What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) (5 page)

We spend the rest of the evening discussing what our
wardrobe and other accoutrements need to be so we can cope with both the day
and the evening exploits in the Peak District.  When Annie announces that we
need a formal outfit, as the group has planned to have a black-tie evening at
the house to celebrate the achievement, albeit only 2/3rds done of our
challenge (the final peak would be completed on the last day prior to getting
straight back on the coach and heading back home), I nearly die.

“I don’t have a dress to wear for that sort of event,” I gasp,
horrified. 
There’s no way in hell I could buy myself a dress without Greg
knowing, and if I told him I needed a frock to get dressed up, then there would
be no way in hell that I would be allowed to go
.  Even as the thoughts echo
in my head, I know it’s pathetic I let him control my life to that extent, but
it’s just easier than having the conflict. 

Emma sees the anxiety on my face and immediately correctly
interprets the reason.  She calmly asserts: “I’d like to buy you a dress, Lil. 
We can go out on Thursday to late-night shopping, instead of you going to the
gym, and pick one out together.  It’ll be a belated birthday present or early
Christmas present, whatever you’d rather.  I can even keep hold of it if you
prefer, and then you can collect it from me before you go to get the coach on
Friday after work.  Or I can drop it off for you there; whatever works for you,
really.” 

It’s pathetic, but I nearly sag with relief as Emma neatly
solves all my problems without me needing to open my mouth.  It’s so
embarrassing; I wonder just when I became so spineless I was unwilling to take
Greg on and challenge him about something that was essentially completely unreasonable
behaviour.  I’m not doing anything wrong, just getting a dress to wear to a
function.  I resolve to stand up for myself at home more. 
But not this time
,
I think,
not ’til after the trip. I don’t want him to ruin it for me
.  

“Thank you,” I whisper, wondering how it was I deserved such
a good and loyal friend.  Emma just smiles and simply says, “I expect a photo.” 

Annie assures her she will see to it herself.  The rest of
the plans include walking boots, raincoats, hats, gloves and plasters.  I
already have most of it, the product of many a cheap camping holiday with the
boys because our money was too tight to do anything else.  Annie, on the other
hand, seems more used to city life, but she dutifully makes a list on her iPhone
of everything she needs, including where she would be most likely to find all
the different items, while Emma watches on, bemused by the whole situation.

At the end of the evening, Emma and I say ‘goodbye’ to
Annie.  I watch them hug each other like old friends, and then Annie whispers
something in Emma’s ear before moving towards her taxi.  Emma smiles, and they
both turn to look at me, making me feel awkward.

“Stop fidgeting, and get in the car,” Emma scolds, having
determined that after a vodka and two whiskies I’m very likely beyond the drink-drive
limit.  I do as I’m told, wondering how the hell I’m going to get the car back
tomorrow after work and what time I need to get up in order to get the bus.

“She’s great, I really like her,” Emma declares after a last
wave at Annie as her taxi pulls away.  I nod my agreement.

“Thanks again for the dress,” I begin.

But Emma just waves her hand vaguely at me and says, “It’s
my pleasure, really, I mean it.  It would give me great joy to see you out
enjoying yourself for once, looking as beautiful as you are and letting other
people see it for a change.  I just wish I could be there to share it with you,”
she says, sounding a little sad.

“Next time,” I whisper.  She looks at me intently, as the brake
light from the car in front illuminates her face with a red glow, and nods.  It
feels like she’s trying to see right inside me.

“I would really like that,” she says emphatically.  I look
away and let the moment pass, both of us knowing how unlikely a next time was. 

As we pulled up in front of the house I’d felt my shoulders
tighten as I rehearsed what I was going to say to Greg about why I was in Emma’s
car and why our car was still at the pub. 

Emma grabs my hand as I move to open the door. “You’ve done
nothing wrong,” she assures me.  I give her a half smile as I ease out of the
car seat. 

Closing the door behind me, she lowers the window and calls out
quietly: “See you Thursday, I’ll pick you up at half five.  If you have to tell
him anything, tell him I need help getting some stuff for the baby.  It’s true;
I could do with your experience in choosing a pram.  Phil’s mum is hassling me
to make a decision about which one we want, as they insist on buying it for us,
but I get even more confused every time I go and look at them.  So if you will
be my baby guru and help me choose a pram, I’ll help you choose a dress.” 

