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Great Writing - Home > Extended > Three accounts of events - part 12 (a)
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Extended Work
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| Three accounts of events - part 12 (a) | |
| By teddy | ||||||||||||
| 01 April 2007 | ||||||||||||
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This is quite short. I've been really busy recently and had very little time for GW and writing. would really appreciate your comments. Thanks. It’s Sunday morning, one of my favourite mornings of the week, when we are all at home, loafing around the house. George is in the kitchen cooking breakfast, I can hear him whistling along with Aretha Franklin’s wonderful voice which is oozing from the radio on the kitchen window’s sill through all around downstairs and right up the stairs into the bedrooms. He sounds happy, and I wonder if that’s got anything to do with him getting lucky last night. I wouldn’t be too surprised to be honest. Since the accident, our sex life had been nearly inexistent; we had tried it few times, but George was too worried that he might hurt me and I, …well, I was never in the mood, so it didn’t work. Last night it was different though; it was definitely not a physical need for me, more like a craving for some kind of reassurance that things are all right between us. I’m lying in bed on one side with my head propped in my hand, watching Vicky who’s sitting next to me with an illustrated book in front of her and a handful of crayons spread beside her. She picks them up one by one and skates their tips over the paper, scrawling eccentric contours of a messed up rainbow. She’s highly engrossed in the task: her tongue is clenched between her teeth, slightly sticking out of her mouth. She reminds me of Paul, I had seen him many times before when he was concentrating on something in the same posture. From time to time Vicky’s eyes leave her artwork and look at me. She taps the book with her palm, requesting my appraisal. ‘Aemmm!’ ‘This is beautiful, baby. What is it anyway?’ ‘Birrrddie,’ she says enthusiastically. I smile, she’s got a very vivid imagination. I wonder if she has inherited my artistic talents. ‘Hmmm, it does look like a bird, a very colourful one, …perhaps a parrot?’ I hear my phone beeping and I roll on the other side to fetch it from the bedside table. I look at its lit screen: a message, a very early one, it’s not even nine o’clock. “Twelve o’clock, same place?” pops up on the screen when I press the ‘Read’ button. Yeah, right Paul. I am annoyed, why doesn’t he leave me alone? This is not bloody right. When I turn back to Vicky, I notice that her position in bed has changed. Her book is still in the same place, but she’s sitting on George’s pillow now with the tender document he was working on last night lying in front of her, her hand holding a purple crayon in the air, ready to attack the paper. ‘Vicky, no!’ I stare at her frozen. She looks at me, her mouth expands in a mischievous smile, and before I manage to reach her, the front page acquires a beautiful purple squiggle right in the middle. She admires her work and giggles satisfied. See, it looks much better now, mummy. ‘You naughty girl,’ I reprimand her. ‘George’s not gonna be happy when he sees that.’ Talking about the wolf, I hear steps rambling up the stairs and few seconds later George enters the room bringing in with him appetizing smells of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. ‘Come on, ladies. Breakfast’s ready.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I glance at him and then at Vicky who’s proudly stretching her arms with the purple artistic efforts gripped in her hands. ‘I only took my eyes off her for a second.’ ‘What have you done, you cheeky little thing?’ George laughs when he sees it. ‘You shouldn’t let her get away with it this easy,’ I say reproachfully. ‘Oh, it’s only a draft, honey, don’t worry about it. Plus, it looks much more interesting now,’ he smiles. ‘Maybe I should keep the adjustments.’ ‘Yeah, but still, she needs to learn what’s right and what’s not.’ ‘She’s got enough time for that. Come on, let’s go downstairs. The breakfast’s getting cold,’ he ends up the conversation. He picks up Vicky and drapes her over his arm puffing a kiss at the back of her neck. She starts giggling and her laugh is so contagious that I can’t help it and now I’m laughing too. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I say to George when they’re just about to disappear through the open door. I need the bathroom. Few minutes later, I’m downstairs in the kitchen, munching a piece of crispy golden toast smeared with butter and jam, and watching George’s attempts to trick Vicky into eating her porridge. ‘Come on, honey, just one more,’ he pleads, but Vicky’s shaking her head stubbornly and her face’s scowling when the spoon’s approaching her mouth. ‘Leave her, George. She’s probably not hungry anymore.’ ‘But she hasn’t eaten that much,’ he shows me the half full still bowl. ‘She’ll be ok, don’t worry.’ I get up, grab a banana from the fruits basket, peel it and then mash it into a bowl. I try to tempt Vicky with it, but she wouldn’t have it. So I end up eating it myself. I share it with George. ‘Mmmm, this is really good,’ George says while letting me feed him. But Vicky’s persistent in her refusal. There’s something really homely about the three of us being here, having breakfast, and deep down I know this is what I need, what I want, and that I shouldn’t spoil it. My mind involuntary drifts away to Paul. His soft lips exploring my mouth, the warm touch of his hands on my bare skin are overwhelming my thoughts and senses, and I shiver. ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ George looks at me concerned. ‘Are you cold?’ ‘No, no, I’m fine. Someone must’ve walked over my grave.’ I laugh. ‘I’m going shopping this afternoon,’ I hear myself saying few minutes later. ‘Do you think you can look after Vicky?’ ‘Sure,’ George looks at me surprised. ‘Don’t you want us to come with you?’ ‘No, thanks. You know how she starts moaning when she gets tired. It would be too much for her, it’s Sunday, everywhere will be packed.’ I’m making myself busy clearing up the table, hiding away the blush the lie and the guilt have brought to my face. I feel really bad and I’m just about to retract my words, tell him that I’ve changed my mind. ‘Ok, no problem, honey. You do whatever you need to do, we’ll find something to entertain ourselves with.’ It’s twenty to twelve and I’m standing, freshly showered, in front of the open wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. My eyes glance at a new skirt I bought last week, but I know that wouldn’t be such a good idea. I don’t want to rouse any suspicions, so I reach for a pair of jeans and a long sleeve cotton top. And it has to be trainers, the most suitable footwear for shopping. Sorry, Paul, not the most glamorous look for a Sunday date. I move to the bathroom and put on a touch of make-up. And there I am, ready to go. I kiss George and Vicky good-bye and leave them in the living room in front of the TV. Traitor, an awkward thought slams me as I step outside the house.
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