“What are you bringing them through, for?” he snaps. “We’re still using them.
“They’re empty,” his sulky, somewhat sarcastic daughter points out, holding them up, two in each hand.
“Yes, they are,” her father replies, and there is no mistaking the edge to his voice. “Which is why I’m fetching more wine to fill them.”
“Mum says we need different glasses for Tess’s fudge cake, like, dessert glasses for the sweet wine you’re supposed to be bringing in.”
“Yes,” Jack says slowly. “Tooth rot wine for the dessert glasses, and real wine in the glasses you’re holding. Glasses which you’ve now gone and got muddled and must be replaced.”
It’s true – Kirsty and I had planned to switch to a lovely bottle of high-end Riesling that Kirsty had picked up months ago, but Jemima’s impromptu kitchen visit feels like something more. Like she is trying to catch us out, either at the behest of her mother, or of her own volitation.
My blood runs cold in my veins at the mere thought of it – surely Kirsty doesn’t believe I’d even dream of crossing such a line with her husband?
Or maybe it’s her husband that she doesn’t trust, rather than me.
“Excuse me, Tess,” she says.
She hasn’t elbowed me out of the way, exactly, but I jump to one side as if she had. She places the four glasses on the draining board, shooting daggers at me. Not once has she ever called me Auntie Tess, it’s always just plain old Tess.
Maybe it’s because she came to me relatively late in her short life, in that I haven’t known her since birth. I’ve known her for eight years, since she was six years old, but I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s because she straight up hates me.
“Here, take these,” Jack calls over to her from the other side of the large kitchen as he reaches up into one of the high, white cupboards, plucking down four fresh glasses.
Jemima throws me a withering, sarcastic smile, and goes over to her father, taking the wine glasses from him.
“Anything else?” she asks, somehow – impressively – managing to make the simple question sound as sarcastic as hell. I half expect her to add Your Majesty, or some such thing, but she doesn’t.
“No. That will be all,” Jack replies, his tone equally scathing. “Now run along with you.”
Jemima manages to throw me a final, dirty look before leaving the kitchen. On shaking legs, I make my way over to the tall, American-style fridge, and fling open the door.
I can’t bring myself to look at Jack – I think I am in shock.
I remove the fudge cake that I baked earlier today, nudging the door shut with my hip. Jack is standing on the other side of the fridge door, and I almost drop the damn cake in shock, for he was at the other end of the wall a few seconds ago.
I am horrified to discover that I am dangerously close to tears.
“I have to microwave this,” I mumble, still refusing to look him in the eye.
But Jack is standing in front of the microwave, and he isn’t moving.
“God, Tess, you have the reflexes of a cat,” he murmurs softly. “How did you hear her coming? That was so close.”
That was close? I think dazedly. Not, I’m sorry, but that was close?
I am truly dumbfounded by him. Surely he can’t be serious? But I can’t get into this now; I simply refuse to. I will store this up for later, but right now, I will pretend that it never happened.
“Please, Jack, I need to microwave this cake. And if you want to be remotely useful, you can get the plates, the ice-cream, and the clotted cream. Thank you.”
I’m not sure how I’m managing to keep my cool like this. By some miracle, I have temporarily won the battle with the tears. They will come later, of that I am sure, but right now, as far as I’m concerned, everything is normal.
“Right,” He looks like he wants to say something more, but he seems to think better of it. “I’ll get the plates.”
CHAPTER TEN
TESS
Shane is surprisingly sprightly the following morning, considering the amount he had to drink last night. I have only just dragged my sorry backside out of bed, and it is gone ten. And I’m only up now because I’m at the point where I would sell my soul for a cup of coffee.
I find my husband in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table and sipping a delicious-smelling cup of coffee, scrolling through something on his laptop. I can’t see what, because he is sitting directly opposite the door.
He looks up and smiles at me when I enter the room, shutting the lid of his laptop.
The worst feeling of insecurity and mistrust squirms in my guts.
“Afternoon,” he grins. “How’s the head?”
“Morning,” I mumble. “What are you doing?”
“Not much. Drinking coffee and waiting for you to get up.”
No, what are you doing on the computer? I want to scream at him. Why did you slam down the laptop lid?
“Do you want another coffee?” I ask instead, shuffling over towards the coffee machine near the kitchen sink, feeling like an old lady in my fluffy towelling dressing gown, underneath which I wear an ancient pair of pink pyjama bottoms and one of Shane’s now-unusable t-shirts with holes in the armpits.