I decide she’s a mind reader; it’s like she knew I was
chickening out of the trip the further I got from Annie and the pub.  This way
she knows she has me; I could never resist helping her with stuff for the baby. 
I immediately give in.  “Okay, see you Thursday at half five outside work.” 

She beams at me before waving one last time and pulling away.

I square my shoulders and walk to the door, fumbling the
keys in the latch as the cold air combines with my alcohol-fuddled brain and
ruins what was left of my already severely lacking hand-eye coordination.  The
door jerks open from the inside, and Greg stands there sizing me up with a look
before glancing at the obviously empty driveway.

“Where’s the car?”

“At the pub,” is all I say as I make to push past him,
feeling unusually bold for once.

“Why?” he asks, blocking my way with an arm.

“Because I had two whiskies and a vodka,” I reply. “I’ll
pick it up tomorrow after work – I’ll get the bus in the morning.”

“You don’t like whisky,” he says, still looking at me
intently, his arm still blocking my path into the house.

“Well, I did tonight.”  My voice sounds tired to my own
ears, and clearly he hears something in it because he lifts his arm and lets me
pass.  I hang up my coat and head straight up the stairs to our room, with him
following close behind me.  The boys are either out or already in bed, most
likely the former because they rarely go to bed before midnight these days.  He
stands there watching me as I take off my makeup and brush my teeth in the bathroom.

“What’s up with you?” he mumbles.  I turn towards him, and
for the first time in a long time I really look at him.  I see his angular,
still overly slim frame, his square jaw with perfect nose and hair flopping
down over his forehead, hiding the green eyes I used to love when I first met
him. Now all the small gestures irritate me; every time he runs his hand
through his hair to move it out of his face, I wonder why he doesn’t just get
it cut.  There’s no denying he’s still a handsome man,  but I also see the grey
in his hair and the lines etched on his face that reflect all the angry and
disappointed expressions he has made over the passing years, and I realise I feel
virtually nothing of the love for him I had felt in the early days.  He sees me
weigh him up with my eyes and look away, finding him wanting.

“What’s with you?” he says again, angry this time, seeking
to reassert control.  I move back into the bedroom and reach for my pyjamas.

“Don’t bother,” he growls, pushing me back onto the bed with
one hand while fumbling to undo his shirt with the other. I sigh and sit down
on the bed as I begin to slowly undo my own buttons.  It isn’t fast enough for
him, so he grabs it and tears, sending the small buttons flying across the
room.

“Shit, Greg, that was my favourite shirt,” I complain
without thinking. 

He just pushes me back against the bed, secures both my
hands in one of his and growls: “Shut the fuck up.” 

He reaches for my skirt and pushes it up, exposing my pants,
which he pushes to one side before pushing two fingers straight up inside me
hard.  I moan at the sensation because the invasion hurts at first, but
eventually my body starts betraying me as he moves his fingers, touching my
most sensitive places.  I want to hate him for doing this, but my body has
other ideas.  I can feel a slickness forming as his fingers press within me.  I’m
responding almost instantly, and he knows it.  My nipples harden, exposed
through the lace of my bra, and he lowers his head to suckle first one and then
the other until I’m whimpering for more, a dull ache forming in my lower
stomach that demands his attention. 

All the while he holds my hands tight in place in the firm
grip of one of his large hands.  He withdraws his fingers suddenly and tears
off my pants, before fumbling one-handed with the buttons on his jeans to
release his erection.  His knee forces my thighs apart, and I feel him nudging
at my entrance before pushing in hard. 

Suddenly, I want him.  My back arches, and I push my hips
against him, deepening the contact.  He only thrusts a few times when I feel
the telltale tightening and trembling in his body and he’s shouting my name as
he comes, finally collapsing onto me, eventually releasing my hands. The whole
event must take no more than ten minutes if we’re lucky.

