Underneath Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Review

  More by

  Biography

  Title page

  __________

  UNDERNEATH

  by

  Andie M. Long

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Copyright (c) 2014 by Andrea Long

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo from Shutterstock. Cover design by Annmarie Bradley.

  Dedication

  To Adam,

  The best son any mum could wish

  to be blessed with and my

  No 1 fan.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly to my son whose words ‘You are an author, mum,’ made me feel I could actually achieve this.

  For Den. Yes I admit I was lax with the housework whilst writing. Get used to it.

  To my sister who read the book in a day and loved it. Thank goodness, because sister or not, she’d have told me if she didn’t. I love you bliss.

  For my parents who have cheered me on throughout. Thank you for the love.

  For all who read the early drafts, Janet Hanson, Katie Hanson, Annmarie Bradley, Ruth Loizides and Tracey Sutton. Thank you for your words of encouragement, or in Ruth’s case, “Get on with it, I need more”.

  Major thanks to my Editor Michelle Dunbar for all you do. You’ve been a fantastic support to me.

  To Sharon Therese Nuttall for all your expert advice and support.

  To the girls on my street team Andie’s Army and my fellow Indies at the Indie Erogenous Zone. I would not be sane without you people, you keep me upright.

  Extra special thanks to Annmarie again for taking my chosen picture and making it into a beautiful book cover.

  A shout out to all the bloggers, readers and fellow Indies who listen to my craziness and promote and advise me like you do. I heart you all big time.

  Lastly, Sandrine Oodian, thanks for the loan of your apartment for Monique. I redecorated ;)

  After twenty years of thinking about it, I finally wrote a book.

  It’s been released second, but this was my first.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve spent so much time lying on my bed I’m surprised I don’t have bedsores on my backside.

  People tell me I have a perfect life, so how come I find myself staring at walls in a state of catatonia? Being a mother can bore you rigid, no matter how much you love your child. Where’s the fun in telling your son fourteen times to get out of bed? Trying to get Joe ready for school whilst he ignores my every instruction means my throat will be hoarse by around half eight. He’s like his father in that respect. Niall has avoidance as his most-perfected trait.

  I spend my days doing chores, whilst running my little vintage empire and my line in refurbished Barbie dolls via eBay. I do coffee with my bestie when she’s not working. People are always telling me how lucky I am that I have such freedom, but sometimes I get so bored I put my pyjamas on and go back to sleep. It makes the clock tick faster.

  If Niall’s home for dinner he expects a home cooked meal on the table as I ‘don’t work.’ My eBaying is seen as a hobby. I’ve learnt to ensure I’m mid-chore when he gets home, or he’ll comment that it must be nice to have time to sit or read. That’s another reason I sometimes take myself to bed. Might as well do what I’m accused of anyway.

  Attempts at adult conversation with Niall are for the most part rejected. I can count one minute tops before he’s huffing and puffing that he’s missing the news, that he’s been at work all day and wants a few minutes peace to catch up. With Joe in the other room watching the Simpsons or playing on his DS, I retreat to Facebook, but there’s limited solace found in what people I’ve never met have eaten that evening.

  More often than not that’s it for the evening. Niall starts snoring on the sofa from about half past ten. I’ll lie in bed and read until my eyes start closing. When I can’t recall the sentence I’ve just read I put my book down and go to sleep. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I skip past any rude bits. They make me depressed and unhappy. How bad is that? I think I’ve got a more than alright figure for a thirty-one year old mother of one, but Niall doesn’t appear to have any interest in seeing it at the moment. I wonder if he’s addicted to computer porn or, being as he’s ten years older than I am, just too knackered after work.

  Niall feels life is mapped out – wife and kid, steady job, house and cars – I’m totally lost.

  Anyway, tonight is going to be different. It’s time to bring sexy back.

  I run my hands down the black satin chemise I’ve bought. The stretchy, glossy material pushes my breasts up like Moll Flanders and does a good job of holding in my post-childbirth stomach. On goes a pair of hold ups with a lacy trim and some black stilettos with a pink sole, ‘Car to Bar’ shoes that I’ve never actually worn because I can hardly balance in them. I bought them because they were pretty and on sale. Looking at them makes me happy. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been known to stroke my shoes.

  Checking myself out in the full length mirror at the top of the stairs, I’m surprised to see I look quite fit. Enthused, and just a little turned on, I return to our room. I lie back on the bed and wait for Niall to come in to set his alarm clock. This is his evening ritual, post settling Joe down, and prior to switching the TV back on.

  The door opens and Niall enters the room. His blonde, wavy hair is all floppy, as if he’s just run his hands through it. He still has a hint of a tan from our holidays. His newly appearing lines add to his handsomeness in a craggy, but sexy kind of way. He barely glimpses at me as he tiptoes past and reaches for his clock. I flex one of my shag-me shoes in his direction.

