More Than Enough

By Delphie Gray

The second book in the More Than... series sees Liv and Benedict trying to build a life together. Family secrets and their turbulent histories threaten to scupper their chances to make it to the altar. Will the intense passion be enough to get them there?
A funny, tender and sexy must-read for anyone who loved the Crossfire series, Sinners on Tour and The List, More Than Enough can be read as a standalone or as part of the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delphie Gray
• Release date: Nov 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463451441

Delphie Gray

I've always loved books. It started with Nurse Matilda Comes To Town and Ballet Shoes and then quickly progressed to anything I could get my hands on. We didn't have books at home so I worked my way through my local library, plundering the stacks every week for something new. Wedged into those little plastic seats that looked like upside-down yoghurt pots, I would leaf through any new book, weighing up whether it made the grade to be taken home.I've taken home a lot of books in my time. From growing up without bookshelves, I've had special shelves made in my house for all my books. And they're stacked two deep.Books gave me the first stage for my imagination long. When I graduated to having a small black and white TV in my bedroom, I fell in love with foreign films and watched French films that were far too sophisticated and sexy for my age. The images were as poetic as those conjured by any books. And way sexier. Until I found Henry Miller and Anais Nin. The 'highbrow' stuff eventually gave way to the more popular stuff. I discovered that sexy books didn't have to come from a university reading list; funny, sharp mainstream literature could be just as erotic and emotional.I found Sylvia Day and Olivia Cunning. Three-dimensional characters who liked sex. And had complex histories and ambitions. I devoured them all and when I was finally free of small children, I sat down and wrote what I wanted to read. I wrote about Liv, someone I could relate to but who had a life that I secretly dreamed of. Liv met a man as complicated as she was. He made her cry but also scream in ecstasy. Finding a path through the emotional minefield wasn't guaranteed but having the best sex of her life was. Writing about Liv lifted me out of the mundane reality of my life and into a sensual, emotionally charged world. I hope it does the same for you.

Book preview

More Than Enough

by Delphie Gray

Copyright © 2019 Delphie Gray

The moral right of Delphie Gray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing form the publisher.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Visit the author’s website at www.delphiegray.com.

Other books by Delphie Gray:

More Than Everything – Book One in More Than… series

To B, all my love x

Chapter One

Liv checked her phone again. 7.54am. Only two minutes since she’d last checked the time. Bugger. And she’d tried really hard not to look at it too. She’d put her phone in the zipped inner pocket of her bag and forced herself to read a tatty copy of yesterday’s newspaper she’d found under her seat. She’d even looked at the financial pages and the sport at the back. That had to have wasted at least 10 minutes but no, when she gave in and fished her phone from her bag, it was only 7.54am. Why did time go so painfully slowly when you desperately wanted it to speed up? She wanted it to be 8.30 now so that the appointment would be over and they’d be out of here.

"I don’t know why you’re so twitchy, huffed her best friend India, shifting in the uncomfortable hard plastic chair beside her. It’s my appointment, not yours."

Sorry, I know, Liv apologised, putting her phone away again. I’m just worried about you. I’ll try and rein it in, I promise. Here, do you want a magazine? She put down the emergency sick bowl she was holding on her lap and reached into her overstuffed bag. "I’ve got Grazia, Elle and Hello!."

"Ooh, Hello!" cooed India, taking the magazine from her and quickly opening it.

India was an unlikely fan of Hello!. With her messy twist of pink, unruly curls secured on top of her head with an old pencil, she didn’t look anything like a typical Hello! reader. She was wearing her standard, paint splattered dungarees and lace-up DM boots. She smoked roll-ups (when she wasn’t being constantly sick), had oil paint lodged under her nails and, unlike most Hello! readers, had never, ever had her colours done or set foot in a hair salon for a blowout. Despite all that, India loved Hello!. She loved the pages and pages devoted to a rich, leather-faced old man in a shiny Versace shirt and his ridiculously young, pneumatic wife showing the magazine round their gaudy Mallorcan villa. She loved the articles about obscure European royalty, especially Princess Stephanie of Monaco. She got pregnant by her bodyguard, who then cheated on her with Miss Nude Belgium, and then she ran away to the circus and married an acrobat, India would tell anyone who hadn’t asked but happened to be within earshot. What’s not to love?

