Christmas Shopaholic(60)

“Do I, Bex? Or maybe you’re too na?ve to see what’s right in front of you.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and gives me an earnest look. “Just promise me you’ll have a safe word, OK?”

“A safe word?” I can’t help bursting into laughter. “I’m not choosing a safe word! What, you think he’s going to lock us in a dungeon?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says darkly. “You don’t know what he gets up to.”

“Does the cottage have a dungeon?”

“Well, no,” she admits, after a moment’s thought. “But he might have made a sex room out of the second en suite.”

“Suze, you’re mad! We’re going round there for a civilized glass of wine and that’s all. End of discussion. And now I’ll go and help our customers, like I’m paid to do,” I say pointedly.

As I stride off toward the sprygge display, my phone buzzes again. I glance down to see a second message from Craig and gulp inwardly.

Bring your swimmers and we can all enjoy the hot tub together!

Or go au naturel…? ;)



I don’t think I’ll mention that to Suze.

Oh God…



* * *



—

By six-thirty, I’ve chosen an outfit to wear for our evening at Craig’s: black trousers together with a very high-necked, tightly tied pussy-bow top. Plus a buttoned-up evening cape. (I bought it in the sales and then thought, Oh God, what a mistake. When will I ever need a cape? Well, now I know.)

I’m sitting at the kitchen table as Minnie drinks her milk, tapping words into my phone, feeling like I lead some sort of torrid double life. There’s my innocent child, drinking her milk—and here am I, choosing safe words. I’ve got about ten options so far, including “Chanel,” “Dolce,” and “Gabbana.”

Then it occurs to me that they might not be very easy to work into conversation. Maybe a safe word should be something more nondescript, like “hello” or “water.”

But then what if I want a drink of water?

Honestly. How do safe words work, anyway? Surely the safest word is “stop”? Or “I’m going home now, I’ve had enough, and actually I’m not into multiplayer sex; I prefer shopping.” (OK, so that’s more of a safe sentence.)

As Luke strides into the kitchen, I jump with nerves and blurt out, “So we’re really going, are we?”

“What?” Luke gives me a puzzled look. “Of course we are. Unless—have you changed your mind? Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m feeling fine!” My voice rises shrilly. “It’ll be super fun! Can’t wait! Um, Craig said something about going in the…um…” I clear my throat. “The hot tub.”

“The hot tub?” Luke chuckles. “Well, let’s see if we get that far.”

I stare at him uncertainly, wondering what exactly he means by “get that far.” Oh God. Is Suze right and I’m really na?ve and everything has a double meaning that I’ve never understood before?

Luke wouldn’t be into multiplayer sex.

Would he?

Just then the doorbell rings and Luke lets in the babysitter, Kay, who is a cheery lady in her sixties, full of local gossip. Between us we get Minnie into bed, whilst hearing all about Kay’s neighbor’s dog’s operation. And then, before I know it, we’re walking along the dark, chilly village road toward Lapwing Cottage.

Luke is talking about the bottle of wine he’s bringing and how we should think about going over to France one day to tour some vineyards, and I’m nodding and saying, “Yes, yes, burgundy, fab,” without any idea of what I’m on about. With every step I feel more jittery. I’m being ridiculous, I keep telling myself. Nothing is going to happen.

But what if it does? What will I do? Oh God, we’re nearly there. Should I quickly say something to Luke?

Lapwing Cottage is off the main village road, down a little unlit lane. It’s not completely dark, though—there’s a glow ahead, which must be the cottage. As we get closer, the glow gets brighter and brighter, until I blink in surprise. Wow. The cottage has been covered all over in fairy lights, some white, some multicolored, and some flashing. Minnie would love it.

We’re nearly at the house now and Luke whistles.

“There’s the hot tub.” He gives a small chuckle. “Look. That’s quite something.”

He’s pointing over the hedge into the back garden. I follow his gaze—and stare, taken aback. There’s not just a mammoth hot tub on the terrace; there’s also a Hawaiian-looking bar, three sunbeds, about six patio heaters, and some palm trees in pots.

“Did they bring those palm trees with them?” Luke is saying incredulously. “And the sunbeds? It’s hardly the right time of year. As for the patio heaters, I read a piece the other day about those….” He starts talking about global warming, but I can’t listen, because I’m staring in slight terror at the palm trees.

Palm trees. Isn’t that the sign? Isn’t that what swingers have in their gardens to alert other swingers?

My heart is thumping hard as we walk up the path to the front door. It’s on. It’s real. Suze was right. I have to tell Luke, quick.