  He nods towards the shoes. ‘Not very hygienic is it? I’m nagged to death if I sit on the bed with my work clothes on, but it’s alright for you to have your shoes on?’

  I grit my teeth, kick off the shoes and raise myself. My breasts spill out over the top of the outfit, and I curl my legs up under myself. I let a lock of my own blonde hair fall across my face. In my mind I am a total sex kitten. He sets his alarm and after placing it on the bedside table turns towards me. I attempt what I hope is an alluring look, raising my eyebrows and giving him a hint of a smile.

  ‘Love…’ He looks at me like he’s found me wandering the streets confused. ‘You don’t have to get dressed up for me. It’s just going to come off anyway.’ He sits on the bed at the side of me, then points and smirks. ‘How much of my overtime have you spent on that thing? It’s like a taped up bin bag. I could’ve made you one
just like it for about seventeen pence and still had enough left to line the bins.’

  My mouth drops open as he undoes his trousers.

  ‘Fuck off.’ I throw myself under the duvet. The tears in my eyes sting against the non-waterproof mascara I’ve left on. He mutters that he can’t do anything right, re-zips and walks back around the bed. The door clicks and his footsteps tread down the stairs. Within a minute, the low hum of the television travels through the floor.

  I cry, wondering if I’m just not attractive anymore. I replay the scene over and over in my head, trying to work out how it went from the hot, mind blowing sex I’d been imagining to this. Rage takes over again. I sit up, breathing rapidly and wondering whether to go downstairs and kick the television set in with my heel; at least then they would have proved a useful purchase. My eyes dart around the room, searching. My jaw is firm with tension. I grab hold of Niall’s pillow and pretend it’s his face. I punch it until I’m out of breath.

  Spotting his alarm clock, an idea forms. Pressing buttons, I change it to go off at seven pm. He’ll oversleep and think he set it wrong. It’s a small thing, but it makes me smile. My head throbs with tension, and as I lay my head on my pillow, I imagine it will take me ages to get to sleep. However my brain must wish to block out the evening’s trauma and I am out within minutes.

  The next morning, I slip out of bed, wake Joe and head downstairs. Part of me feels guilty about the alarm clock and I pause on the stairs. Sucking at my lip, I consider going back up and waking Niall, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I decide to make Joe his favourite pancakes with strawberry sauce for breakfast. I creep back up to Joe’s room to tell him. Whereas it usually takes forever for him to get out of bed, I get a ‘Yay’ and a thump as his feet hit the floor. He’s out of bed, and in two minutes he’s dressed and racing down the stairs for pancakes I won’t be able to cook up fast enough for him. At nine, Joe is all skinniness and angles. His face has elongated over the last couple of months, looking more adult, and his shoulders have broadened. In contrast, his legs and feet resemble golf clubs, but his brain activity seems to be decreasing as his body grows. Yesterday I discovered him trying to saw Lego in half with my best knife when he’d supposedly gone in the kitchen for a biscuit. My heart melts when I see him enter the dining room. His short blonde hair is mussed up from sleeping and he’s only half-awake. He looks at me with one eye scrunched up, as he does when he’s trying to get used to the light.

  ‘Can I have three pancakes today please, Mum?’

  I laugh, telling him to try to eat one first and see how he goes and head to the kitchen to start cooking. He does indeed manage to eat three, thanks to a soft mother who makes them small enough so he can manage it. He’s so pleased with himself that he gets ready for school easily this morning, which is a godsend.

  Just before we put on our coats to head out of the door, I pop upstairs to the bedroom and feign alarm, whilst inside rejoicing with an inner monologue of ‘Take that you bastard.’

  ‘Niall,’ I say. ‘Niall?’

  There’s a grunt from under the covers, of which I can’t make out a word.

  ‘Niall, its eight thirty. Shouldn’t you be up?’

  Niall shoots up so fast that in trying to pick up the clock, his muscular hairy arm sends it flying across the floor. ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  I note the fact that he immediately blames me for his predicament, even if this time he is correct.

  ‘I saw you set your alarm last night, so I never gave it a thought until now.’

  ‘Damn,’ says Niall, the clock now in his hand. He rubs his eye with the other hand. ‘I set it for pm instead.’

  I hitch the strap of my bag further up my shoulder. ‘Well, I have to go or Joe will be late for school,’ I say. ‘I hope you don’t get into much trouble with work.’

  He waves his arm at me. ‘Naw,’ he states. ‘I’ll just phone and tell them I had to go to the doctors.’ With that, he lays his head back down on the pillow.

  I feel my chest tighten and try to swallow the acid rising up from my gut. Does nothing ever rattle this man? I’m beginning to think I have a Stepford husband.

  ‘Well, see you later,’ I say. My smile fixed and teeth gritted, I close the door, head back downstairs, grab my bag and keys and take Joe to school.

