Return of the Girl called Christmas
By Simon Poore
Copyright 2011 Simon Poore
Smashwords Edition
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Return of the Girl Called Christmas
The Wednesday before Christmas...
Tilly sat on the edge of the wide hotel bed. Her body was shaking, sobs like spasms making her shoulders shudder; her head bowed. Her fast grasping breaths began to slow as she finally realised that no more tears were forthcoming. Black rivulets of mascara stained her cheeks; finally her eyes began to blink. Her sobs and breaths were slowing as it all began to cease. She lifted her head and took a deep slow breath, sighing, and in the same movement she pushed her thick black hair away from her brow. Looking around, she took in the hotel suite properly for the first time. It was sumptuous and very well appointed. Oh fuck, she thought, I should love this; it's so beautiful, I should be here with Harry...no...not Harry...
She had always loved the idea of a boutique hotel. This very boutique hotel. She thought about how she had wanted to bring Harry here. But now it all seemed so flat and false. Fake like plastic. It was like such luxury was wasted on a crushed heart.
She opened her clutch bag on the bedside table, checking first she had Harry's credit card in her wallet, and then that she had her mobile phone. Its screen was flashing; six missed calls from Harry and a whole bunch of text messages. Bastard. What a bastard...
She stared at it for a moment and then threw it hard at the wall, surprising herself that she could muster such violence. The phone split apart on impact, three or four bits spinning to the floor; battery tumbling, the screen suddenly dimmed. A slight dent was left in the Japanese print wallpaper. She stared at the dent for a moment, empty inside, and then reached under the bed where she had instinctively placed the brown paper bag. Leaning down she opened the bag and, of course, the money was still there. All fifty odd grand of it.
She left the money where it was and walked over to the dresser. It was getting dark outside. Flicking on one of the small wall lights next to the dresser she saw her tear stained face in the mirror. Her lustrous hair was straggly but at least her dress still looked good. The strapless little black dress that she had worn to be on Harry's arm. She should have been on Harry's arm at the reception tonight. Right about now. How could she have kidded herself he would find her attractive in it? She had even worn new sheer lace top hold ups and black lace panties, just for him. Just for fucking him! Why?
Flashbacks of finding him came flooding back to her. She re-lived opening their bedroom door, in their house, without a care in the world. In the house they shared. The next moments were a blur of slow motion and shock. She caught the scent of Chanel number 5, mixed with sex and heat. She saw his downy buttocks rising slowly above that girl. Dimples in the cheeks as his tightening muscles began to push down into her. She saw that girl's facial expression turn from supreme taut sexual pleasure to opened mouthed realisation. She saw that girl's slender tanned legs gripping his waist. She saw that girl bite his shoulder to make him stop; heard her mumbling urgently as he thrust deep into her. Their mutual breathlessness and heavy moaning subsided quickly as he stopped. She saw that girl's heavy breast sliding under his hand, her neck and chest flush with desire, her nipples raised. She saw him twist and turn to see her watching from the doorway. She was motionless and expressionless, but inside it was like her whole being was falling; sinking fast like a lift with its cables cut. She had opened their bedroom door and her whole innocent and stupid world had fallen. She had opened their bedroom door and caught him fucking that girl. That fucking girl. Anya, the girl from his office, his work colleague; what a fucking cliche! That fucking stupid bitch of a girl...
After that she had acted on instinct, like an unfeeling clockwork machine. She ran down the stairs. She took his wallet and his credit card. She took his car. She drove to the bank; somehow utterly calm. She sat in the car park and, using his laptop, she transferred money from his accounts to hers. Then she walked into the bank, and drew it out in cash. All of it. She then drove sensibly into the city, stopping only once to throw the laptop into the river, and then she booked into the hotel. The hotel she always wanted to go to with him. But never did. Never will...
Again Tilly viewed herself in the mirror. Now what, she thought, what on earth do I do now?
Taking a tissue from the dresser she began to wipe the mascara from her face. Pausing, she picked up the hotel phone.
"I need a large gin and tonic," she said flatly.
"There are selections of spirits in your room's mini-bar, madam," replied the receptionist; her impersonal voice making her seem like a jolly poodle.
"That won't be enough," said Tilly, "send up a large bottle, ice, slices and tonic," She put the phone down, gripping the receiver in its cradle. What now? Tilly held her face against the tissue. "Oh God...oh God..." she whispered to nobody.
A soft knock at the door startled her. Tilly thought momentarily how quick the service was, considering she was on the twelfth floor.
"Let yourself in," she called, quickly continuing to wipe her tear stained face.
The door opened and Tilly glanced up to see the silhouette of the maid enter with a tray, framed by the light from the hallway. The room was dark now apart from the down lighter next to the dresser. Tilly looked back at her own face in the mirror.
"Just put the tray on the table," she said, "and...oh...maybe you could be a dear and pour me a large one before you go?"