Page 65 of Stella is Starting Over

Just as I’ve finished unpacking my toiletries, Richard is behind me. I look up into the bathroom mirror and smile at him. ‘Hello,’ I say, bashful. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

‘Hello,’ he replies.

He takes my hand and guides me into the bedroom, and then lays me down on the bed. He kisses my neck, strokes my hair and runs his hand up my thigh. In an ideal world I’d really like to have showered because it’s been twelve hours since I’ve washed and I feel like I’ve got car smell on me.

He kisses me again and I giggle slightly, pulling away.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to smile.

Memories of the time Dom tried to touch my thigh come flooding back. The tears, the hotness in my chest, the way he wrapped his arms around me and let me sob into his chest. The solid softness of his body. I shouldn’t be thinking about Dom right now.

‘I’m just a bit nervous. It’s been a while,’ I say, dragging myself into the present. Richard seems – weirdly – to really like hearing this. He guides my hand to his crotch and invites me to feel how hard he is. And in fairness, he’s very hard. ‘Wow,’ I say, in earnest. He strips his clothes off, then pulls my jumper over my head, unbuttons my jeans and yanks them off. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says, looking down at my body. ‘You can’t even tell.’

I think he might be making an oblique reference to my having had a baby, but I’m not going to press on that because I’m about to get laid for the first time since Gavin left and, at this point, I would have sex with pretty much anyone, so the prospect of this handsome, muscular guy is almost too good to be true. ‘Tell me again that you’re nervous,’ he says, kneeling between my legs.

‘I’m nervous,’ I say. ‘But I’m turned on too, I want you.’

He presses his finger to my lips, kissing me, his breath sharp with mint. After a couple of minutes of kissing, his body hard against mine, he pushes me down onto the bed. He puts on a condom, pulls my knickers to the side, pushes himself inside me and I whimper with pleasure at the feeling of finally being filled up, at the weight of him on top of me. ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes.’

He finds a rhythm, an odd, bumpy one, and I remind myself internally that I’m used to Gavin and no one other than Gavin – the two men before Gavin were so long ago – and this is probably just as legitimate a way to have sex as what I’m used to.

He moves against me in the same bumpy manner for a few minutes before he starts to pant. ‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘You’re such a good girl.’

I wince slightly at the expression but it would be a bit rude to call him out for it when he’s about to come. Seconds later, he does.

‘My good girl,’ he whines into my ear. I try very hard to pretend that I haven’t heard it, hoping that the lack of reaction might send enough of a signal that he gets the message and never says it again.

He rolls off me. I start to slip my hand between my legs to finish myself off, like I did with Gavin when we were feeling lazy. He looks perplexed. ‘What are you doing?’

I smile. ‘I was going to. . . you know. Finish.’

‘You didn’t orgasm?’

I shake my head.

He looks aghast. ‘Are you sure?’

I can’t help laughing. ‘Yes, I’m sure. But it’s fine, most women don’t come from penetration alone. We can work on it later.’ I kiss him. ‘No biggie.’

I sort of expect him to come back to bed, to kiss me, possibly to initiate getting me off, to laugh the awkwardness away. But instead he gets up and I hear the shower running, apparently not coming back and apparently very much not interested in finishing what I was about to start. Any residual arousal I was feeling evaporates into embarrassment at him having seen me like that. What was I thinking? Maybe what I was doing is weird? Do other women not do that? Gavin and I always did it that way, but that doesn’t mean that it’s actually normal. I bury my face in the pillow and let out an embarrassed whimper, wishing I could rewind and take that last part back.

After his shower, Richard returns with a towel around his waist, seemingly in a better frame of mind.

‘What shall we do now?’ I ask. I should finish the conversation about sex, I know that. But it’s too embarrassing. And it’s not like I actually want an orgasm at this point. ‘There’s a nice walk through the woods apparently?’

‘I’ve got a work call,’ he says apologetically. ‘Why don’t you go to the spa? I block-booked you some treatments.’

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Within minutes, I’m down in the wine cellar, which serves as a spa, filling out a form to confirm that I’m not pregnant and haven’t been breastfeeding in months so I want the deepest deep-tissue massage a woman can get.

By the time we get to dinner, I’m feeling better. I miss Rose, but knowing that she’s in bed (and my mum sending me a picture every half hour all day long) helps. Plus, for the first time since my mat leave ended, I’m moving slowly and it feels blissful. I put my swimming costume on at a glacial pace, enjoying the complete novelty of not rushing. I wander back to our room, carrying my shoes, grass between my toes, and find Richard sitting at the desk, typing. He’s concentrating so I wash the massage oil off my skin and double shampoo my hair. I blow-dry it and get changed, and we walk over to the main house for dinner.

‘How was your work thing?’ I ask, as we sit down and look at the menu.

‘Oh, very dull,’ he says, smiling. ’I won’t bore you with it. What do you think you’ll have?’

I scan the menu, trying to decide. ‘Very hard to pick,’ I say.