Part 11: Lullaby for Love
Nothing in Connie's life made sense anymore, unsure of whether she was coming or going had left part of her empty, not the yearning for a life once lived but for the turmoil she was careering through. It wasn't anything major that she felt was missing; well not unless you call a mutated character major. Dealing with change wasn't new to her; she'd been through worse but for some reason it felt like a corrosion of her soul. In that light she wasn't aware of logical reasoning behind her sudden trip to Holby. It may have been her imbecile of husband, it may have been denial, and it may have been a million and one different things. But she was sat on a bustling Friday night train regardless. Various businessmen sat with their disjointed noses stuffed in The Times, several students were sprawled uncomfortably listening to obscene music several notches too loud, shrugging she concentrated her gaze on the fading sun set. She'd brought very little with her, she wasn't intend on staying long. It all honesty all she needed was a little bit of reassurance.
As the train chugged into Holby Central station she feels comfortable, it's familiar, the taxi's are where they've always been, the words trip off her tongue with remarked ease "Holby City Hospital," nodding the driver sets off at a pace, she languished in the cracked leather sofa, her heels tapping lightly on the floor, not out of impatience, more anticipation.
She paid him with a generous tip and got out of the taxi, it's an educated guess that Ric's still at work, it had only been a matter of hours since they'd talked on the phone. She left her case with the receptionist, promising she wouldn't be anymore than a couple of hours. The lift ride felt like it had done for the two years she been working at Holby, each day coming up in the lift, cutting the outside world from her mind, instinctively she was doing the same right at this moment. Grounding to a halt the lift doors hissed open. It still looked similar, the linoleum chipped to hell, scuffed with heavy-duty rubber boots, the walls have a grey parlour, the posters curled at the edge, mutilated by the relatives, doctors, nurses, patients briskly walking past it's advert to give blood. Sticking her head round the door she sighs at the vacant seat, his office is still red though; the banner from Ghana explicitly displays his ancestry.
The nurses' station is still filled with the mass of paperwork and to be frankly honest, crap that no one ever has the time to tidy up. Vacant of nurses she is forced to wait, tapping her hand lightly on the nearest pile of folders. She gets impatient quickly as he doesn't appear with the influx of a new patient, but on closer observation it's a cardiac case, and the bumbling man in a set of green scrubs looks pleased with his work, he must be her replacement. He stops to greet her, "Can I help you?" His voice is comforting, but she doesn't get distracted.
"I'm looking for Ric Griffin, is he about," her voice is toneless; she's tired, slightly confused and uncomfortable at the lack of a familiar face.
"I couldn't tell you, are you a patient of his?" his question is feasible, it's a hospital after all, but she can't help but get slightly irritated.
"No, I'd hope not, I just really need to see him that's all," Connie trails off as Diane comes round the corner, looking equally a mess but she recognises the other doctor instantly. A smile broadens on her face.
"Connie," Diane asks as she takes in the changed woman, her presence much more slight than when she left, her hair dull in tone, her trousers hanging in a way that accentuates her hip bones. She keeps her smile bravely. There is something more knowledgeable in her gaze though, something that links them both. Something that they've been through, not together but she's got a good idea of what it is.
"Diane, lovely to see you again," Lie! But she continues, it was too hopeful to be able to reach the hospital, see Ric and leave with him, she's not entirely sure how much Ric's let on, hopefully nothing but expecting someone to not tell a soul about what's been happening to her is too rich a promise.
"Connie, as in Connie Beauchamp," the other man sighs, he looks bewildered, but then he did when she arrived, she's unsure of whether it's a permanent look or not.
"Yes, why, who's asking?" She questions irritably. He reaches forward to shake her hand; the smell of theatre is laced in every tendril of his attire. He smiles and then bumbles something along the lines of her name precedes her.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he response eventually, Connie probably would of cared more before but she spies her interest strolling up the ward, he is fiddling with his watch as he reaches the crowd of doctors, suddenly his frown breaks into a pleasurable smile as he spots her.
"Connie, you came," he states in astonishment she smiles and bows her head in return, seeing they are clearly party to the conversation Diane and Elliot drifted off, their busy day's over. Slowly walking to his office the couple stayed in complete silence, he wasn't sure why she'd suddenly appeared; he wasn't sure whether it was for a good or bad reason, he didn't care, just seeing her again had made him happy.
Closing the door felt like opening a venting chamber for Connie, Ric sat down at his desk ruffling through the papers that littered it, for whatever reason she'd come she had something to tell him, be it 'I'm getting back with Michael for proper,' 'I'm pregnant, again' or much though he dreaded it 'the date for the trial's been set.'
"He bought me a fucking thong, a fucking bra, he wanted fucking sex with me, Ric, what does that man run on," he's now completely confused, it would appear that she's come over 150 miles to tell him that her husband bought her lacy underwear, there must be more too it.
"Connie, why have you come here?" her brave bravado crumbles around him, he hints at the sadness in her eyes, her soul not entirely with her, yet she's not entirely without it. It's odd.
"After you hung up," she pauses, he nods, "I got a letter from my lawyers," he's slightly taken aback but continues his resilient look, "the case is up in a couple of weeks, Ric, they've set a court date and all my fucking husband can think of is sex," he smirks at her tone, it's amusing yet dead pan.
