It’s odd being with people and the two of us being together, but not together. I want to lean against him, to have him put his arm around me, to show my affection for him, the way Sally is kissing her husband on the cheek in front of everyone. But I can’t. It strikes me then what a bizarre agreement we have. It’s almost like the scenario we enacted in the bedroom. He’s servicing me, trying to get me pregnant. I’m treating him like a living, breathing sperm bank. He agreed to it, and I’m paying him for it, but maybe he’s more upset about the arrangement than I thought.
I feel a tad resentful. It wasn’t my idea to sleep together. I told him I wouldn’t be interested in a relationship at the end. And I’m still not. I like him—of course I do, more than I thought I would. And it’s not because he gives me multiple orgasms. Okay, it’s not just because he gives me multiple orgasms. He’s tender and gentle, although I’m beginning to realize he has a wicked streak hidden beneath that. He hid it well, no doubt because he thought it would be too much for me, but I have a feeling that, given time and opportunity, Marc Fitzgerald could be a very naughty boy.
I shift in the chair, trying not to think about our adventure in bed that afternoon. I can’t let myself get distracted. Because if I think about it—if I really think about having a relationship with him, about going to bed with him every night, about letting him do all those things to me on a regular basis, and more—I’m going to fall for him, and that’ll be akin to taking a saw to my ribcage and opening up my ribs to give him access to my squidgy heart. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to give someone that kind of power over me again.
No, this is just about sex. About getting pregnant, and nothing more. And if he’s upset about it, well, he should have done something in a cup, as he so delicately put it.
The meal arrives—numerous wonderful dishes of noodles and rice, sticky chicken and Szechuan beef, stir-fried pork and crispy duck, and we all tuck in. I relax a little, enjoying the food.
“This is so good,” I tell the others, taking a second helping of rice and chicken. “I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.”
“That’s what you get when you work up an appetite,” Marc says.
I stop with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth. Sally meets my gaze and then hastily drops hers, trying not to laugh. Hemi snorts, and his wife elbows him in the ribs. Ashton just grins.
I glare at Marc, but he’s busy answering his mobile, which I can feel buzzing in his jeans where his thigh is close to mine. He takes it out and checks the screen, says, “Excuse me, I need to take this,” gives me an amused look, and leaves the table, walking out of the restaurant and into the mall as he answers the call.
I look back at the others, decide humor is the best way to deal with this, and gesture at them with my chopsticks. “You can all stop smirking. He meant the visit I paid to the petting farm today.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sally says. “He can’t keep his eyes off you. It’s quite romantic, really.”
I blush and poke the chicken with the chopsticks. “I don’t know about that,” I mumble.
“What’s the deal with Mel at the Riverbank?” Ashton asks out of the blue. “She seemed shaken to see him this afternoon, and Fitz went even more monosyllabic than he usually is when she turned up.”
I hesitate—Marc obviously didn’t tell him about their relationship, and I don’t want to betray his confidence. Equally, we’re working closely with these people, and Ashton looks genuinely perturbed.
“She’s his ex,” I tell him. “They broke up about five years ago.”
All their eyebrows rise, and Sally exclaims, “Seriously? You mean Mel Fanshaw?”
“I don’t know her surname, but he said he saw her today. Blonde bob. Pregnant.”
“Holy shit,” Ashton says. “No wonder both of them looked upset.”
I move the noodles around the bowl, pretending to look for chicken, but in truth I’ve lost my appetite. I don’t want to think about Marc being cut up over losing someone else. It gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.