The Letters (Carnage #4)(15)

“Thanks, good to see one of you has got some manners. We’ll have a bottle of wine please. White, make it decent, none of that Liebfraumilch shit.” That comment left me standing there with my mouth hanging open. That girl had more front than Tesco and nothing had changed in all the years I’ve known Ash.

I gestured to Keith, my barman, and ordered a bottle of wine and a bottle of Mo?t. I placed the bottle of wine in blondies hand.

“You got an ice bucket on your table?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me.

“I might be from Essex, mate, but I’ve got some class. I do not drink my white wine warm.”

“That’s good to know,” was all I could think to say. This girl was like a mini tornado blowing through.

“Take this to your table, too. I’ll send someone over with some glasses and have them cork and pour it for you.”

She looked from the bottle of bubbly to me before taking it. “Cheers, mate, you’re a diamond,” she said with a wink, sounding just like something from a Dickens’ novel.

“And you, mate, are a complete tosser,” she called out to Gary, who I assumed was glaring over my shoulder at her.

She headed off back to her table and her mates, while I asked Keith to go over with some champagne glasses. I ordered myself another drink and turned back around just in time to see Rob, Tony, and Gaz raise their glasses towards the girls.

I looked in the direction the boys were, and my eyes met her blue eyes, and f*ck me if her stare didn’t do things to my dick.

At that moment, something—I have no clue what, but something—passed between us. I knew, in that instant, I knew I had to have that girl. I had to know her, and I had to have her. Not in my bar. Not in my bed. I had to have her in my life and by my side. For good.

Oh, if only it had been that easy.





CHAPTER 7


Cameron

I walk out of our bathroom and towards our bed, where my wife is now lying naked and sleeping soundly. I watch her for a while, debating on whether to wake her, to slip inside her from behind while she sleeps, or to leave her be. Neither of us slept well Friday or Saturday night but it would seem I’ve managed to catch up by sleeping all of Sunday away.

Georgia’s lying in her usual recovery position, on her stomach, left leg bent out to the side, both her arms crossed under her pillow. Her long hair is spread everywhere, and I take a few seconds to brush it back from her flawless face.

We argued about her getting Botox the week before I went away. She thinks she needs it. I don’t. Jimmie and Ash have both had a little help over the last few years, I even paid for Ash to get a tummy tuck after she carried our twins for us, but now Georgia is feeling left out and wants to get crap pumped into her pretty face when there is absolutely no f*cking need for it.

I’ve learned over the years that saying no to Georgia is a pointless exercise. So, rather than arguing with her and worrying that she would go off and do something drastic to herself while I was away, we cut a deal. She wouldn’t have any work done until she was at least fifty, and I would grow my hair back to how it was when we first met. And as easy as that, it was all sorted. Happy days.

I pull the quilt over my wife’s naked back and leave her to sleep. She’ll keep till morning and my hard-on definitely isn’t going anywhere.

I head downstairs in search of food. Since my body clock is shot to bits and my belly has no clue what time zone it’s on, my stomach is growling loudly at me.

I hunt through the fridge for food, steering well clear of anything Georgia might have made. I love my wife to distraction but she can’t cook for shit. She tries. She’s spent endless hours with her mum and Marian, watching and taking notes, but nah, none of it helped.

I think Georgia just has too many things going on in her head at once. She bakes a cake and forgets if she put sugar in. She puts something in the oven and forgets that it’s there. I’ve come home before to find the timer on the oven will be bleeping. When I ask George, “What ya cooking?” her response will be, “Nothing, why? ... Shit, I wondered what that noise was.” As if the house filling with smoke and the burning smell weren’t clue enough.

Fried egg sandwich, that’s the only thing she doesn’t mess up, but that don’t help me or the kids out because she won’t let us eat fried food at home.

We had a few months of misery when Marian hung up her apron, living on burnt offerings and takeaways before Georgia finally conceded and we got a new housekeeper. Her name’s Christine and she comes in Monday thru Thursday. She cooks the dinner, vacuums, mops, irons, and cleans all of the bathrooms except the kid’s.

The kids are in charge of their own bathrooms and have worked out their own little routine for clearing the table, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and getting in the washing if it’s been hung out on the line to dry.

Our kids have grown up privileged, but we’ve made sure they aren’t spoilt in anything other than love and attention.

I make myself a cheese and tuna toasted sandwich and open a beer. Heading into my office, I open my laptop and read through my e-mails, reply to a few, and then decide to go watch some telly.

All the time I’m doing this, I’m acutely aware that all I really want to do is go into Georgia’s office and read some more of those letters.

Those f*cking letters that are causing so much tension between us.