Something Wonderful Read online

  SOMETHING

  WONDERFUL

  By Luna Lopez

  Pink Box Publishing

  England / UK

  Copyright © 2019 by Luna Lopez / Pink Box Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Pink Box Publishing / United Kingdom

  Director / Luna Lopez

  SOMETHING WONDERFUL

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  SW / Luna Lopez (Pink Box Publishing) - 1st Edition.

  FOR CAROL EVANS & SUE JOHN...Thank you for your never-ending support.

  Chapter One - Earthquake

  It was still pitch black when what I thought was an earthquake yanked me out of my sleep.

  As my eyes flew open, my heart hammered in my chest, waiting for the next tremor to hit.

  It could have turned into a long wait, but the source of the noise revealed itself soon enough, and although it felt like an earthquake, it wasn’t anything of the sort.

  It was something else entirely–my husband.

  Richie lay next to me, his cavernous mouth wide open, snoring, the noise not too dissimilar to that of a jackhammer.

  I fought back the urge to jam a pair of his own dirty undies, which lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, into his mouth. Or maybe my fist. Anything to shut him up.

  I closed my eyes, willing myself back to the same place I’d been when the racket from the other side of the bed pulled me unwillingly from dreamworld.

  “God help me,” I groaned, as Richie rolled over, lifted his leg, and unceremoniously let go of a seismic fart that would have caused fluctuations on the Richter scale.

  Disgusted by both his manners and the encroaching odour, I climbed out of bed and yanked at my pillow, knowing my selfish git of a husband’s head half-rested on it.

  “What the hell?” He sprung to life, sputtered and turned the bedside lamp on, clocking me standing, glowering, with the pillow clutched tightly in my hands, wishing it was his throat.

  Maybe he thought I was about to smother him. Oh, the thought had crossed my mind many times, believe me, but I’d only end up sharing a tiny cell with a big butch cellmate called Wanda, or Deidre, or something like that, and he wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

  “Oh, you’re awake?” I added, sarcastically.

  “Yeah!”

  “Me too.” My tone was snide. “Funny that.”

  “Why are you standing there clutching your pillow like that, Michelle? You look like a bloody nutter.”

  I wanted to retch at the spit bubbles forming at the sides of his big mouth. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Again? How come?”

  “Perhaps your constant snoring and farting has something to do with it?”

  “Huh?”

  “I had to turn you away from the window before you inhaled the friggin’ curtains.” And with that, I stormed out of the bedroom, fed up at having another broken night’s sleep.

  “Come back to bed,” he shouted as I stormed down the stairs. There was no consideration for our son asleep in the room along the hallway. “Shell, come on, you know how much I hate sleeping alone.”

  “Then buy yourself a pet pig,” I spat. “You’ll make a good couple.”

  I wasn’t sure how long I could stand being married to him.

  Yes, I loved him, but was I in love with him?

  If I was asking myself that question, then the answer was as plain as the nose on my face.

  No, I wasn’t in love with him.

  Did I like him? I couldn’t say I did.

  We had very little in common; the only time we seemed to spend together was either in the kitchen when I served his Lordship dinner, or bedtime where a pillow usually acted as a buffer between us.

  And nothing was happening in our sex life either. He was usually too out of it to get a hard on, which suited me just fine, because the thought of him sticking his less than average-sized todger anywhere near me brought on a bilious attack. I’d fake anything to get out of what he nauseatingly called a bit of rumpy da pumpy. So much so, I’ve uttered the following immortal line on many of occasion. “Sorry, love, not tonight, I’ve got a migraine,” or my personal favourite, “Oh, no, we can’t, I’ve just come on.”

  On the rare occasion, when he is stiffed up and raring to go, I’d feigned period pains and constipation; it was the only way to dissuade him from wanting to do me up the shitter as he so eloquently put it.

  When he couldn’t get his own way, I’d often hear him grunting like a warthog in the bathroom, relieving himself over the sink. I’d turn my nose up, hoping he’d slip on his own jizz and wind up in a coma for thirty years or so, give or take a few.

  Being refused sex, and more often than not, bruised his overly inflated ego and wounded his pride. I didn’t care, but as revenge, he would personally attack me with words that were meant to cut deep. I refused to let him know it hurt, even when they did. Kudos for effort though; his latest put down was inspired; my fanny wasn’t as tight as it used to be, and he didn’t enjoy sex as much as he used to.

  Well, duh!

  Let him try squeezing something the size of a bowling ball out of his arse, and then tell me how tight he is. Cheeky bastard. I took pleasure in telling him his micro-cock wouldn’t thrill a titmouse.

  So, it was far from rosy between the two of us, but day after day, we plodded along, although it didn’t take a genius to work it out, l knew I would fare better living the single life.

  Slamming the living room door, I plonked my arse on the sofa, grabbed the TV remote, switched to Netflix and found my favourite show of the moment. Grace & Frankie. I loved it, and had binge watched every episode, multiple times. Why can’t my life be like this TV show? If only Richie could run away with his best friend and business partner; that would solve all my problems.