We lie there in silence for a while, both breathing heavily,
before he stands up, takes off his trousers and shirt and then climbs into the
bed.  I can tell he’s asleep within five minutes of shuffling out of his jeans. 
I get up, remove what’s left of my shirt, my bra and then my skirt, and slowly
pull on my pyjamas.  As I lie back down on the bed, with the lights turned off,
I think about what just happened. 
Jesus, all I’m fit for is the bloody
Jeremy Kyle show
, I reflect, wondering how it was that my life was turning
into the worst kind of car-crash television. 
I didn’t say no
, I console
myself
. 

Greg didn’t look happy when I told him I was going out with
Emma for a second time that week, but after I explain how she needs me to help
with the choice of pram, as well as doing a bit of other shopping, there really
isn’t much he can object to without looking childish and even more controlling
than he actually is.  I have prepared a lasagne (Greg’s favourite) for all
three of them, and bought a pre-washed salad. I tell them all they had to do
was warm the lasagne through, open the salad and eat it; I will do the washing
up when I get home.

Emma is waiting outside the surgery promptly as agreed when I
finish work, greeting me with a bright smile and a wave.  It’s nice to be
greeted so warmly, I reflect as I climb into the car.  We drive slowly through
the rush hour traffic, filled with the crimson glow of brake lights, until we
get closer to the centre of town and the traffic lifts slightly.  We are going
against the flow – with most people heading to their homes and families in
the darkening evening as autumn closes in.  Emma easily finds a parking place,
and we make immediately for the maternity department of John Lewis –
well,
really, a girl like Emma was never likely to buy things for her baby from
anywhere else, was she?

“Right, there’s only three things that really matter when
you’re buying a pram,” I intone in my most knowledgeable-sounding voice,
grabbing a large teddy bear and thrusting it into her slightly startled arms.  “Firstly,
you have to be able to fold the buggy up single-handed while holding a baby,” I
say, nodding towards the teddy, which she adjusts until it’s perched on one
hip.  She moves towards the first buggy she most likes the look of (also one of
the most expensive) and tries to shift the clasp to unlock it and fold it. 
Several frustrated minutes and at least one broken nail later, even after the
assistant closes in on us (scenting the prospect of an easy sale) and
demonstrates the easy closing mechanism three times, the pram stands resolutely
upright.

“Well, bloody hell!” Emma exclaims, now disgruntled as she
discards her first choice and moves on to her second-favourite.   The mechanism
on this one is marginally easier, and after only three attempts Emma folds the
contraption up with a flourish and steps back with a look of satisfaction on
her face.

“Okay, so what’s the second thing?” she asks.

“You need to be able to lift it, also while still holding a
baby.”

“Well, why would I need to do that?” she exclaims
indignantly.  “Couldn’t I just pop the baby in his or her seat in the car?”

“Well, yes, if you are putting it in the car, but what about
if you’re getting on a bus?  I had a caesarean; the only option for me for the
first six weeks was to go on the bus if I wanted to go out, and trust me,
sometimes you need to get out of the house.  If you can’t carry it onto the bus,
the only alternative is handing your beloved child – or children, in my
case – to a complete stranger.  Believe me, I know this from experience,
and it’s not ideal,” I add.

“Okay, Okay, you’re right again ‘oh wise one’,” she says with
resignation as she attempts to lift the buggy with one arm.  The look of relief
on her face to know she can lift it is second only to the assistant’s, who has
already seen the value of her sale diminish. 

“Okay, hit me with the final rule,” Emma says, slightly
nervous now.

“Well, this one’s easy, but again a common issue if not
thought about beforehand.” I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring the eye-rolling
assistant.  “It needs to fit in the boot of your car.  Again, this is one I
learnt firsthand, but some of these beasts are huge,” I say, looking
meaningfully at the contraption in front of her. 

Emma looks down with a slightly wobbly lip as she weighs up
the size of the pram with the size of the car boot on her little KA.  The
assistant is waffling about how deceptive these things could be and car boots
were made big enough to accommodate prams these days, but we both know the pram
is far bigger than her car could fit.  The KA had been Emma’s pride and joy,
bought with her first proper pay packet on qualifying as a solicitor, but is now
sadly found wanting, given the expanding needs of her life.

“Sorry, honey,” I say, giving her a big hug.

