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ressing my thighs, following the same path with his soft lips. I try not to cry out as his narrowed gaze catches mine.
My legs start to tremble as his lips reach the top of my thigh, and he brushes them against the sensitive inner skin. I steady myself on his shoulders, seeing the contrast between my pale hands and his tattoos, feeling his muscles flex beneath his flesh. Then he nudges my knickers to the side, simply breathing on me, and it's all I can do to keep upright.
“I've got you,” he says, hands cupping my bottom, pulling me towards him. A moment later he trails his tongue against me, making my inner muscles contract, and I start to fall. Alex lifts me onto the sofa, pulling my knees apart and burying his face in me until my breaths become moans.
And he's right, he's got me.
* * *
Things always look darker in the middle of the night, and my thoughts are no exception. I wake up, blinking, disoriented for a moment until I realise I'm lying in my own bed. Alex must have carried me back here at some point; the last thing I remember is drifting off on the sofa, naked in his arms. Our bodies were all but stuck together, a soft sheen of sweat covering us both.
Now, he's behind me, his arm draped across my stomach, the metallic strap of his watch making patterns on my skin. Squinting, I turn my head to the alarm clock. It's nearly four, only two hours until he's due to leave.
It's only a few months. People are apart for longer. Business trips, holidays, wars. And if it was only me I think I could cope, gear myself up enough to make it through the weeks, maybe even enjoy a bit of independence.
But with Max as well? I don't know.
I think of all the milestones he could miss in three months. Max is changing every day, taking on an identity of his own. Two months ago he could hardly move, and now he's rolling like a ninja. It makes me sad to think Alex is going to miss so much.
Sad for Max who needs his daddy.
Sad for me who needs him, too.
But most of all, I'm sad for Alex.
In an attempt to get comfortable, I shuffle down the bed. Alex's arm falls away, and I miss it already. So I turn and nestle into him, breathing in the smell of soap and cologne that clings faintly to his skin, listening to his heartbeat. Tomorrow night there will be an empty space, and I wonder where he will be sleeping; in some scummy motel, sharing a bed with Stuart, maybe smelling of weed more than soap.
My stomach clenches at the thought, and I'm already regretting the things I haven't said. I'm half inclined to wake him up simply to remind him to take care. To look after his body and not abuse it. Maybe I can text him every now and then, remind him to eat his vegetables and brush his teeth.
You're not his mum, Lara.
I know that, but I'm his wife and no matter how up and down we've been I love the hell out of him. What's wrong with asking him to look after himself?
When you can look after your own health, maybe then you can worry about him.
Ugh. I roll my eyes at my own inner musings and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out. Drifting back to sleep, I snuggle closer to Alex, not ready to let him go.
When I wake up in the morning, he's already left.
14
The following Saturday Max and I are sitting on a train, heading for Woolstone, the Dorset town where I grew up. Though it's been years since I lived here, the journey is familiar and strangely comforting. The old, derelict buildings lining the track as we pull out of London give way to the open fields of the English countryside. The criss-cross patchwork of farmlands are ripe with crops; all verdant greens and golden yellows, only weeks away from harvest.
It's easy to forget about the countryside when you're living in the city, but the grey concrete and silver-glass buildings are no match for nature's magnificence. For the first time I find myself wondering if London is the right place to be bringing up a baby.
Not that my own childhood was completely idyllic. Sure, for the first few years all I can remember are picnics in wooded glens and afternoon teas in the garden, but I suspect that's more a product of rose-tinted glasses than reality. By the time I was a teenager, living in the middle of nowhere was more of a drag than anything. I can remember grumbling to my mum that the last bus home left town at ten o'clock, just when the evening was getting started.
By the time the train pulls in to Woolstone station, I've already strapped Max into his buggy and am standing next to the door, ready to get off. A nice woman helps carry the buggy onto the platform for me, and then I'm pushing him towards the exit.
My dad is waiting in the car park, leaning on his Ford Focus, which I note is sparkling clean. He used to wash it every Sunday without fail when I was a child; I'm guessing that's a habit he hasn't grown out of.
“Hi.” I push Max over to him and Dad leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek. Though he's cleanly shaved, his skin still feels rough, his face ruddy from being out in the sun.
He looks old, even more so than the last time I saw him, almost six months ago. But what makes me feel really bad is how his face lights up when he sees us. I'm such a neglectful daughter.
“Hello, beauty.” He hugs me tight, then crouches down to look at Max. “And look at you, little man. You're growing up.”
Max stares at him. His lips wobble a bit, and I wonder if he's going to cry,