  The clock on the wall ticked off three am—Ugh. Another day creeping upon me, and once again, my eyes will droop at my desk as I fight the long day ahead. “Thanks, Knob Head.” I wanted to turn the stereo on, crank up the volume, and sing full belt to something by Adele, or maybe Ed Sheeran; two singers he hates with a passion. “Miserable bastard,” he would complain when their music was played on the radio.

  Should I let him see how a day at the office feels on a few hours sleep? The temptation gnawed deep inside me, but I decided against it. At least if he slept upstairs, he stayed out of my way.

  Instead, I turned the TV up, louder than I needed it, just to see what he would do. He thumped on the ceiling. I punched the air in victory. Job done.

  “Turn it down for Christ’s sake,” Richie yelled from the room above. “I’ve got to be in work for nine.”

  “Tough,” I roared back like a fish woman in the middle of a busy market. Sticking my two fingers up at the ceiling, I wished all manner of horrors upon him, starting with impotence to go with his flatulence. Then, I turned it to a more reasonable level, not wanting to disturb our son, fast asleep hours ago.

  My phone lay on the coffee table, reaching for it with the need to vent my spleen, ripe with the internal banter playing through my head.
>
  I’d send my sister, Maggie Jane, a text message.

  She was a night owl and would most definitely still be awake.

  Hiya Mags.

  If I throttle Richie

  will you give me

  an alibi?

  x

  She messaged straight back.

  YES!

  Surprised you

  didn’t throttle

  him and

  the Spawn of

  Satan years

  ago.

  :)

  She always could make me laugh.

  There was no love lost between Maggie Jane and Richie, but to my shame, when there were fireworks between the two, which was quite often, it beat watching any programme on the television. I loved it. And I didn’t have to pay a licence fee to see it either. The Spawn of Satan, as she so charmingly puts it is my son, Dillon, otherwise known to me as Little Lord Fauntleroy.

  Not sure how

  much longer

  I can put up

  with him.

  That bad?

  Coffee later?

  Yes & Yes!

  Midday at the

  usual. I’ll use

  my flexi-time.

  See you then!

  Love you, Sis.

  Love you too!

  My chest swelled for the first time in hours with something to look forward to later.

  A morning in the office would be do-able with the promise of an afternoon spent gossiping with my crazy, but adorable younger sister.

  I lived vicariously through her as of late. Well, I had for years if truth be told.

  We were both in our thirties now; me thirty-two and Maggie Jane two years younger, but my sister had a Peter Pan complex and refused to grow up, unlike me, the stupid sister, who was careless and got herself knocked up at sixteen and had to marry young, bogged down by the constraints of family life that crushed my personality more and more as every day passed me by.

  I envied Maggie Jane’s free spirit, and the fact she was shrewd and invested in property early on with her inheritance from our parents’ untimely death. It affords her the luxury of not having to work.

  Don’t get me wrong, I want for nothing, and my job is just something I took on to give me a bit of pocket money, and to get me out of the house.

  Richie didn’t like it and was aghast when I suggested a part-time job. We had plenty of money in the bank. I didn’t need to work, so why would I?

  Easy answer!

  It got me away from him and the horror of a sixteen-year-old son that sadly seemed to take after his father in more ways than one.

  Dillon used this house like a hotel, and me like an unpaid skivvy. Despite my protestations, he didn’t see a problem with it. I should feel guilty about the fact I disliked my own child. I don’t. I wish things were different, but there is hope in my heart he will grow out of the entitled phase he dug his heels into since the age of two.

  He often teetered dangerously close to a smack in his over opinionated mouth.

  Dillon knows my opinions and simply shrugs his shoulders. He thinks he was put on this earth for everybody to run around after him.

  I blame Richie, mostly, for the mess our son is. But if I’d been insistent and stronger willed where Dillon was concerned, I could have turned things around and had a half-way decent child. I thank God he is the only one I had.

  For Dillon, no reason existed to fear punishment. He and Richie behaved like best friends rather than father and son.

  I’m the disciplinarian, the one to be fought at every turn, therefore, I’m seen as the nag, the one that spoils all the fun.

  When Dillon started smoking cigarettes at twelve, I was horrified, wanting to knock his block off and make him smoke the whole pack in the hope it made him violently sick. Richie vetoed that. I even threatened to ground him for the whole school year but was overruled once more. “It’s what all boys do and is just a phase. Just stop nagging the lad and you’ll see,” Richie said. I was stupid to ignore my own instinct because it’s a phase he still hasn’t grown out of to this day.

  It was the same when he discovered marijuana. Overruled again, even when the house stunk like a thousand cats had pissed everywhere. According to Richie, all boys do it, and the more fuss I make the more he’ll go against me.

  So, I stopped making a fuss about it. I kept quiet about everything and nothing changed.

