We’d taken a long and winding road, with unimaginable loss and heartbreak along the way, to get to each other, but we got here. Middle-aged and the happiest and most content we’d ever been in our lives.
We have been beyond fortunate to have brought four beautiful babies into this world as a bonus. Four little people that grow every day into young adults. Harry, who is fifteen now, is all legs, exactly the way I was when I was his age. We got lucky with that kid. As sad as it is to say, I’m relieved he has none of Tamara’s personality traits. H is generally the mediator amongst the kids. He’s pretty calm and easy going and no one would guess he is only a few months older than the rest of the kids, since he acts like an adult already. He is in the year above them at school and made sure everyone knew not to even think about breathing in the direction of his sisters, let alone looking at them when they joined him at secondary school they all attend. He steps in between their fights, which are frequent, and he helps them with their homework. He rarely argues with his brother or gives us any lip. He knows his background and that Georgia isn’t his birth mother. She’s the only mum he’s ever known, and since the day he came to live with us, that’s all he’s ever called her. I’ll admit that I was a little worried that her feelings might changes towards Harry when George and the twins arrived. That never happened, and the older he gets, the closer they seem to become. He goes to his mum for everything, and I mean everything. Hair product, girl advice, what T-shirt to wear to the shopping centre, all Georgia. The little shit never asks my advice on anything, his usual response to anything I say, is, “Get with it, old man”. He even sends her pictures of things before he buys them. I mean seriously, if you can’t dress yourself by the age of fifteen, then what fucking hope is there for the kids of today?
I watch the lights of the A13 pass by as we head away from City Airport and back towards Essex, to my home, my wife, my children, my world.
By the time I walk through my front door, it’s almost four in the morning. I need to be inside my wife. One week is far too long to go without feeling her skin against mine. I’ve gone beyond tiredness by this stage, so I head straight through the house towards the kitchen. I’ll have a coffee and some toast and then go wake my wife up with coffee with my extra special cream and a kiss … from my dick.
I take my shoes off so they don’t make noise on the hardwood floor. I’m home a day and a half early, and I don’t wanna be scaring the crap outta Georgia.
Walking down the hallway towards our family room, I pass my office first and then Georgia’s. We tried sharing, but I find her too untidy and distracting. Every time she leant forward or bent over, I’d end up fucking her and neither of us ever got any work done. I ended up moving the gym out to the pool house and turning the extra room into a separate office for Georgia. I had it soundproofed, too. Georgia likes to listen to music when she works, I like silence.
I stop in my tracks and take a step back as I see a light shining from the slightly open door to my wife’s office. Still holding my shoes in my hand, I push the door open slowly and take a look inside.
Georgia’s office is the complete opposite of mine. Where I have a huge wooden desk facing the door, Georgia has a deep ledge against the window that she works from with her back to the door. My walls have a couple of pieces of art I’ve collected over the years by Peter Granville Edmunds and my bookshelves have pictures of Georgia, myself, and the kids on them.
Georgia’s office furniture is made from what looks like drift wood, she has one wall painted with a pop art looking piece. It’s black and white and divided into squares. Each square is a continuation of the picture in the adjoining square. In the centre is a re-joined image of us kissing, around the edges are pictures of the kids. It sounds like a complicated mess, but the impact knocks my breath away every time I step into the room. On the opposite wall, she has the kids’ heights marked out, starting from the time they could stand. The rest of the wall is covered in ours and the kid’s handprints, and each one has something written in the palm: Love. Trust. Live. Family. Laugh. Be kind. Be honest to yourself. I love you all are just some of the words and phrases that jump out at me. Every time I look at this wall it gives me a lump in my throat. On the walls on either side of the door are the gold, silver, and platinum awards Carnage has won over the years, and on the shelves on either side of the window where her desk sits are the awards she’s won for all of her charity work, framed photos of us and the kids, and drawings the kids have made for her. Her office is all family, mine more professional-looking, which sometimes makes me feel like a bit of an old fart.
Georgia’s office is never tidy, but right now, the mess is off the charts. There’s what looks like an old tea chest, or packing crate sitting in the corner and piles of documents and books on every surface. I look at the floor, and my heart rate speeds up when I see her.