The Two Week Wait by Sarah Rayner

adds a far bigger gloop than she would at home.
    Minutes later she and her husband are toe to toe. She lies back, eyes level with his chest. The hairs are greying but she rather likes that. He’s still very attractive, and his stomach is
so pleasingly taut . . . More than can be said for me, she thinks ruefully, all too aware of the rolls of fat on her midriff.
    Compared to when they first met, it’s rare for Cath to feel sexy; lately she’s been inclined to recall the days she felt hungry to make love with sadness and more than a touch of
guilt. When she was very ill, she didn’t feel remotely attractive – having her ovaries removed was hardly conducive to swinging from the proverbial chandeliers – and she still
gets more tired than she used to. Rich has been supremely patient; nonetheless, his healthy libido is one of the reasons Cath fell for him initially, so she can hardly expect him to change on that
score. He travels a lot for work; she fears he must be tempted occasionally – she’d hate to lose him because he isn’t sexually satisfied at home. So whilst she’s never faked
an orgasm or gone along with lovemaking when she really couldn’t bear to, she has found herself yearning for the self-confidence and sheer animal lust she once had.
    Yet here, in the warmth of the water, in such sumptuous surroundings, Cath feels so relaxed and sensual that her consciousness of her imperfections – the rolls on her scarred tummy, her
cellulite-ridden thighs, her wispy hair – ebbs away. So what if she’s no supermodel? Instead, it’s as if she sees herself through Rich’s loving gaze: her breasts, still pert
and full; the curve of her hips, feminine and inviting; the arch of her throat, smooth and seductive. She reaches under the water and finds to her delight that Rich is full of desire too. Slowly,
with practised strokes, she massages him. The water makes soft splashy noises in rhythm with her movements.
    Lucky the taps are in the middle, she thinks, as he stretches back, rests his head against the end of the bath, closes his eyes and gives in to the pleasure.
    *  *  *
    It’s nearly midnight. Unless she leaves any minute, Sofia will miss the last train.
    ‘Fancy another?’ Malene jerks her head towards her vodka shot. The bar is heaving, music blasts from speakers beside them; Sofia can barely hear her. What the hell. It’s been
ages since she’s done this. And Malene is hot – blonde and slim and pretty: exactly the kind of woman Sofia likes. Swedish or something. Strobe lights flash, dry ice pours from the
stage, an other-worldly mist of fluorescent pink and electric blue.
    Dada, dom, dom, dom – the beat segues into a different intro; it’s a track she loves.
    ‘No. Come on, let’s dance.’
    She steers Malene through the crowd and they find a tiny spot on the floor. Sofia sashays her hips, Malene gyrates against her – whether deliberately or because there’s no room to
move otherwise, Sofia doesn’t care. She’s been madly busy at work; these days she has to act like the boss, restrain herself from confiding in colleagues she used to be intimate with.
Plus Lou’s been in hospital; she’s been so fragile and needy, Sofia could hardly offload onto her. But now her girlfriend is sixty miles away, her workmates have gone.
    The rhythm shifts up a gear, lights whirl. A sci-fi rainbow colours a hundred faces, bodies, the ceiling, the walls. The track reaches its crescendo: a chorus that begs to be chanted en masse.
The floor beneath Sofia’s feet judders. All around people are sweating, writhing, cheering, so tightly packed they’re keeping one another upright. It’s impossible not to be caught
up in the sheer hedonism.
    Sofia raises her arms in celebration.
    Aah, Soho . . .
    This is where she belongs.

7
    ‘Anna?’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early.’
    ‘Mm . . . ?’ She is croaky; Lou has woken her. ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Seven thirty. I can