  Joe dropped off, I get back into my lovely metallic blue Nissan Micra and pull the lever until the seat is further back and I have more leg room. I lean back into the comfy padded upholstery, a creamy-beige colour that Joe does his best to turn grey, and reach into my bag for my mobile phone. I love my bag. It’s a black leather Betty Barclay, with lots of pockets for keys and a mobile. I was forever unable to find things and kept being told off by Niall for not hearing the phone. I pull out my Nokia and fire off a quick text to my friend Monique.

  Fed up. U free for cofi n chat?

  Within seconds I have a reply.

  God yes. Get here asap.

  Texting that I’m on my way, I throw my phone in my bag, completely ignoring its designated pocket. I pull my seat forward and set off, calling at the supermarket bakery en-route for two pain au chocolats.

  My friend’s apartment is part of a large Victorian building that from a distance looks like a stately home. An elegant stone staircase leads to the front entrance. The grounds have large swathes of green grass and established shrubbery and trees. A Consultant at the local hospital, where Monique works part-time as a Research Assistant, told her he thought she owned it all after giving her a lift home. Monique would make you think that though. She is immaculate. Tall with short brown hair in a pixie crop, she is the colour of the finest milk chocolate and has a row of freckles across her cheeks that add to her exoticness. She has exacting standards and will not leave the house without full make up and painted nails. If it’s summer, this self-rule extends to her toe-nails. Her clothing looks like it cost hundreds of pounds, and yet I know that the majority of it comes from the charity shops located in her local area. She lives in Ecclesall, a district full of yummy mummies who want the latest of everything and dispose of their attire the moment the next season is on the runway.

  I first met Monique at yoga class five years ago, when I was desperately trying to shake off my frumpy mummy self image. We hit it off and she took me under her wing, seeing me as both a friend and a little project. Now I feel I can hold my own with clothes and make-up, though I have to confess to making more of an effort on the days I’m seeing her. Today I’m dressed in Levi’s, a royal blue Reiss blouse, which was a car boot find, and some black Office sandals. My toes are painted orange to match the belt around my jeans. I walk up to her apartment entrance and hit the buzzer.

  She opens her door and I’m greeted with a wide smile that makes her look even more gorgeous.

  ‘Hi, Lo.’

  She never gets bored of this.

  I roll my eyes. ‘You letting me in or what? I have breakfast.’ I hold up the bag and crinkle it before her eyes.

  She scrunches her nose up. ‘Ugh. An Asda carrier bag? Where on earth is that swish shopper bag I got you with Paris on it?’

  ‘That’s not as much fun as seeing your face when you have to touch a carrier bag.’ I giggle, and hand it to her as I step through to the foyer. ‘I was going to bring a Poundland one, but couldn’t find it.’

  She mock shivers and leads the way to her apartment, all the while holding the bag like it’s a used nappy.

  Monique’s apartment is on the ground floor. She takes the bag through to the kitchen while I go straight through the hallway, removing my sandals to carry in my hand. I move past the sitting room and through the patio doors to outside. I claim one of the two wrought iron chairs and slip my footwear back on. There are strict rules in her apartment block about garden furniture; no plastic rubbish will do. The patio is part of a large, enclosed communal garden, shared by around four residents. Two large ceramic pots frame Monique’s doorway,
overflowing with multi-coloured floral displays. I could sit on her patio all day, and can’t help but compare it to my reasonable sized lawn, which has Joe’s cycle marks all over it and not a hint of a flower in sight. There’s not much point when footballs are forever being kicked around it. I learnt that lesson the hard way, enjoying some home sown black tulips for a whole hour before he knocked all but one of their heads off with his football. He did pick me the last one though, bringing it to me as a gift because it was ‘pretty... like mummy.’ That was a few years ago now and I haven’t grown a flower since.

  Within a few minutes, Monique comes outside bearing a cream vintage tray covered in tiny pink roses – a present from me. Upon it are two steaming cups of coffee in pink tipped cream tea cups, nestled on pink tipped cream saucers with space for the Amaretti biscuit which lies beside it. Our pain au chocolats sit on matching side plates. No mismatching crockery for Monique.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘What’s up with you then misery guts?’

  I fill her in on my night of seduction. Monique is no fan of Niall and the way he fails to ever give me compliments. She shakes her head as I get to the part where I told him to get out. She stays silent for a moment and I wait to hear her verdict, and then she looks at me and falls about laughing. I can’t help it. Her laughter’s infectious and I start giggling. Huge fat tears roll down my face as I think how funny it was, and then I think about how utterly humiliating it was.

  ‘Lo, he’s Niall. He doesn’t do seduction. He never notices your normal clothes, never mind your night attire,’ she says. ‘You’ve spent the last God knows how many years just getting into bed and getting on with it, and then you go and dress like a porn star. It probably blew a gasket in his brain. If he didn’t want you he wouldn’t have tried to get into bed. It’s obvious he sees the attire as an unnecessary barrier.’