With India absorbed in something about a Dutch prince cycling to work, Liv secretly stole a look at the clock on the wall above the reception desk again. 7.56am. Only four minutes to go.

Liv and India weren’t the only ones counting the minutes. The clinic was surprisingly busy for that time of the morning. The two rows of seats that faced the reception desk were full. There were couples in smart work clothes, briefcases resting against their feet, tapping away on their phones. There was a woman in her white beauty counter uniform and full face of heavy make-up accompanied by her partner in his Virgin Broadband polo shirt and Timberland boots. There was a woman on her own and then another woman with mad, backcombed hair who’d brought a whole tribe of kids with her, including a toddler in a very itchy looking hand-knitted jumper and nothing else. Liv couldn’t work out whether the toddler was a he or a she to begin with – the child had beautiful waist length blond hair, which was probably heaving with nits but looked angelic. When the sagging cloth nappy dropped a little bit lower and the toddler could only waddle and not run, she/he ripped it off. There was no doubt about his gender now. Liv wondered how long it would be before he squatted down and had a shit. She guessed it would take his mum and dad (a weathered looking man with dreadlocks and combat trousers that had a sheen of dirt on them) even longer to notice or, for that matter, to care.

Liv tore her attention away from the toddler when the main doors slid open. A young woman in tracksuit bottoms shuffled in. A baby-faced, skinny man was holding her by the elbow and guiding her over to the nearest empty seat. Liv wondered why the woman, who was in her early twenties and didn’t look in the least bit disabled, was moving so slowly. When the woman turned to sit down, the reason became obvious. The seat of her pale blue Ivy Park tracksuit bottoms were totally drenched in blood. The dark red patch was beginning to spread down the legs. She paused as the man spread out a large pad on the chair and then she sat down. The whole room fell quiet. Even the bare bottomed toddler stopped banging a 2016 issue of Heat viciously against the bin for a second.

The silence was broken by a nurse quickly stepping out from behind the desk.

I think you’d better come this way, she said to the bleeding woman, helping her up and steering her over to the door marked Treatment room. The skinny man got up and followed her mournfully.

Another nurse appeared wearing gloves, whipped the sodden pad from the chair, sprayed the chair heavily with some blue disinfectant and gave it a good wipe. Everyone watched in a horrified silence.

Christ, India whispered to Liv, when the nurse disappeared. That was intense. And disgusting. Pass me the bowl, quick, it’s made me feel sick again.

Liv passed her the bowl. At least India’s symptoms were a bit more discreet. Ok, she was throwing up a lot and her face was unusually washed out but she wasn’t leaving a trail of blood behind her. In fact she didn’t look that much different to any Sunday morning after a particularly heavy Saturday night. The only sign that anything was wrong, apart from the vomiting, was the fact that she couldn’t stomach a fag. Usually India was either rolling a fag or smoking a fag. She was never more than 10 metres from her pouch of tobacco at any given time.

Liv checked the clock again. It was finally 8am. There was little chance of them actually being seen at 8am – this was the NHS after all and the bleeding woman obviously needed to be seen before anyone else – but Liv was relieved to know that the clinic was open for business.

Twenty minutes later, it was India’s turn.

India Campbell-Blythe, called a middle-aged nurse with a severe parting and jet black Pippi Longstocking plaits. She had a thick line of black eyeliner under each eye and the rest of her face was plastered a ghostly shade of white.

It’s Wednesday Addams: the HRT Years, India muttered out of the side of her mouth as she got up.

Liv stifled a laugh. Do you want me to come in? she asked.

India nodded and Liv picked her bag and the bowl followed her.

Liv wished that Jakob was here instead of her. Bloody Jakob was apparently learning to forage for bloody berries and sodding mushrooms and other equally horrible inedible things in the wilds of Denmark. Trust him to be away, Liv thought unkindly and then checked herself. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to know that India would start vomiting the second his plane banked over Bristol on its way to Copenhagen.

It’s a bug, India had told Liv over the phone at first. Don’t come over, you won’t want to catch this bastard. It’s evil. I can’t eat anything. Then she’d rung off to be sick again.

When the vomiting didn’t stop after a couple of days, Liv rang Kate. India’s mother, who lived in the main house upstairs, didn’t waste any time giving Liv her theory.

She’s obviously pregnant, darling. It was bound to happen. They’ve been at it like rabbits for months.

