Page 22 of Trusting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #3)
CALLUM’S WEST END FLAT
‘It’s not exactly sexy, is it?’ Callum surveys my comfortable beige bra with an expression of distaste.
I shrug. ‘At least it’s clean.’
Honestly, every time we’re about to have sex lately, the subject of my underwear comes up. The man has lingerie on the brain. I’m not sure what the big deal is. My M&S bra is a functional piece of clothing. It keeps certain pieces of flesh where they’re supposed to be. Besides, he usually whips it off me in five seconds flat, so why spend hard-earned money on expensive wisps of lace that aren’t even supportive?
‘Mmm, you smell nice, like the tropics,’ he murmurs, sniffing at my neck. He slips a hand round to deftly unhook my offensive bra.
‘It’s Jamaican Delight body wash,’ I say. (It was on sale at Superdrug. I thought it sounded exotic.)
A ridiculous urge comes over me to start singing ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts’, but Callum isn’t amused by silly stuff. Instead, I bite my lip and concentrate on undoing the lower buttons of his blue-and-white pinstripe shirt and unzipping his grey suit trousers. It’s Tuesday night, and he has to work later. He hates the rigmarole of getting dressed after sex, hence why he’s fully clothed and why I have my blouse unbuttoned, bra flapping loose, and skirt hiked up. Now with a quick series of hand movements, Callum edges my matching beige knickers down around my thighs, then checks his Apple Watch to make sure we’re on schedule. Apparently, there’s a new contract he wants to look over tonight . . .
Callum actually does have a great body, when he deigns to take his clothes off (that’s usually reserved for Friday nights or the weekend, when he has more free time) .
The fact that he’s seriously built didn’t escape my notice when I first met him two years ago. I’d taken a half-day off work to view some flats through Duncan Stratt, a letting and estate agency in the New Town. While I was waiting for the letting agent to appear, I noted the pop-up calendar of Antarctica on his desk—the only thing of interest in his sterile office. Idly, I picked it up. For September, there was a photo of a fluffy baby penguin alongside a dizzying number of scrawled appointment times.
Intrigued, I wondered, Has he been there? Or does he want to go? I assumed a man who had an Antarctica desk calendar must be an outdoorsy, adventurer type. Since I’d been expecting someone who was a bit rough around the edges, I was taken aback when he strolled in. Callum Stewart was the most well-groomed man I’d ever seen. He had short black hair gelled back hard into place, a clean-shaven jaw, salon-shaped eyebrows, and ice-blue eyes. He was wearing a black three-piece designer suit that fit him to perfection—not a speck of lint dared cling to it.
My face must’ve reflected my surprise because he flicked his eyes to mine, then to the calendar, and with remarkable perceptiveness, he said, ‘A Secret Santa present. Too cold for me. I prefer going somewhere warm for my holidays. ’
Callum took off his suit jacket, then unbuttoned and rolled up his white shirtsleeves. My eyes flicked over his lightly tanned, supremely muscular forearms, which suggested that he not only worked out but had also just returned from a holiday. He looked like the type of guy who’d stay in a five-star resort in the Bahamas .
His handsome, put-together presence was slightly intimidating, which irked me, so I replaced the calendar and couldn’t resist a flippant, ‘It looks like you have been somewhere warm recently, nice tan.’
The instant the words were out of my mouth I realised it was too familiar and flushed bright red. But Callum seemed amused, and I caught him giving me a once-over as he sat down. I was wearing my typical work outfit—cream silk blouse, grey pencil skirt, natural sheer stockings, and black three-inch heels. My long brown wavy hair was tied back in a bun, and I had on my black thick-rimmed, oversized glasses, several coats of long-lash mascara, and a generous slick of pink lipstick. I call it my ‘sexy librarian’ look, and since I am actually a librarian, I figure I can get away with it.
Leaning back in his chair, Callum fingered his blue silk tie and considered me carefully. Then he said in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on mine, ‘So are you ready to see some flats, Ms McTavish?’ I swear to God my insides turned to jelly.
Anyway, that was our first meeting. When I look back on it now, it seems strange to me that he didn’t even say hello or introduce himself. It was like he didn’t feel the need to bother with niceties .
