Page 18 of Christmas Games
‘No.’
‘Don’t you think you should?’
‘I don’t want to. She’s overwhelmed with being pregnant and her plans for bloody fucking Christmas.’
‘Is that the song by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl?’
Rory ignored him. ‘I’m trying to keep it together for her right now. She’s the one with the hard job. She doesn’t need my bullshit. There’s plenty to take me away from the cabin, so I need to get her some, erm, toys…’
‘You don’t have any already?’
‘What? Fuck no.’
‘Seriously? Mate, you’re missing a trick. They’re not competition, they’re fun. A rabbit is your friend, not your foe.’
‘A rabbit? What the fuck are you on about? I want a vibrator, not another pet.’
Charlie’s laugh was so loud, Rory had to hold the phone away from his ear.
‘Mate, you’re fucking priceless!’
‘Look, are you going to help me or not?’
The sound of Charlie slapping himself echoed down the line, and the laughter stopped.
‘Ahem. Yes, Mr Charlie Hamilton is here to save the day. Now, let’s start with specifications.’
5
July. Twelve weeks + four
Rory hated hospitals. In his life, they were never associated with anything pleasant. During his army days, he’d had the misfortune to be blown up in Afghanistan. He was one of the lucky ones, keeping all his limbs as well as his life. But lying in a hospital bed with too much time to think had taken its toll.
He was confident he’d dealt with his PTSD a long time ago, but every time he smelled the mix of cleaning fluid and cabbage, or heard the squeak of rubber shoes on a linoleum floor, forgotten feelings and emotions woke from their graves to stalk him.
But he had to bite the bullet. Zoe was booked in for multiple appointments and he was going to be there for every single one. So far, pregnancy seemed like a never-ending ride on a decrepit rollercoaster after drinking five bottles of Buckfast.
Zoe was still feeling sick the whole time, her bladder hadthe capacity of a teacup, she was perpetually exhausted, and her emotions had more bounce than a bungee cord. Maybe this was why his parents only had him. God only knew how Fiona always appeared so bonny.
And despite his best intentions and how many hours a day he worked to relieve Zoe’s workload, she seemed unable to step off the bridge of the good ship Christmas and let him shoulder more of the responsibility.
If Rory had his way, the celebrations would require less input than a pedalo on a boating lake. However, Zoe’s version of Christmas was a cruise liner crossed with a container ship. The only good thing was that she hadn’t seemed to notice they’d stopped having sex.
Charlie had come through for him with a shopping list of vibrators long enough to stock a sex shop. Rory had no idea there were so many permutations. They vibrated, they pulsed, they had ultrasonic waves, they sucked, they blew, they had two heads, three heads, ears, rattling balls. Some were even remote controlled. Rory thought he knew what sex involved, but it was clear he was a caveman living in a sci-fi world and hadn’t yet got with the programme. He’d ordered a selection that were mainly external, ensuring anything that would be penetrating her was half the size of his cock, then put them through the castle accounts under ‘hospitality and entertainment’.
Red-faced, he’d presented them to Zoe one morning, explaining that he wasn’t going to be around much. The embarrassment turned into relief when it seemed they were doing the trick. And when he thought she might initiate any intimacy, he made an excuse to leave the cabin. There was no way he was going to let his selfish desires risk her health or the baby’s.
However, sitting in the consultation room at the hospital, it appeared his cunning plan had not been entirely effective.
‘Everything’s alright then?’ Zoe asked the elderly midwife.
‘Oh yes, dear. You’re now into your second trimester. Your baby is fully formed and just needs to cook.’
‘So, it’s okay to have sex?’
The woman peered at Zoe over the top of her glasses. ‘Why, yes, dear. Are you not indulging in marital relations at present?’ She looked keenly at Rory, as if he was to blame.
‘No. My husband refuses to have sex with me.’