Water buffalo, more like, Tim, India’s dad, yelled in the background. I’ve never heard such grunting and rutting. Don’t let appearances fool you, Liv. He looks like such a gentle chap but he shags like a beast.

It’s true, Kate said. We’ve lost some of our commemorative Royal figurines. The walls were shaking so hard one evening that the shelf came loose and the statues of the Queen stroking her two corgis and Diana and the two princes were smashed to pieces.

Thank fuck for that, Tim muttered. Anyway, she’s probably being sick because he’s rammed her stomach right up into her throat. He hammers away like a Viking blacksmith on an anvil.

Liv smiled. She was used to the way that India’s parents talked about sex now and even felt quite sentimental about it. At first, though, when she’d moved in with them at the age of 15, she couldn’t believe the things they talked about at the dinner table. Anything from periods to the merits of the missionary position were up for discussion.

It’s easier on the knees as you get older, Kate had advised Liv and her three teenage children. You won’t appreciate that now but when you’re over forty, kneeling for any length of time is far from pleasurable. I can see why they make you do it in church. It’s a punishment.

Tim agreed. Once you’re down there, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to get up again. Remember that time in Rome? Kate nodded wistfully. We were going at it doggy style and then afterwards, I couldn’t get up. My knees just locked. I was stuck there on that bloody rug.

Try explaining that to the receptionist in broken Italian over the phone, Kate added. My little travel dictionary was no help at all. The receptionist thought Tim had been mounted by a rabid dog. I had to go down to the lobby in the end to act it out for them. And then I had to do it all over again when the doctor arrived.

It wasn’t a scene Liv wanted to think about for too long but she could only imagine the reaction of the receptionist and the doctor, in the very city where the Pope lived.

The pregnancy theory went out of the window when India got her period the next day. Kate was still adamant that her daughter was pregnant.

For God’s sake, Mum, you can’t have your period and be pregnant, India said between heaves.

I suggest you Google pregnancy, bleeding and vomiting and see what you come up with, Kate answered smugly and put down the phone.

Liv was as surprised as India to find that Kate was right after all. They’d never been pregnant or ever tried to get pregnant so they had no idea their own bodies could be so contrary. Liv rang NHS Direct just to make sure.

They said you should go to the Early Pregnancy Unit at the hospital, Liv told India. To check.

Do I have to? India moaned from sofa. She had a washing-up bowl between her knees and a bottle of Lucozade in her hand. She glared at the bottle. Why the hell does Lucozade make me heave? It’s never done that before. It’s usually, like, a healing medicine when I’m hungover.

That’s because you might be pregnant and not hungover, Liv ventured cautiously.

Of fuck off, Liv snarled and was promptly sick into the bowl again. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and sighed: Alright, I’ll go. Just to get you and Mum off my back.

It looks like you’re around nine weeks pregnant, said the sonographer, turning the monitor round to show India. India craned her neck to look. There wasn’t much to see and what she could see, she couldn’t understand. The grainy black and white image made no sense at all.

See that little blinking dot? asked the sonographer, pointing to a bright spot at the centre of a black patch. That’s the heartbeat.

Liv and India watched the little dot blinking away for a minute. Liv found the whole thing difficult to get her head around. That winking light on a screen was actually a baby in India’s womb. It all seemed so absurd and abstract. India, the least motherly and most boozy, faggy person you were ever likely to meet, was pregnant. Liv knew the mechanics of getting pregnant – after growing up with Kate and Tim how could she not? – but she was struggling to imagine India having a baby. What would she do with it? Take it to the pub with her?

This is just insane, India said, sitting up so that she could throw up in the bowl on Liv’s lap. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t even find my own house keys!

The sonographer said nothing. She’d clearly seen it all before. She ripped some paper tissue from a big roll and handed it to India to wipe the jelly off her stomach. I’ll leave you to get dressed now.

Liv helped India to get up and put her dungarees on again.

For fuck’s sake, India ranted before the sonographer had even left the room. This is just mad. I’ve only been going out with Jakob for four months! I don’t know him properly. I can’t even remember how he takes his tea! I can’t have his baby.

She shoved her foot angrily into her DM boot.

You love him though? Liv asked.