I force my attention back to the present, and Callum is on top of me. He thrusts a few times, grunts, and then it’s over. Sex with Callum is, shall we say, perfunctory. He thinks foreplay is a waste of time. The most I can hope for is the odd ear nibble or breast grope. That’s when he’s feeling particularly amorous. He mostly just wants to do the deed and then move on with whatever tasks are next on his list. He calls it ‘pipe maintenance’.
The weird thing is it didn’t start out like that. We used to have sex that lasted a normal length of time. But he started increasing the ‘pipe maintenance’ sex until it’s pretty much become our go-to.
The first time it happened, about six months into our relationship, I was shocked beyond belief and seriously thought about dumping him right then and there. But Callum explained that it was just to save time and that he had some work to finish and that he still really liked me .
So I’ve gotten used to it. It’s just the way he is. And all men have their foibles, don’t they? Things you have to put up with ?
Our sex life does tend to ramp up when we go away on weekend minibreaks. However, our last minibreak in the Lake District was a case of him thrusting three times in the morning and three times in the evening, which admittedly did leave us plenty of time for sightseeing .
Callum sighs and rolls off me, and I almost say sarcastically, ‘Was it good for you?’ But I just rehook my bra, button my blouse, pull up my knickers, lower my skirt, and head out to the kitchen, throwing ‘Cup of tea?’ over my shoulder as I go. Leaving him to sort himself out is my way of getting back at him. Why should I have to rebutton and zip up everything I undid exactly—I glance at my phone—four minutes ago ?
Of all the rooms in Callum’s three-bedroom flat, I love the kitchen the most. It’s huge. All high-end appliances and black marble countertops. He has an Italian coffee maker, a blender with ten settings, and three ovens (not that he ever cooks anything). I could honestly just hang out here the whole time. One of the advantages of him moving into sales is that he has the pick of the bunch when it comes to lettings—he doesn’t have to wait until something’s advertised, which is why he moves flats every six months. He likes to live in different streets of central Edinburgh so he can provide ‘local knowledge’ for his clients .
His previous New Town flat had a Jacuzzi bathtub and a rooftop garden with views out to the Firth of Forth. I shed a few quiet tears when he handed in his notice. This current flat is in the West End in Palmerston Place, and he’s been here five months. I know he’s keeping an ear to the ground, so I’ve been using the blender as much as possible to make all kinds of smoothies before he leaves.
Maybe next time I’ll suggest we have sex in here, I muse, flicking the switch on the gleaming chrome Dualit kettle. Callum could position himself behind me and thrust three times while I steep the tea. Then we can sip Earl Grey, and he can read the Financial Times and tell me what the share market’s doing while I inspect my nails. He won’t even need to see my underwear.
The scary thing is Callum might actually get on board with it. I glance at his fridge, where a weekly planner is held up by a couple of Duncan Stratt magnets. For Tuesday, September 9, he’s written ‘Emma’ in the 7 p.m. slot—fitting me neatly in between ‘meeting with Simon’ at 6 p.m . and ‘work on Harpington contract’ at 8 p.m. Yes, he’s all about efficiency.
I know I’m making Callum out to be a nightmare boyfriend, and you’re probably thinking I’m a shallow bitch for going out with him only because he has a nice body and a shiny kitchen . There’s much more to our relationship than that, of course. We actually have quite a bit in common.
For starters, we’re both only children, and we both adore Tesco sultana scones. We also like going for runs together on the weekend. Well, we start out together. He’s much fitter than me, so I usually lag fifteen minutes behind and turn up red-faced and puffing. But still, it’s a shared activity. Callum is also really good company when he’s relaxed and not absorbed in his work, and we watch a lot of Netflix .
We get along famously with each other’s families too. Callum’s parents live in Jersey. I speak to his mum and dad on the phone when they ring, and they seem to like me. I also met his cousin, Robert (or Rabbie, as he told me to call him), who lives in Skye. We went up there one bank holiday weekend for a minibreak. Rabbie’s unmarried and a farmer. He and I got on the whisky, and it was a brilliant laugh. It’s a shame we haven’t seen him since. Callum doesn’t seem keen to go there again even though I’ve suggested it a few times.
He much prefers to visit my mum in Fort William. She adores him and always brings out the best china like he’s royalty or something. She cooks his steak just the way he likes it too—so rare it’s mooing—and fusses over him like he’s the son she never had. Callum laps it up.