"Michael has his moments," he muses, the response is remarked, she looks at him laughing slightly before wiping the first tear away from her eye. He stands up and quickly shuffles his arms around her, she collapses into his embrace, sobbing in a dignified manner, the one thing he suspects Michael's never seen her do, outwardly cry. It's an unmistakable fault in their relationship.
"I don't think here's the best place to talk about this, gossips and all, you'll come back to mine," Ric tells her eventually, collecting the various debris that he needed, placing a gentle arm around her as they walked to the lift, several eyebrows raised as to who his new interest was.
Returning to his flat felt extremely good to Connie coupled with being round someone with her interests at heart it was the reassurance she'd needed desperately. Helping him with the cooking felt better still, being able to do something and not feel as bloody helpless as she had done in London. The sofa had never seemed so appealing; they soon polished off the pasta and wine he'd brought out especially.
"Is that better then?" He sighed, feeling over full from the meal, Connie snuggled in on his chest was keeping him somewhat more cosy that he'd been in an age.
"Yes," she nodded, lifting his hand in hers, squeezing it gently, letting her breath filter away slowly, "I'm sorry for barging in on you again," she sighed, suddenly awash with guilt, he'd probably had the perfect Friday evening planned; a bottle of wine, the TV, a sofa, perfection.
"It's ok, Connie really," Ric responded gently, happy to be with her again, knowing she was safe, all things considered she'd become somewhat of a child, worrying whenever she wasn't at his side.
"Honestly, I know a way I can make it up to you," Connie smiled, lifting out of his cuddle and striding forcefully towards the bathroom, in her previous visits she'd spied the bottle of massage oil sitting idle in the cabinet, after retrieving it she made a move to his bed, motioning him to come over, a coy smile toying with the corners of his lips, "top please Mr Griffin," she smirked taking the t-shirt and idly flinging it to the side. She waited as he lay on the bed, his torso flat to the bed. Slipping off her heels she leant over him, lifting the bottle open and pouring the oil on her hand and his back, it felt like a warm soothing waterfall, the oil, her hands, floating on his taut muscles. With every manipulation he relaxed that bit more, sinking deeper into the bed, she was absentmindedly humming as the beat on his back consumed him, he could barely bring his head to the side to smile, noticing did nothing but make her work her hands deeper, the more she caressed them like a child with it's blanket, the more he got aroused, how was it that someone so clearly mind fucked could be so bloody passionate in bed. It wasn't kinky, disrespectful or disgusting it was right, true and meaningful. It was his idea of perfection. He wasn't wrong in saying Nice was brilliant, they'd been passionate, kinky play away from home sultry, erotic but being at home, being in Holby felt just as impressionable on the heart. It felt like his soiled soul was being cleaned, that for all the wrongs he'd done, she was doing something selfless to make it seem good. Maybe it was her vice, it had appeared like that before everything, maybe it was returning, it might not have been negative like his gambling ministrations but it was something she craved for, it was clear. His turn.
Lifting his body over, he shocked her slight as he stared at her, the blouse she was wearing clung in the right places, accentuating her bust, draping over the near non existent body, curvaceous, beauty. He smirked as she let out minor protestations, her body forced to the bed as he made his advances, the buttons undone, one, two, three, the last coming of their own accord as he slipped it off her still slightly freckly shoulders, her bra lay limp, the straps coming away easily. It felt like a lullaby, the words, soft, gentle, intense, soothing, uplifting. She writhed as he kissed the material away from her breasts, leaving her alone, isolated, vulnerable; he had control of her vice. He was making full advantage. Moving down he caressed her belly button with his tongue, slowly making her come, it was like being on the beach, slowly lapping up the beach and moving away in the same heartbeat, refreshing, imploring. He felt her hands un-cusp his belt, his trousers falling seamlessly, leaving his underwear intact, a quick flash of the finger and he was devoid of that also, her hands grouped on his arse, his hips flooring on her, leaving his length little room to move anywhere but inside her, grazing her sides as he went deeper, the lullaby had just turned X-rated, flicking over the page, snow white was secretly sleeping with prince charming in a way a six year old would never actually comprehend. Then again, things have different meanings; each person interprets life in a different way. He revelled in the way her hands were grasping at the loose bed sheet, furling it into little bundles or erotic spasm distending as she let out a long fumbled groan, unperturbed, he left her waiting as he stopped rocking, not moving not removing, just sitting there, her face crossed into a frown; tease.
It felt like a game, the beat ceasing for a moment, the trance induced, the euphoria compounding into a magical mix of lust, fever, attraction, he couldn't not stop, he did the opposite, forcing himself far deeper than he'd gone before. She could barely conceal her arousal, her groan extending, leaping several registers to a well-maintained screech, although soulful it felt like music to his ears, as gentle as the humming of woman back in Ghana, singing as they worked. It was some sort of poetic justice to the end of a corrosive fairytale; innocence turned rotten, meaning fully loaded like a shotgun, pellets flying everywhere. Yet through the dance Lucifer was merrily waltzing he'd hoped she would at least have the confidence to stand the ending, good or bad, right?