Yes! I do fucking love him but I also love Nando’s macho peas and Taylor Swift but I don’t want to have their baby! Liv decided it was better not to mention that this made no sense. She watched India shove her other foot into the other boot. Can you lace them up please? If I bend down, I’ll puke again.

Liv crouched down to tighten up the laces.

He works literally all the time in his restaurant, India continued. I never see him apart from to shag between shifts and then when he finishes work at one in the morning. How can I know that he’d be a good dad or even a good partner? I’d be left looking after a baby by myself.

Liv straightened up.

He loves you and he’s a responsible person. He’s got his own business and he employs lots of people.

Just because he can julienne a bloody carrot and sort out someone’s tax code doesn’t mean he’d be any good with a baby! India countered. And I earn fuck all and I live in my parents’ granny flat. I’m hardly parent material either!

She had a point – the circumstances weren’t ideal - but Liv also knew that India could talk herself out of anything, good or bad, if left to her own devices. She had a habit of getting caught up in very complicated arguments in her own head and losing sight of what she actually thought or felt about something. Liv thought of the evenings she’d spent sitting on the sofa, stomach rumbling and watching India talking herself out of having an Indian takeaway when Liv knew that eventually, after debating the pros and cons of a Chinese takeaway, India would end up having a curry.

Look, you don’t have to decide anything now, Liv said.

I’ve only got three weeks before the cut off! How can I possibly decide? I’ve got 21 days to work out my whole future! She looked like she was about to cry.

The tension was broken by a nurse coming into the room.

Here’s a prescription for the tablets to help with the sickness. You can get them from the pharmacy downstairs. And we’ll need to see you back here next week to keep an eye on things. Make an appointment at reception on your way out.

Liv wasn’t surprised to see a familiar black car waiting for them by the main entrance. For once she was relieved to see it idling by the kerb. As she steered India through the sliding doors, Trevor, the driver, hopped out and opened the passenger door for them.

Morning, Miss and Miss, he said politely.

Thanks, Trevor, Liv said apologetically as India barged her way into the car and flopped down dramatically on the back seat.

Bowl! India yelled.

Liv quickly passed it to her. Sorry about this, Trevor, she said, knowing that his immaculate leather seats were about to be assaulted by a very angry young woman with terrible nausea and bad aim.

They peered down into the car as India heaved into the bowl.

I’ll be as quick as I can, he said as Liv slid into the back seat and he closed the door behind her.

Well? said Kate, opening her front door the second the car pulled up at the kerb outside the house. She strode over the car with the family dog Daphne trotting at her heels and took the bowl from a grateful Liv. There was only so much sick that she wanted to see in one day. India gingerly got out and was promptly sick into the gutter.

I’m pregnant, alright! India hissed. You were right. Are you happy? She began to stamp over to the stairs that led down to the basement granny flat where she lived.

Trevor took the chance to slide back into the car and drive away.

Kate and Liv followed India.

Darling, it’s not a question of being right or wrong. I take no pleasure in either. I just want you to be ok.

India turned around and yelled: Well, I’m not ok, alright? I’m fucking scared and I’m fucking sick of being sick! She juddered with a new wave of nausea. She looked round for the nearest receptacle. It turned out to be a wheelie bin. She pulled up the lid, was promptly sick into it and then closed the lid as if she hadn’t just heaved into a bin.

Kate went over and pulled her into a hug. India resisted at first and then collapsed onto her mum’s shoulder.

What am I going to do, Mum? she sobbed, wiping a snotty trail onto her mum shoulder.

Let’s go inside, have a cup of gin and think about it, said Kate.

Chapter Two

They reluctantly settled down into their usual places at the kitchen table. Kate sat at the head, India sat on one side of the large, battered farmhouse table and Liv sat on the other. Daphne curled herself round Liv’s feet on the floor. A tall, glass pot of mint tea sat stewing in the middle of the table. India’s washing up bowl sat next to it.

Can you move that stuff away from me? It’s making me heave. India pointed at the teapot and then pulled the bowl towards her. She put her forearm across the bowl and let her head rest on it. Why does everything make me feel sick? Her voice reverberated into the bowl.

It was the same with all three of you, said Kate, pouring some tea for Liv and herself. I couldn’t stand being near food, let alone eat any of it, for the first trimester. I lost at least a stone with each baby at the beginning. Piled it all back on once I could eat again. In fact, all I did was eat for the next six months. I ate for Britain, Europe and the Commonwealth. Your father said it made him feel quite sick watching me eat.

