents spilling out, and a jar of pasta sauce rolls off and falls to the ground. I watch in horror as it lands on the second step, the glass splintering, and red sauce flying everywhere. It covers my legs and the concrete, making it look as though there’s been some kind of gore fest. For a moment, all I can do is stare, open-mouthed.
Then I hear laughter coming from behind me. I don't know whether to be annoyed or to join in, though when I turn to look at the offender all thoughts of amusement fly right out of my head.
The guy behind me is built. Tall, blonde and with freckles plastered across his skin. He has the type of face that has a smile permanently etched on it, laughter lines furrowing out from the corner of his eyes.
