this. My head’s too muddled and weighed down. Where sex before was like an added extra, now it is loaded with meaning. It is as if the lightness had been shot out of it, leaving it withering to the floor like a deflated balloon.
Jim puts his arm around me.
‘Morning,’ he murmurs, then kisses my head, then slips his hand between my legs.
I gently remove it.
‘Jim,’ I say, pushing him gently off me, trying not to sound too annoyed, ‘Jim, look…I can’t, I’m sorry.’
He rolls onto his back and for what seems like for ever, he doesn’t say anything.
When he speaks again, he sounds almost sad.
‘It’s different now, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I guess it is.’
He reaches for my hand, strokes it for a second or two and then turns onto his side. ‘Come on,’ he says, pressing his warm, long body against mine. ‘Let’s just have a cuddle.’
We must have eventually drifted off, because when I wake up again, it’s 7.10 a.m. and Jim isn’t in the bed. I sit up and hear the shower going, so I plump up the pillows and pick up the Bundle of Joy book.
I like waking up in Jim’s flat. Like everything in his life – his car, his beloved books, his friends, he got it a long time ago, nurtured it, tended it lovingly and it’s served him well in return.
Jim has always had to look after things, because he’s never known when anything new or better will come along. He was fifteen when his alky waster of a dad walked out, leaving only his mum’s income from her part-time job as a school nurse to support the family, and so he and his sister Dawn never got much. As a result, the bookshelf in his bedroom, made from red bricks and planks of wood, is full of childhood books that he’s looked after for twenty odd years. There are records that he’s had since the eighties, too, and all manner of retro chic – a leather chair, an orange seventies phone – none of it bought in trendy design bric-a-brac shops, but just things he’s kept all this time.
Jim walks back into the bedroom, still dripping wet, wearing nothing but a teeny towel. He pulls open the curtains to reveal yet another grey May day, and stands in front of his mirror, examining his stubble.
‘You love that book, don’t you?’ he says, peering at me via the mirror.
‘Might do,’ I say coyly, ‘what’s it to you?’
Jim shrugs. He flexes his ‘muscles’ in a mock muscle-man impression and twists his body from side to side.
‘Grrrr,’ he says, ‘a powerhouse of masculinity, a finely tuned instrument, I think you’ll find.’ He lifts up one arm at a time, spraying deodorant flamboyantly. Beanpole thin with skin so pale it looks blue in some lights, this is Jim’s running joke.
‘Right. Yeah, all eight stone of you,’ I say, peering at him from over my book. ‘Look at your skinny arse!’
With that, Jim whips off his towel, beats his chest like Tarzan and dives into bed with me, still soaking wet.
I let out a yelp of shock.
‘Aaah, you’re fucking freezing, you’re soaking wet, get off me!’ I scream, as he blows raspberries all over my belly.
‘I am Tarzan you are Jane. I am man, you are woman!’
‘Jim!’ I scream, half serious, half laughing. ‘What are you doing you madman, you’re going to squash the bloody baby!’
He suddenly leaps backwards on to his feet, a look of horror on his face.
‘Shit, fuck, fuck, sorry I can’t believe I just did that.’ He groans, hands over his eyes. ‘I forgot you were pregnant, what an oaf, you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you very much,’ I say, pulling up the duvet and picking up my book again. ‘Just hurry up and get dressed will you, you big lunatic. You’re going to be late.’
We are good at this, Jim and I. Larking about, joking about our bodies and our shortcomings. But my child will share this man’s genes so it would kind of help if I fancied him. When I used to look at Laurence, all six foot two Adonis of him, I knew what I felt
Jim puts his arm around me.
‘Morning,’ he murmurs, then kisses my head, then slips his hand between my legs.
I gently remove it.
‘Jim,’ I say, pushing him gently off me, trying not to sound too annoyed, ‘Jim, look…I can’t, I’m sorry.’
He rolls onto his back and for what seems like for ever, he doesn’t say anything.
When he speaks again, he sounds almost sad.
‘It’s different now, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I guess it is.’
He reaches for my hand, strokes it for a second or two and then turns onto his side. ‘Come on,’ he says, pressing his warm, long body against mine. ‘Let’s just have a cuddle.’
We must have eventually drifted off, because when I wake up again, it’s 7.10 a.m. and Jim isn’t in the bed. I sit up and hear the shower going, so I plump up the pillows and pick up the Bundle of Joy book.
I like waking up in Jim’s flat. Like everything in his life – his car, his beloved books, his friends, he got it a long time ago, nurtured it, tended it lovingly and it’s served him well in return.
Jim has always had to look after things, because he’s never known when anything new or better will come along. He was fifteen when his alky waster of a dad walked out, leaving only his mum’s income from her part-time job as a school nurse to support the family, and so he and his sister Dawn never got much. As a result, the bookshelf in his bedroom, made from red bricks and planks of wood, is full of childhood books that he’s looked after for twenty odd years. There are records that he’s had since the eighties, too, and all manner of retro chic – a leather chair, an orange seventies phone – none of it bought in trendy design bric-a-brac shops, but just things he’s kept all this time.
Jim walks back into the bedroom, still dripping wet, wearing nothing but a teeny towel. He pulls open the curtains to reveal yet another grey May day, and stands in front of his mirror, examining his stubble.
‘You love that book, don’t you?’ he says, peering at me via the mirror.
‘Might do,’ I say coyly, ‘what’s it to you?’
Jim shrugs. He flexes his ‘muscles’ in a mock muscle-man impression and twists his body from side to side.
‘Grrrr,’ he says, ‘a powerhouse of masculinity, a finely tuned instrument, I think you’ll find.’ He lifts up one arm at a time, spraying deodorant flamboyantly. Beanpole thin with skin so pale it looks blue in some lights, this is Jim’s running joke.
‘Right. Yeah, all eight stone of you,’ I say, peering at him from over my book. ‘Look at your skinny arse!’
With that, Jim whips off his towel, beats his chest like Tarzan and dives into bed with me, still soaking wet.
I let out a yelp of shock.
‘Aaah, you’re fucking freezing, you’re soaking wet, get off me!’ I scream, as he blows raspberries all over my belly.
‘I am Tarzan you are Jane. I am man, you are woman!’
‘Jim!’ I scream, half serious, half laughing. ‘What are you doing you madman, you’re going to squash the bloody baby!’
He suddenly leaps backwards on to his feet, a look of horror on his face.
‘Shit, fuck, fuck, sorry I can’t believe I just did that.’ He groans, hands over his eyes. ‘I forgot you were pregnant, what an oaf, you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you very much,’ I say, pulling up the duvet and picking up my book again. ‘Just hurry up and get dressed will you, you big lunatic. You’re going to be late.’
We are good at this, Jim and I. Larking about, joking about our bodies and our shortcomings. But my child will share this man’s genes so it would kind of help if I fancied him. When I used to look at Laurence, all six foot two Adonis of him, I knew what I felt
Similar Books
