I go back downstairs and wait in the lobby for the cab to arrive. It’s a big black London taxi and the driver reminds me of my Uncle Finn. I talk to him through the window and explain that I need to get into my apartment block, but the press might be waiting for me. Once he realises who I am, he agrees to help me out. I give him the code to the underground car park and he gives me his jacket and tells me to get down in the foot well in the front of the cab. If the photographers don’t see anyone in the back, they will assume his cab is empty. He also leaves his ‘for hire’ sign on, just to help me out a bit more.
The cabbie's name is Don and he tells me that he knows my dad. He has a drink with him in the Boleyn Pub on Green Street before a West Ham game sometimes. Apparently, they went to school together.
He talks me through every street and tells me there are four photographers on the street outside the apartment block. I hear him tap in the code and we drive into the underground parking garage.
“Right, love, I’ve got ya as close to the doors as I can. I’ve parked so the passenger door opens up straight on the path. I’ll come round and let ya out. I can’t see any of them arsehole reporters, but ya never know where they might be lurking.”
I pull Don’s jacket from over my head.
“Thanks so much, Don. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart. You just get in there safe and tell your ol’ man he owes Don Weeks a drink when he next sees him.”
He comes around and opens the passenger door. I climb out, swipe my security card into the box and tap in the code.
“Thanks so much, Don,” I tell him as he waits to make sure I get in safely. I will pay him and I will make sure he gets a bloody big tip too.
“You’re more than welcome, sweetheart. Be lucky and I hope you get all this sorted and them scum leave you alone. It’s a crying bloody shame what they’re allowed to get away with. Leave ‘em down a dark alley with your dad and Uncle Finn and they wouldn’t be so brave. I can tell ya.” For some reason, this makes me give him a quick peck on the cheek as I step inside the small lobby of Cam’s apartment block. Because he owns the penthouse, he has his own lift so I swipe my card again and the doors open instantly.
As soon as I’m up and in the apartment, I start to shake. My jaw is so tense; it’s making my temples ache, but as the shaking gets worse, my teeth begin to rattle. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a wine.
The apartment has been left exactly as if we were still living here. We still use it and stay here if we’ve been working late and can’t be bothered to go back to Essex, and I’ve stayed here twice since Cam’s been away, rather than stay in our huge new home on my own. I gulp down my wine, then head upstairs for a shower.
I let the water hit me from every angle and try to get my thoughts into order. Cam loves me, of that I am one hundred percent sure, but he likes sex, a lot. I have no idea at what age men’s sex drive starts to reduce, but at forty-two, Cam likes sex every day, twice a day, sometimes three times. He doesn’t bring me to a toe curling orgasm every time; my sex life isn’t some make-believe novel where the leading lady constantly has multiple orgasms. Sometimes it happens; occasionally, it doesn’t, but I love it regardless. I love the connection it gives us. I don’t tell Cam when I don’t come. He worries and thinks it’s his fault, so I do what I assume most women do and fake it, and to be honest, I feel like a bit of a freak because he does make me come so often.
My brain goes into overdrive as I start to overthink things. What if he’s done this as revenge for when I left him for Sean or for when we fucked and I refused to leave Sean afterwards? Do I have any right to be angry? I fucked Cam behind my husband’s back. Isn’t this just that bitch Karma, seeking her revenge? But this is Cam. Would he do this to me?
I start to cry. I don’t know why, hurt, anger, a little bit of exhaustion. The stress of the IVF. We find out on Monday if we have managed to create a pregnancy.
What if all six embryos attach? What if we end up with six babies and these allegations turn out to be true?
What if I’m left on my own to bring up six children?
I slide down the wall of the shower, rest my forehead on my knees and really let the tears flow as I wonder, why me, why is this happening to me again?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cam
As soon as the seatbelt sign is off, I turn on my phone. Fuck what they say about waiting until you’re inside the terminal building and all that bollocks. I need my phone ready to rock ‘n’ roll once I get inside that terminal. I need to speak to my Kitten. It’s been thirteen hours. Thirteen fucking hours, on a plane, most of it with a hard on.
I’d spoken to her on my stopover, woken her up in fact. I smile as I think about how miserable she is in the mornings. I love the fucking bones of the girl, but she is one moody bitch until she’s had a coffee and sex, so I tell her to call me back when she’s had a coffee and feeling more sociable.
Sex. Fuck, I need sex like you wouldn’t believe. Ten days, ten fucking days, and then when I’m about to get on the plane, she calls me back, and in that sexy morning voice says to me,
“Tiger, I’ve had my coffee. Now all I need is an orgasm. You’re not here so I’m about to DIY it.”