“No, it’s fine, really, thank God you saved me from making a
very expensive mistake,” she says, smiling at me, although her eyes still look
sad.  We move on to look at the smaller versions, but I can tell her heart isn’t
really in it when she finally puts a reserve on one and arranges the delivery
date, three weeks before the birth.  The assistant actually scowls at me as we
say ‘thank you’ and pay.

“Okay,” says Emma, visibly brightening as we leave the maternity
section, “now it’s all about you.  How long have we got?” she asks, glancing
down at her watch.

“About an hour and a half,” I say, knowing that if I’m not
home before nine I’ll get grief from Greg, and I don’t want to start anything
with the trip now a mere week away.  I look at her anxiously.  “Is that long
enough?”

“Sure,” she says with confidence, “you know how you know
everything there is to know about prams and everything to do with babies and
children? Well, I’m like the Yoda of shopping for dresses.”  

I laugh as she pulls me towards the party dresses in the
store.  It isn’t a section I habitually frequent, and one glance at the price
tags tells me why.  She’s all business now.

“Right,” she says matter-of-factly, as she begins grabbing
dresses from the rails, muttering about the importance of emphasising my legs
and bust.  The fabrics are luxurious, and the price tags tell me I’m well out
of my league.

“You have to be kidding,” I say as I catch sight of a red
dress she had selected that looked like it was more suited to her than me.

“Trust me,” she says, as if she’s talking to a difficult
child.  After about twenty minutes she has about eight dresses for me to try
and thrusts them into my arms before manhandling me towards the changing room. 
She isn’t content to just leave me to try them on my own, insisting to the unconcerned
attendant that she’s required to supervise me and positioning herself on a
small chair just outside the changing room. 

As I reluctantly peel off my regulation cardigan, shirt and
black slacks that had become my staple uniform for work, I’m amazed to see the
dresses she chose are all in a size smaller than my usual.  Maybe the gym is
having an effect after all, if Emma is noticing it.  I pull the first item on,
a fitted little black dress to the knee with long sleeves and a plunging V-neck. 
I reach behind to do up the zip, then turn to examine myself in the mirror and
gasp.  The person standing looking back at me doesn’t look like me at all. 
Once I get beyond my spectacular cleavage, I can’t believe I actually have a
waist for perhaps the first time in my adult life.  I may not be tall, but
somehow the work at the gym has started to tone my body and reduce my inches,
producing a figure that, while by no means perfect, is well-proportioned and
shapely.
Damn
, I think,
I look like a woman
.
Oh my God, I’m
going to start singing Shania Twain songs in a minute.
 

My reverie is broken by the grating of the curtain rings on
the bar as Emma unceremoniously rips the curtain back.

“What’s taking so lo–, bloody hell, Lil, you look fucking
fantastic!” 

I smile at her, a big mega-watt grin, both at her uncharacteristic
use of the ‘F’ word and because for once I actually agree with her.  I do look
good. 
At least for me
, I auto-correct.

Emma is still talking: “The structure of that dress is great.
 It gives you lots of support, not that you really need it with your gym
efforts.  They’ve really paid off, Lil, I am so proud of you.  All we need to
do is get you some ‘fuck me’ shoes and the right underwear, sexy but
supportive, and you will be good to go.”

“‘Fuck me’ shoes,” I echo faintly.

“Yes, you know, ‘bar to car’ shoes.  Good for looking good
in, but totally impossible if you actually have to do much in the way of
walking.  From what Annie said you’ll just be having a party at the house, so
you can make your dramatic entrance, look glam for a bit and then kick them off
when your feet start to hurt, by which point everyone’s past caring anyway!”

“I don’t know,” I start to say.

“Lily, don’t lose your courage now.  You’re doing
brilliantly.  Try on the other dresses to compare, but really I think we’ve
struck gold with our first try.  You’re going to look fab, and with a couple of
little accessories, you’ll be perfect.”  She sounds pleased with herself. 

Her phone rings and distracts her, so I retreat back behind
the curtain, carefully removing the dress.  A quick glance at the price tag makes
me shudder, but I hang it carefully back up and reach for the red dress.  More
confident this time I marvel at the ease with which I can do up the zip, and then
I turn to inspect myself.  Where the black dress had made me look sexy and
womanly, this one shouts “strumpet” at me from the mirror.  I laugh as I try to
manhandle my breasts into the dress so that at least my nipples aren’t on
display. 

