Page 44 of The Interview
The matching lamps we have on either side of our bed are probably one of the truest representations of my wife and who she is.
We were holidaying in Portugal, eating at a Moroccan restaurant in Burgau, when Georgia spotted a lamp she liked and asked the wait staff where it was from. They didn’t know, so she asked to speak to the manager. Unfortunately, the manager didn’t know either but said he would reach out to the owners and find out. Georgia left her card and was contacted the following day with the name of a wholesale place in Faro. She got on to them, and they put her in touch with the manufacturer just outside of Casablanca. After a couple of attempts at contacting them on the phone, Georgia googled their address and had us both on a flight to Morocco.
Their warehouse was literally at the back of a residential property. The entire family, from the ages of about ten to one hundred, were involved in creating these metal lamps and lightshades, which, I’ve got to admit, are not bad to look at as far as lamps go. Lamps in general are not my thing, but my wife liked them, so there we were in fucking Morocco buying fifteen of the things to bring home with us and placing an order for five hundred more.
We have eight or so around the house. The rest were either sold in Posh Frocks’ physical and online stores or used as part of the décor in a couple of my clubs.
That was nine years ago.
Georgia has since paid for the education of four of the kids from the Fassi family, including Aya, who studied fashion and design at St Martins, and now works for her at Posh Frocks.
That’s her.
That’s my wife.
My Kitten.
Brilliant. Beautiful. Tenacious. Captivating. Demanding. Passionate. Funny as fuck. Giving. Pretentious. Challenging. Gentle. Fearless. Temperamental. Glamorous. Argumentative. Sexy. Loving. Strong.
She’s a complete dichotomy, and I love her for it. On occasion, she can also be a bit of a cunt, and I love her for that, too.
Today has been hard. The stories about her past and the love she once shared don’t bother me too much anymore; I’ve heard them all before. Seeing the photos had me feeling a certain way, though. I haven’t decided yet if it’s jealousy. Am I too old to feel jealous of a bloke who’s been dead for twenty-five years? I think it’s more resentment that he knew her when she was young and that he got all her firsts.
But what hurt most was watching her cry. Not the tears she shed for him, but her tears for what was done to them. I know indirectly they’re still tears for him, but they just hit differentlytoday. The unfairness of it all. It was literally them against the world, and just when they thought they’d won the battle…
Fuck me, you seriously couldn’t make this shit up, and I don’t quite know how to explain the way all of it is making me feel, not even to myself. I’m still trying to process, and while doing that, making sure my wife is okay. To aid that, I used my fingers, tongue, and cock to give her three orgasms before she finally crashed, totally exhausted and snoring next to me.
Then there’s my own revelation. I thought I’d be taking that one to the grave with me. I didn’t want to. I know it wasn’t a lie exactly, but a lie by omission is still a lie in my book. I always knew if the subject of Rocco Taylor’s death ever came up, I’d admit to her the part I played in it, and tonight was the first time it has, so I confessed. Technically, did I lie? And why am I worried more about lying to my wife than the part I played in the taking of a life?
“How did you do it?”
My soul feels like it leaves my body and hits the ceiling as I jump at Georgia’s question, even though I’m looking right at her and watched her lips move.
Remind me to add witch to the list of all that she is.
Knowing exactly what she’s talking about, I don’t hesitate with my answer.
“When I got the nod he was touting his story around to the tabloids, I made a call to a contact in New York where I knew Taylor was living. I arranged it so that the next time he scored, he’d be served up something extra pure. So pure, he’d fall asleep and never wake up, and a tox report would only show up the usual suspects in his system because that’s all that would be there.”
Her eyes have remained closed throughout, but I need to see them to know that we’re good.
“Look at me.”
Her blue eyes meet mine immediately.
“I don’t regret it. I’d have flown to New York and blown the fucker’s head off myself if I’d had to—would’ve happily done time to protect what’s mine. My only regret is not telling you sooner.”
She hitches a bare shoulder. “You told me tonight. We’re good.”
“Okay, well, while we’re on the subject, there’s something else you need to know.”
“Am I a terrible person for not caring that you played a part in ending the life of a man. In fact, knowing you did that for me made me horny as fuck?” She interrupts what I was about to confess, and my thoughts go off on a tangent.
I smile down at her, at how dissimilar yet alike we are, and I pull her on top of me. With one arm across her back and one across her arse and hips, I hold her against me.
“I love the fuck out of you, Kitten. You still horny now?”
“Love you, too, T. And no. I’m fucking knackered.”
