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Retail therapy is real and glorious. She's able to lose herself in the mental blankness of perusing overpriced shoes, in the background, the low hum of irritation with her boss and the throbbing baseline of stress over her work remains.
Normally, she avoids Carnaby Street. But not today. She'll never be able to explain why she deviated from her route and veered down the bustling thoroughfare of high-end shopping.
If she was a girl who believed in magic, she would say there was a tingle of Christmas magic in the air that propelled her east, carrying her through the shopper's paradise on a wintery gust of wind. Or she would say Santa's elves were nipping at her heels, urging her to this exact spot where she's now standing transfixed by the giant display window outside of Prada. But magic is for suckers and children, so that can't be it. Maybe she is looking for an outlet.
She eyes a baby blue hoodie that just speaks to her. She marches in and buys the item without even looking at the price tag, spontaneously.
Reentering the flow of sidewalk traffic, she doesn't stop walking until she's inside the converted, very hygge might she add, mews Harry is renting for the holidays.
She toes off her boots, then she doffs her herringbone trench coat. Then bundle the garment up and place it on top of the boots. Next, her headphones. Out of the way. Neat. A memory catches her off-guard from just about a week ago—Harry and Gemma watching her perform this ritual from across the dining room, exchanging a nervous glance with each other. Like they weren't sure who exactly they'd allowed into their life.
She bounces on the sore soles of her feet to clear her thoughts, moving to the radiator to make sure heat is coming out.
During the long walk to Kensington, she wallowed in her moodiness by blasting angsty songs and now, she's ready to vent. She's looking for an ear that's willing to listen.
Walking through the house, she ogles Harry quietly for a moment. He's dressed in some shirt that should be worn by a convention dad but probably cost more than her most expensive designer handbag (which he had also bought her). There is the faint sound of Van Morrison coming from a Bluetooth speaker that he is really zoned in on as he faintly sings along with the lyrics.
He must sense her, glancing over at her waiting in the doorway before looking back to the food. She watches him still before he looks back at her, his eyes holding hers softly.
Quickly, he reacts, standing behind the island of the kitchen and grabbing the large glass of wine that sits next to the one that he had clearly been sipping while he cooked. Walking to her, he hands over the glass which she gratefully takes off him with ease. She closes her eyes as she drinks, taking the largest sip she can muster.
A dozy smile hits her lips involuntarily.
Harry places his hands on her shoulders, thumbs massaging slowly and she turns to look at him. "Thank you."
"S'fine, 's'nothing," he responds. He squeezes lightly at her shoulder as she tilts her head to peer up at him, "Gimme a kiss."
He puckers his lips gently in a way that always makes her barmy for him, eyes knocking up to look at his. With a dip of his head, he's leaning in and pressing his lips to hers lightly, tasting the faint crispness of the white wine against her mouth.
"You alright?" He softly asks, cupping her face.
'M so fuckin' tired, H."
"Lay it on me," he encourages, pressing his lips to hers again before repeating his words. "Come an' tell me, what's going on."
And he does listen. And validates her feelings. Reaching for his glass of wine, he rests against the kitchen counter opposite his girlfriend, watching the way she speaks about work while casually undressing in front of him in the middle of the kitchen.
Hands fiddle with the zip on the back of her pencil skirt, as she quickly spins it around and unzips it from the front before she would get too irritated at a piece of clothing. It falls to her feet, revealing her nude tight covered legs to him, next to the silk blouse that had crumpled throughout the day.
He doesn't bat an eyelid in a sexual way like he usually would. He casually grabs at her waist with some comment that warms her through.
Pushing herself up onto the kitchen island, she beckons him to her. Harry pushes himself off the counter, stands between her legs, and places his hand on her nude tights, enjoying the smoothness beneath his hands.
"Sorry," she mumbles with a heavy sigh.
'''S'fine-"
'''S'not-" she counters.
"You're worn out and need a break," he acknowledges. Eyes meeting his, he slides his hand against her neck and into her hair at her nape. "Go in tomorrow and request some leave."
'M so busy, I can't take some leave just like that," she clicks her fingers. "Plus, Christmas is two weeks away."
"Can," he argues, childishly. He sees the stress hit her face, watching teeth worry over her bottom lip at the thought of leaving it all behind, probably only to come back to even more work that has mounted up while she was away. "Fuck this, I'm going to go in for you—," he pauses then pivots. "Darlin', please," he begs. "Book a week off, let me take you somewhere-"
She feels her lips downturn. How is this man even real?
"Hey," he coaxes, crooning on that dreamy tone, "Back to that little private island in Amalfi."
"That was ridiculously priced, you're never taking me there again."
"Well, maybe not a whole week but take a couple o'days," he negotiates, hands moving to her outer thighs, softly kneading. "Maybe we could drive to Soho Farmhouse and disconnect."
He pecks her lips, dropping his head to hers. "That sounds idyllic," she whispers.
'I mean it. 'M worried about you." he husks, nudging his nose against her cheek as if to goad her. "Gimme a long weekend. A Friday and a Monday. Think you could stretch to that?" She hums lost in thought, scratching at his neck, and he nuzzles against her nose. "I'll drive us down on a Thursday night, get you nice and relaxed."
He presses his forehead to her temple in anticipation.
"Alright," she answers curtly.
"Really?"
She nods. "Yeah."
"That was easier than I thought it would be," he gives a boyish grin, with dimples and all goofy, and steers the conversation to an entirely different subject. "So . . . Once we worked out the strain in your back." He leans in and settles his mouth on top of her ear. "We'd work on making the right parts of you nice and sore, wouldn't we?"
She bites back her twitching smile at his drawl, knowing exactly where this is headed.
