Be My Baby: Destiny Romance by Laura Greaves

Author:Laura Greaves [Greaves, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857977212
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2014-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

Jen’s shopping brief may have specified the, er, briefest of briefs, but I’m not about to shop for crotchless knickers with my infant goddaughter looking on. What would Helena think?

I wheel Ivy’s pram down Richmond high street, crowded even for mid-afternoon on a Friday, past the saucy smalls in the window of Ann Summers and into the classier La Senza. I’m relieved to see there’s no PVC or edible undergarments in sight.

This is not me. Lingerie girl, that is. I still wear the trusty Bonds briefs I brought with me from Australia five years ago. They’re grey from overwashing and the elastic is going in most of them, but they’re comfy and familiar and I won’t bin them until I absolutely have to. Which, says Jen, is entirely my problem. My knickers drawer is a metaphor for my relationship with Finn: safe, familiar and thoroughly devoid of sex appeal of any sort. She stopped short of saying Finn might not have been so eager to get to Belfast if things were more exciting in the bedroom department, but I could tell she was thinking it.

Jen and Andrew are one of those infuriating couples who are forever making googly eyes at each other at dinner parties; you just know they’ll be tearing each other’s clothes off the second you’re out the door. She never talks about their sex life, which is how I know it’s amazing. The people who talk about it are never actually doing it.

But if Jen and Andrew are red-hot between the sheets, Finn and I are more like the cup of tea you make and then forget to drink: lukewarm and kind of congealed. The night before he left for Belfast we made love for the first time in weeks, but I was so filled with fear and resentment, I imagine it must have been like shagging an ironing board.

‘Can I help you?’ says the stunning salesgirl, who undoubtedly has an entire chest of drawers full of lacy G-strings and balconette bras. And a steady stream of stallion-esque suitors to admire her in them.

‘I’m looking for something for, um, a special occasion,’ I mumble. I feel about sixty; if she directed me to the support stocking section I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

She looks at Ivy in her pram, then looks me up and down. ‘I think I’ve got just the thing,’ she says. ‘Thirty-two D?’

‘Uh, thirty-four C actually.’

She actually winks at me. ‘Trust me, darling, you’re a thirty-two D.’ She gestures for me to follow her to the fitting rooms at the back of the store, plucking tiny scraps of fabric from racks as she goes.

She ushers me into a curtained cubicle and hands over an armful of lingerie. ‘I’ll keep an eye on bubs,’ she says, drawing the curtain across.

I open it a crack so I can see Ivy’s pram reflected in the mirror and strip down to my smalls. Any passing perverts are likely to cop a view of my backside but I know better than to leave Ivy out of my sight.

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