although his right hand was still clamped to her breast, he’d stopped moving, his breathing had evened out and then, to cap it all, he let out a snore.
‘Stephen?’ Lydia prompted him. ‘Darling?’
The only response was another snore. Furiously,Lydia pushed him off her body, pulling her pyjama top down as she climbed out of bed and marched into the bathroom. Running the cold tap, she let the water flow into her cupped hands and doused her heated face with it. After months without any sort of sex, he’d fallen asleep on her! She’d let him drunkenly molest her, like a schoolboy, and then … then he’d passed out. Bitterly, Lydia wondered if it was possible to feel any more humiliated or hurt than she did at that moment.
And then she heard it, the dull thud of the door shutting in the next-door bedroom, followed by peels of Joanna’s distinctive seductive laughter. Hating herself, even as she did it, Lydia took the remaining tooth mug, pressed it to the wall and listened. Unable to make out words, she could only hear Jackson’s deep tones against Joanna’s lighter voice, a conversation punctuated by giggles. There were a few moments of silence and then a sort of rhythmical creaking. Realising a little too late exactly what she was listening to, Lydia dropped the glass, which fell unbroken into the sink with a thick thud.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Lydia took in her dark brown eyes staring back her, her long, tangled hair, her flushed cheeks, pyjama top half undone, exposing the curve of her breast. Everything seemed disjointed and out of place, as if the natural order of the universe was entirely out of line. Here she was, pulsating with life, love and lust, burning like a flame, her body andsoul aching to be touched by somebody who – what was it Joanna had said? – somebody who understood her. And the possibility of that happening now seemed like a month of Christmases away.
‘Your trouble is,’ she told her reflection unhappily ‘you’ve spent your life watching old movies in which happy endings always happen.’
But this was real life. This was
her
life. A life where her parents hated each other, and where Christmas – a proper storybook Christmas – had never existed for her. Where past lovers appeared with best friends, and made rampant love to each other while her boyfriend fell asleep on her. Surely now, Lydia thought painfully, as she heard Joanna climax typically dramatically in the next room, surely
now
things couldn’t get any worse.
Chapter Six
22 December
Lydia awoke, almost immediately aware of two things: that the room, which looked less chic and infinitely more shabby in the cold light of day, was filled with that particular kind of artificial light that meant the outside world was smothered in snow; and secondly, that she was freezing cold. Dragging what was left of the covers up under her chin, she shivered and huddled against Stephen’s indifferent back for some warmth. He had not stirred since passing out last night, except to roll over onto his side and take most of the quilt with him, tucking it between his legs as if he were embracing a lover. It came to something, Lydia thought ruefully, when the bed linen got more action than she did.
Gingerly, she poked a toe out of the covers and then yanked it back, noticing her breath misting in the air as she sat up. Looking around, she spotted a deep, dark crack, the sort of crack that usually harbours spiders, running down the wall opposite the bed, and although the room had been nicely paintedand furnished, there was still an aged musty scent to it, as if it had not been lived in for a hundred years. It wasn’t quite up to hotel standard yet, Lydia had to admit, wondering if she should mention her impressions to Katy or not.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered as she leaned over and touched the radiator, which looked so old that it should probably be an exhibit in some sort of museum. Last night, it had been boiling and
‘Stephen?’ Lydia prompted him. ‘Darling?’
The only response was another snore. Furiously,Lydia pushed him off her body, pulling her pyjama top down as she climbed out of bed and marched into the bathroom. Running the cold tap, she let the water flow into her cupped hands and doused her heated face with it. After months without any sort of sex, he’d fallen asleep on her! She’d let him drunkenly molest her, like a schoolboy, and then … then he’d passed out. Bitterly, Lydia wondered if it was possible to feel any more humiliated or hurt than she did at that moment.
And then she heard it, the dull thud of the door shutting in the next-door bedroom, followed by peels of Joanna’s distinctive seductive laughter. Hating herself, even as she did it, Lydia took the remaining tooth mug, pressed it to the wall and listened. Unable to make out words, she could only hear Jackson’s deep tones against Joanna’s lighter voice, a conversation punctuated by giggles. There were a few moments of silence and then a sort of rhythmical creaking. Realising a little too late exactly what she was listening to, Lydia dropped the glass, which fell unbroken into the sink with a thick thud.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Lydia took in her dark brown eyes staring back her, her long, tangled hair, her flushed cheeks, pyjama top half undone, exposing the curve of her breast. Everything seemed disjointed and out of place, as if the natural order of the universe was entirely out of line. Here she was, pulsating with life, love and lust, burning like a flame, her body andsoul aching to be touched by somebody who – what was it Joanna had said? – somebody who understood her. And the possibility of that happening now seemed like a month of Christmases away.
‘Your trouble is,’ she told her reflection unhappily ‘you’ve spent your life watching old movies in which happy endings always happen.’
But this was real life. This was
her
life. A life where her parents hated each other, and where Christmas – a proper storybook Christmas – had never existed for her. Where past lovers appeared with best friends, and made rampant love to each other while her boyfriend fell asleep on her. Surely now, Lydia thought painfully, as she heard Joanna climax typically dramatically in the next room, surely
now
things couldn’t get any worse.
Chapter Six
22 December
Lydia awoke, almost immediately aware of two things: that the room, which looked less chic and infinitely more shabby in the cold light of day, was filled with that particular kind of artificial light that meant the outside world was smothered in snow; and secondly, that she was freezing cold. Dragging what was left of the covers up under her chin, she shivered and huddled against Stephen’s indifferent back for some warmth. He had not stirred since passing out last night, except to roll over onto his side and take most of the quilt with him, tucking it between his legs as if he were embracing a lover. It came to something, Lydia thought ruefully, when the bed linen got more action than she did.
Gingerly, she poked a toe out of the covers and then yanked it back, noticing her breath misting in the air as she sat up. Looking around, she spotted a deep, dark crack, the sort of crack that usually harbours spiders, running down the wall opposite the bed, and although the room had been nicely paintedand furnished, there was still an aged musty scent to it, as if it had not been lived in for a hundred years. It wasn’t quite up to hotel standard yet, Lydia had to admit, wondering if she should mention her impressions to Katy or not.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered as she leaned over and touched the radiator, which looked so old that it should probably be an exhibit in some sort of museum. Last night, it had been boiling and
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