скачать книгу бесплатно
When I met Mark it felt like a modern-day fairy tale, and things only got better from that moment on. Now that we’re a year into our relationship, I bet you’re wondering whether or not things are still as romantic as they were when we met…
‘I can’t believe you’re on Call of fucking Duty again,’ I say with a big sigh as I stare out of the window, shaking my head.
Mark laughs.
I glance over my shoulder and look at him sitting on the sofa, that cheeky smile still there but his eyes glued to the home cinema screen in front of him. He’s clutching a controller in his hands and he’s got his headset on his ear, his microphone hovering just in front of his mouth in case he needs to smack-talk any 14-year-olds playing in America. Trust me, if there’s one thing worse than watching your boyfriend play video games, it’s watching him play them in one-hundred-and-fifty inches with surround sound so immersive, it keeps occurring to me to call my mum and tell her I love her every time I hear an explosion. And if there’s one thing even worse than that, it’s when he watches football on it. But the absolute worst thing of all the things that the love of my life does is play FIFA, because that’s a video game and football combined – and beyond boring for me.
‘Is watching me play not piquing your interest in warfare?’ he asks cheekily.
‘The only thing that watching you play is doing is making me crave the sweet release of death via a headshot,’ I say wryly.
Mark throws his head back as he laughs.
‘You’re too funny,’ he tells me. ‘This match is nearly over, then we can do whatever you want.’
‘Thank God, because it’s Sunday, and you know I hate Sundays.’
‘I know you do, but I still don’t understand why, you weirdo.’
‘They’re just so boring,’ I explain – for the millionth time. Mark just doesn’t understand my hatred of the day. ‘Everywhere closes early, everyone is miserable about the impending Monday morning, nothing really happens – I’ve never had a good Sunday.’
I think I’m possibly the only person in the world who loves Mondays – but it’s exclusively because it means that Sunday is as far away as it can possibly be.
‘So, basically, because you can’t shop as much and you have to get up early tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Nailed it,’ I reply.
Our corner apartment boasts the most incredible view of London. The first time Mark invited me over, I nearly gave myself an RSI Instagramming from the large, floor-to-ceiling, living-room window that looks out over the river. By day you can take in the beautiful buildings, people-watching the buzz of activity on the riverbanks and checking out who and what is travelling along the Thames. By night, the view transforms into this picture-perfect skyline; silhouetted buildings like something from a cityscape photography book, littered with a sea of twinkling lights. Simply breathtaking, no matter what time of day you’re looking out, and all the more enjoyable if you have the time to sit and watch as the afternoon slips into evening, the sky changing so gradually, and yet before you know it, it’s dark, and you’ve been aimlessly gazing out of the window for two hours.
‘So, who are you spying on today?’ Mark asks, attempting conversation despite being in the final stages of an especially tough mission.
‘There’s a little old lady, sitting by the river,’ I tell him.
‘Nice place for a Sunday stroll,’ Mark replies.
‘She looks lonely,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Even from up here, I can tell. The only thing that could make Sundays worse would be spending them alone.’
I don’t even realise Mark has moved from the sofa until I feel his hands creep around my waist from behind me.
‘You’re not going to end up alone,’ he assures me.
‘I’m already a video game widow,’ I tease him with a laugh, placing my hands on his, which are now resting lightly on my tummy.
Mark rests his chin on my shoulder and gives me a tight squeeze, because he knows that I love it when he squeezes me. He’s strong, with big muscular arms, and when he locks them around me I feel so safe and adored.
‘You know that I love you, right?’ he asks.
I turn around in his embrace to face him, placing my hands on his cheeks as I look him in the eye.
‘Of course I do,’ I assure him. ‘You know I’m only joking about the video-game-widow stuff, right?’
‘I do,’ he laughs.
Yes, I find it boring watching him play video games, but I’d never tell him not to, because he enjoys it. I reserve the right to tease him about it, though; that’s what girlfriends are for.
‘It’s just... fuck it,’ Mark says, wiggling free of my grasp before kneeling down on the floor.
‘No, come back and talk to me, give me physical contact,’ I whine. ‘If you’re taking another video game out of that box, so help me God…’
‘Roxie Pratt,’ he interrupts me as he rummages around in the pocket of his shorts. ‘You are the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman I have ever met. I know it’s only been a year, but we’ve spent pretty much every second of that time together and it hasn’t just made me realise that you are impossible to grow bored of, but also that I can’t bear the thought of spending a single second without you.’
I stare at him, blankly. Unable to do anything but blink.
‘More?’ he asks with a laugh. ‘OK. Before we met, sure, I was happy, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was missing. And this place just didn’t feel like a home until you moved in – and not just because you keep the fridge fully stocked,’ he jokes.
‘Tell me about it,’ I reply. ‘I remember when I used to stay over here, and I was having to have banana-flavoured milk on my Frosties because that was all you bought – and I was having to eat Frosties for three meals a day because all you had in your cupboards was cereal.’
‘Well, that’s because we stopped going out; we just stayed in and had sex all the time.’
‘Unlike now?’ I ask as a cheeky smile creeps across my face.
‘Well, now we just do both – sometimes at the same time,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
The first time I slept with Mark, it was so good, I thought I’d died and gone to sex heaven. Seriously. We went out a lot when we first started dating, but as soon as we realised how explosive things were in the bedroom for us (not that we’ve ever thought it necessary to limit ourselves to that one room), that was it; we would just stay in and have sex all the time, breaking only to go to work (give or take a few ‘sick days’) and eat Frosties (and one time, we didn’t even bother taking a break from having sex to eat cereal – we’re still finding Frosties in our bedroom to this day).
‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?
‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.
Mark laughs.
‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.
I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.
‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.
‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.
I take the box from him and place it to one side.
‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?
‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.
Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.
‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.
I wipe my eyes with my hands.
‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.
Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’
I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.
‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.
‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’
An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.
‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.
‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’
Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.
‘Let the nerds listen.’
I gasp as he presses down on top of me.
‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.
‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’
Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.
I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.
‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.
‘Why?’
I glance at the screen.
‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.
‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’
‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.
‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’
Chapter Two (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.
I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do anything creative, whether it’s writing a story or painting a picture, you’ll often find people drawing upon what they already know, because what better way to create something genuine than to inspire yourself with genuine experience?
I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.
Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.
‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’
I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.
‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.
‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.
‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’
My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.
‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely into the idea.
‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’
Polly pulls a thoughtful face.
‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’
‘I bought a skirt that was not me at all – it was floor-length,’ I say, stressing the last three words for emphasis. I’m what you might call a follower of fashion, always keeping on top of the latest trends and wearing whatever is cool at the time, even if others might find it questionable. My mum, however, would tease that my wardrobe is far too revealing. Today I’m wearing a short black skirt, with one of Mark’s white shirts, tied in a Daisy Duke-style knot at the stomach – low down enough to ensure full coverage for work. ‘Well, he told me he liked it – he rarely comments on my clothes. But he still didn’t really twig that much was different.’
‘Another compliment,’ Polly laughs. ‘Next?’
‘I started deep-cleaning the flat every day. The kitchen was spotless, there was never a dirty dish, I would clean the bathroom each day without fail.’
‘And?’
‘Of course he didn’t notice,’ I laugh. ‘Next up: I didn’t shave my legs for, like, two weeks – not a word from him on the matter.’
‘So did he actually notice anything?’ Polly enquires.
‘I stopped wearing knickers.’
‘And he noticed that?’ she asks sarcastically, faking shock.
I wiggle my eyebrows.