  Now father and son sit and get stoned together in their little purpose-built man cave at the bottom of the garden.

  Sometimes I wish it would blow up with both inside. No, I don’t really mean that, but a little scare wouldn’t go amiss. Maybe just a singed eyebrow or two.

  “You’re raising a monster.” I’ve said it to Richie, time and again. “A child requires boundaries, not a fifty pound note every time he puts his hand out.”

  “Stop nagging for fucks sake, woman,” he grumbled. “Why don’t you join us down there sometime–a bit of weed might chill you out a bit.”

  “On your own head be it,” I screamed in his face. “And don’t ever call me woman again, or you’ll be eating dog food for dinner.”

  Richie took heed of that particular warning, having tucked into and devoured a tasty tripe flavoured dog food pie once before. I only told him what it was after he sat rubbing his stomach, feeling satisfied. “My compliments to the chef. That was the nicest pie I’ve ever tasted.” He licked his lips but came to rue those words and has been nervous of my cooking ever since.

  We married young but will give Richie due credit where it’s deserved. He finished his education, while the three of us lived with my parents and they supported us, walking away with a first-class degree, then headhunted by a big city firm, before he set up his own consultancy firm. With his astute mind, charm, and good looks, Ka-Ching! The big bucks rolled in, and we were set for life.

  But the more money he made, the further we drifted apart.

  Now, everything he does annoys me, down to his snoring, farting, even breathing.

  Chapter Two - Drinks with Maggie Jane

  I looked at my watch. It was twenty past one, and I was late, as usual.

  Glancing from side to side, I darted through the oncoming city traffic, playing chicken.

  Following a few toot toots and beep beeps, I made it to the other side of the busy main road by the skin of my teeth.

  Rushing into Delaney’s on High Street, I spied my sister necking a very large peach coloured cocktail. I groaned when I noticed what she was wearing. Lord have mercy. Shocking pink Doc Martens, lime green tights and some God-awful silver, glittery, gypsy style skirt that went with nothing else she wore. An electric blue off the shoulder flowy top completed the look. The less said about the chopsticks in her hot pink streaked blonde hair the better. Jesus Christ, I thought to myself, she’s seriously loaded and looks like she’s been shopping at Twats R Us.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I babbled scuttling in between tables. The whole morning had been a bitch, only compounded by lack of sleep. I’d finally arrived, flustered. “I’m so sorry–I’ve had a hellish day.”

  Maggie Jane pulled me into a hug. “How goes it, big sis?”

  “Oh, you know, Mags.” I slumped into a chair, deflated. “Same old shit, just another day.”

  She waved a waiter over. “Same again please, handsome, times four.” She held four fingers up.

  “Go easy, Mags, I’ll be flat on my back by dinner time.”

  “So will I if all goes my way.” She winked at the waiter, at least ten years her junior.

  “Bloody hell, he’s jailbait.”

  “The young ones are always more eager to please.”

  I had to laugh. My sister was incorrigible. “He probably thinks you’re some sort of care in the community patient dressed like that.”

  “Piss off, you cheeky mare–I like to look like an individual.”

  I looked at the stripe of pink blusher on each cheek, and the false eyelashes, closely resembling spider’s legs, wondering ho
w many pairs she had glued on top of the other. “That’s certainly one word for it, although you’ve gone a bit overboard with the blusher, haven’t you?”

  “No point having it on if you can’t see it.”

  I laughed again. “You’re a bloody head case, but I love ya.” The waiter returned with four very large cocktails and a cheeky wink for my sister. I had no clue what was in said cocktails, but I was past the point of caring. I picked up one of the glasses. “Chin chin, darling.”

  “Right back at ya.” She picked up her glass and inhaled the contents. “So, tell me. What were you doing awake at that hour of the morning?”

  “Richie was snoring and farting again.”

  She laughed then shook her head. “The things you see when you haven’t got a gun.”

  I had to laugh too, or I’d probably cry. “Behave yourself.”

  “And the Spawn of Satan?”

  “No idea where he was–either asleep or in the man cave destroying more of his brain cells.”

  “You should kick his arse out the door and let him see how the real-world works. You’re too soft on the gobshite.”

  “He’s still my son, Mags.”

  “A son who treats you like muck, just like his arsehole of a father. You need to take a stand, throw them both out. You’d make a killing in any divorce with what you’ve had to put up with.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Are you really getting to that point?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m married to an uncouth slob, and my son isn’t much better.” I choked back a sob that had been threatening all morning. “This wasn’t what I signed up for, Mags.”

  “Oh, God, please don’t cry, Shell.” She pulled a hanky from her bag. “You’ll set me off too, and I’ll look like a bloody raccoon.”

  I dabbed at my eyes, hoping the hanky hadn’t been used for something untoward. “Sorry, but I’m just tired, and when I’m like this, I’m more emotional than usual.”

  “Hey, you never have to apologise to me. I just wish there was something I could do.”