Pulling the curtain aside I show the dress to Emma, who’s
still talking on the phone – to Phil, I guess from the sweet smile that’s
playing at her lips.  She shakes her head emphatically when she looks up and
shoos me back into the changing room with her hands.  Two more dresses later,
and two more negative shakes from Emma, and I’m getting tired of getting in and
out of dresses.  I’ve never been much of a girl when it comes to shopping. 
Unusually for me, though, I’m not disheartened, because while none of the
dresses look quite as good as the first, none of them look exactly bad.  If
ever I needed any encouragement to keep up with my efforts at the gym, then
this was it.  The positive impact of even just a short six-week period has
really made a difference, and I resolve to keep going.

I stick my head out of the cubicle to see if Emma will permit
me to go with the first dress and save me having to try any more.  She has just
finished talking to Phil.

“Is it worth trying on any more?” I ask tentatively.  “I
really like that first one.”

“Me too,” she agrees.  “Let’s go and get underwear and
shoes.”  She reaches into the cubicle and grabs the dress, leaving me to gather
up the others and hand them to the poor assistant before rushing to catch up
with her as she strides off towards the shoe department.

“Was that Phil?” I ask when I finally catch up with her, as
she stands perusing a row of impossibly high black stilettos.

“Yes,” she answers, looking a bit sheepish.

“How is he?” I enquire, knowing her well enough to know she
has something to get off her chest.

“Oh, fine, I was just telling him about the prams, and not
being able to get the one I wanted because it won’t fit in the boot of my car.”
A slightly embarrassed flush passes over her face before she adds, “Phil
insists he needs to get me a new car anyway, because mine won’t be big enough
when the baby comes along, so I can get the bigger pram after all.” 

She actually looks guilty as she says it, and I rush to
reassure her. “Good for Phil.  I’m glad for you, Em, you deserve it.  You
deserve to be happy, and I’m glad you’ve got a man like Phil who wants to do
things for you to make you happy.  That makes me happy.” I mean it.

“Yeah, but you deserve to be happy too, and you never get
breaks like me.”  It’s sweet that it bothers her.

“Please don’t ever think you can’t tell me the nice things
that happen to you, just because they don’t happen to me.  I want to hear about
it – what car are you getting?”

“Not sure, maybe an Audi A3 or a Golf, something that’s
small enough for round town but big enough for kids, you know?” She’s started
to sound excited again.  

“Absolutely,” I agree, “sounds perfect.”  Emma reaches for a
pair of shoes, quickly catching the eye of the assistant and asking for a size 6. 
I love her all the more for remembering my shoe size.

“Well, I guess we need to order that other pram, then,” I
say while we wait.

“Yeah,” she says, the excited smile back on her face.  When
the assistant comes back with the shoes and I try them on, we both coo about
the wonderful things they do to my calves.  I can see now why women wear them,
although I’m not sure I would be able to cope for more than about half an hour
before needing to kick them off again; plus, given my propensity for clumsiness,
I’m frighteningly likely to do either myself or someone else an injury while
wearing them.  Emma strides over to the till and pays for both the dress and the
shoes, before leading me, despite my protests, to the underwear department. 

One well-fitted lace bra and matching panties later, and I’m
done. 

“I’ve got a clutch bag that’ll look perfect, not that you’ll
need it if you’re staying in the house for the evening, but it’ll be good to
have just in case, or for your lipstick.”

“As if!” I laugh, and Emma frowns at me. 

“I’ll have to have a word with Annie about that,” she says.
I look at her to see if she’s serious but figure she’s joking.

As we make our way back to the start of the shopping trip,
and the maternity department, I reflect it had been a long time since I had
enjoyed shopping so much. The maternity department assistant casts smug
expressions in my direction as Emma amends her order, before we make our way
back to her car and begin the short drive home.  As we pull up in front of the
house I lean over to kiss her.

“Thanks, Em.  Really, I mean it, thank you.  I had a great
time, and I love the dress.”

“I wish I was going to see you in it,” she smiles sadly.

“You never know, maybe there’ll be another posh event I get
randomly invited to, when I can wear it and take you with me.”
Unlikely,
though, in reality
, we both think but don’t say out loud.