So you see, everything is all fine with us—it really is. I’ve just been dissatisfied with the physical side of our relationship lately. More so than usual. I just wish he’d make an effort to please me. Yes, I’ve tried talking to him. To be honest, things did improve after I did. He really seemed to get what I was saying about the sexual response cycle and listened intently when I was going on about the plateau phase. Well, he nodded a lot at least, and his eyes didn’t glaze over. After the talk, he was very attentive, and we spent a few amazing evenings together. He didn’t even open the Financial Times .
But it hasn’t lasted. Callum’s lapsed back into three-thrust Freddie, and I know if I say anything again, I’m going to come across as a nag .
The unfortunate part is that I’ve started looking at other guys on the street and wondering why I’m putting up with it. I’m thirty-two and in my prime, for God’s sake!
The kettle finishes boiling, and I pour scalding water into our mugs and dunk the Earl Grey tea bags distractedly. Besides, what if we get married and he’s so focused on his career that I don’t have a baby until I’m forty? Is his swiftness in the sack going to be a problem? If he barely manages to get me aroused, then surely it’s going to make it ten times harder to get pregnant at that age.
OK, he’s never actually mentioned anything remotely along the lines of marriage or kids, so I could be completely barking up the wrong tree . . . Maybe I need to find out subtly before I get too ahead of myself.
Callum wanders into the kitchen, raking his hair back into place and tucking in his business shirt. He opens the fridge and peers in optimistically. He does it every time he comes into the kitchen. I can tell you exactly what’s in there: a bottle of ketchup, a mouldy lemon, a bottle of milk, half a bottle of flat champagne, and a wilted bunch of lettuce.
I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see if he doesn’t go food shopping. One of these days, I’m going to smuggle in a chocolate gateau just to see the look on his face when he opens the fridge.
‘Can you hand me the milk, please,’ I say. He gives me the bottle, and I sniff it gingerly. It smells freshish. He leans against the counter, then flicks open today’s copy of the Financial Times and starts reading an article. I bring over his tea and lean next to him, blowing on my own to cool it down.
‘Callum? ’
‘Hmm?’
‘Er . . . Do you want kids?’ Whoops, so much for subtle. Callum jerks like I’ve prodded him with a red-hot poker .
‘What?’
‘Kids. Do you want them?’ I repeat slowly.
‘Uh, I haven’t really thought about it.’ He avoids my gaze and sips his tea.
‘Well, you’re thirty-six. Surely it’s crossed your mind?’
‘Perhaps. But not in a fully formed “I definitely want this” kind of way. ’
‘Oh.’
‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re getting all clucky.’ He sounds slightly panicked.
‘Not especially.’
Callum puffs out a breath and smiles at me. ‘We’re all good, aren’t we? No need to rush into things. We’re just barely getting started.’
‘We’ve been together two years,’ I state pointedly. ‘Shouldn’t we be discussing things like this?’
He turns me around to face him and puts his hands on my shoulders. He’s wearing his realtor expression, and I know what’s coming.
‘Having a baby isn’t the answer to your problems, Em. You need to sort out your flat situation.’
‘It’s not my fault the landlord keeps putting up the rent!’
The shitty bastard’s done it twice now. It’s the main reason why I haven’t been splashing out on sexy lingerie and why I’ve started buying discounted microwave meals. I’m always complaining to Callum, but he says the landlord is within his rights to do it as long as he gives me three months’ notice.
He soothes me now with, ‘I’ll find you a cheaper flat. Just tell me where you want to live.’
‘I want to stay where I am,’ I state firmly. ‘I just can’t afford it.’
Callum drops his hands from my shoulders and returns to his newspaper. After a pause, he suggests casually, ‘Why don’t you get a flatmate?’
‘A flatmate?’
‘Yes, you’ve got two bedrooms, Em. Just rent out the other one. Problem solved. ’
I shake my head slowly. ‘I don’t want a flatmate. They’ll have friends over and be using my kitchen and lounge. And they’ll want to chat .’ I shudder. ‘You know what I’m like. I’m an introvert. When I get home from work, I just want my own space—to read, watch Netflix, or think—without someone nattering in my ear. And I’ve got my library set up in the spare room.’
‘Sorry, Em. Unless you move to a one-bedroom in a cheaper area or move in with me’—Callum shrugs his shoulders—‘I don’t think you’ve got any other choice.’