Please don’t say the words ‘eat’ and ‘sick’ in the same sentence, India moaned into the bowl. You’ll make me hurl and I really don’t need any help in that department.

Sorry, darling. Kate stroked her daughter’s head and tucked one of India’s wayward pink curls behind her ear. Now, shall we talk?

There were only a few words that could strike fear into India and Liv’s hearts as quickly as ‘shall we talk?’. It was phrased as a question but they both knew that there was no choice involved. Kate was going to talk and they were going to listen. And, if Kate got her way, agree with her. If Kate felt there was an ‘issue’, then a ‘talk’ was the only way to solve it. When they were teenagers, the ‘talk’ was mainly about sex. Once, Kate started off by saying: Now, I’m sensing that you girls aren’t quite as open to exploring your sexuality as one might like. Try it all, girls. Everything – anal, women, ménage à trois. You will regret it if you don’t. I certainly have. Though you father is nothing if not highly experimental, I feel I haven’t experienced women fully enough. Her other favourite ‘issue’ was the patriarchy. Don’t let the patriarchy limit your expectations, girls, Kate would say, pushing a few dog-eared feminist books across the table. Whatever you choose to do, whether it’s architecture or sweeping streets, make sure it’s your choice and yours alone. And, most of all, tell the misogynists to fuck right off. It’s the only way.

India and her brother Rufus would snigger about the ‘talk’, always adding sarcastic finger quote marks. They’d roll their eyes and yawn while Kate was talking. Liv, not being one of Kate’s children, tried to be polite. She never openly disagreed with Kate or rolled her eyes but she was always aware that Kate had the luxury of privilege. The whole family lived in a lovely, upper middle-class bubble. They lived in a tall, pale honey coloured, five floored Regency townhouse in the poshest part of Bristol. Tim was a classics lecturer at the university, they had a second home in Cornwall and all the children had been to private schools. Though Kate would never admit it, she had her own expectations. She wanted her children to be creative, expressive and well-travelled but she also wanted them to have a decent income, a partner and children. That was the way life played out for people of her class. Liv, on the other hand, came from a working-class family and her parents had no problem heaping expectations on her. Get married, have children, live near your parents, get a nice, little job while the children are at school and don’t let yourself go. Your husband cannot be blamed for straying if you ‘stop making an effort’, which was unsubtle code for getting fat and letting the grey show through. Having grown up in a city, Liv found their expectations very limiting. If Liv stuck to them, her life would be just like her parents and, in her view, very small. Small town and small-minded, in fact everything that Kate despised. Luckily these two worlds didn’t collide often. Liv was grateful that her family lived in Italy and hadn’t been back to Bristol since they’d emigrated ten years ago. Kate and Tim had dropped in to see Liv’s family one summer when they’d been on their way from Tuscany to Sardinia. They’d stayed for lunch, had a walk round town and then exited after coffee. Liv had cringed inwardly for every single second but Kate and Tim were oblivious. They found it ‘charming and delightful’, in that way that wealthy tourists look at olive farmers in Umbria. Other olive farmers see back breaking work, long hours and failed harvests but tourists see beautiful scenery and something nice to dip their focaccia in.

Liv didn’t need to think too hard to know how this current conversation would pan out in her parents’ house. If Liv got pregnant, they’d go absolutely ballistic. Their default reaction was ballistic – everything from forgetting to make their beds to scratching the car got a full-blown theatrical performance. Pregnancy out of wedlock would take the performance to a whole new level. There would be shouting, crying and God would be called on to answer some tricky questions. Between sobs, Liv’s mother invariably looked at the ceiling and ask God how she could have brought up someone with no morals. How she’d been a good mother and provided everything she could and for what? To turn out an ungrateful whore! Once she’d got that off her chest (and her father had sloped off to fume in the garage and avoid talking about any ‘womanly’ things), her mother would lay out the future. Engagement straight away, wedding next month and then a premature ‘honeymoon’ baby. Everyone knew that a ‘honeymoon’ baby wasn’t the result of the bride and groom getting a bit too frisky after some

Reviews for More Than Enough

[margotjames · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

OMG! This book is such a guilty pleasure book. It was highly addictive with all its drama and the ending left me wanting more.