“How long have you been up?” I ask, after switching on the machine and moving over to the sink, where I rinse out my favourite coffee mug that has been sitting on the draining board on all night.
The coffee machine gurgles on, and that, coupled with the hiss of the running tap, masks Shane’s approach. His hands curl around my upper arms and I flinch in shock, instantly transported back to last night, when Jack had accosted me in this exact same spot.
My stomach twists into a tight knot of guilt-ridden turmoil. But it isn’t me who should feel guilty, I remind myself, it is Jack.
Shane spins me around in his arms, me still clutching my wet mug, which awkwardly rests against his shoulder. I have to fight my natural urge to wriggle out from under, to shrug him off. Such rejection of a simple cuddle invariably leads to hurt feelings and stony silences, and I can’t cope with that today, not with my head splitting open the way it is.
He nuzzles the crook of my neck, just like Jack did. It’s an intimate gesture, and once again I am struck by the oddness of Jack’s pass.
“So, what are your plans for today?” I ask breezily.
The truth is, such displays of physical affection between us have grown increasingly uncommon, especially the past year or so. We still have sex, but to me, it feels perfectly perfunctory, a means to an end, rather than a source of any real pleasure. And sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind right now. I feel grubby, groggy, hungover, and my chances of conceiving with this amount of wine still coursing through my system must be severely diminished.
And I feel guilty, I remind myself. Let’s not forget about that.
“I thought I might go shopping this afternoon,” he murmurs hotly against my neck.
Oh God, I hope he’s not horny, I honestly couldn’t take that at this precise moment in time.
“Shopping?” I ask. I have dim recollections of him saying last night that he was going to take today off. “As in grocery shopping, or the other kind?”
We get our weekly shop online, and I don’t remember the last time Shane paid a supermarket a visit – such household chores are thoroughly my domain. And he also ‘popped to the shops’ just two days ago. It’s enough to make me suspicious.
I proceed to extract myself with as much blasé busyness as I can muster, and go to fiddle with the coffee machine, my movements assertive and determined.
Don’t touch me again, is all I can think. Just, please. Don’t touch me.
“Grocery shopping,” he says from close behind me. But he isn’t pawing at me anymore, thank God. “I’m going to cook for you, tonight. And after I’ve been to the supermarket, I’m going to pick up my darling sister so she can collect her car.”
If he is hurt or annoyed at my rejection
of him, there is no sign of it in his voice.
“Wow,” I say, deadpan. “I can’t believe you’re cooking. It must be Christmas.”
“It sure is.” His laughter dies on his lips. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
Nothing wrong? I think bitterly, remembering how Alice came round two days ago and talked about us killing Shane. I want to tell Shane about that little encounter so badly, but now is not the time. I’m also not yet sure how much I am willing to share with him, or what spin I’m going to put on it. And my head hurts too much to think about it now.
“I’m fine,” I say, then cringe. Because saying I’m fine, invariably means quite the opposite.
“Are you getting upset about the upcoming stag night?”
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused for a moment, turning around to face him. Then I remember. “Oh, that. No, I’m not.”
And I’m not – I had genuinely forgotten all about it. In two days’ time, on Wednesday night, he is going out with an old schoolfriend from Broadgate who is getting married in the new year. This friend’s name is Andrew Perkins, who now works in construction, and he is the only person that Andrew has kept in touch with from his childhood years. They both grew up together in Broadgate, and were in the same year at school. Nowadays, most of Shane’s social circle is in London, apart from his sister and brother-in-law. And me, of course, but I guess I don’t count. As for me, I’ve lived all over thanks to my turbulent childhood, Broadgate being my last port of call since I met Shane. I have no roots in this town.
“Because you don’t have to worry about it,” he says. “It’s not like we’re going to Pink Flamingos, or anything.”
Pink Flamingos is the only strip club in town, and I shudder at the thought of him going to a place like that. I might have to kill him if he does. Alice pops into my mind with her bizarre threats of murdering Shane, and I shudder. My God, that woman is crazy, I can’t believe that she even suggested such a thing.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I know you wouldn’t go there.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. And Andrew’s not like that, Jane would kill him if he went to a strip club.”
All men are like that, given half a chance, comes the unwelcome thought. Including you.
“Right,” I say absently, shaking off the bad thoughts, and smiling benignly at him.
“I’ll just get my cup,” he says, striding over towards the kitchen table to retrieve his mug next to the laptop.
His laptop.
Suddenly, I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from it.
What were you doing on your computer, Shane? I think in a fresh stab of anguish.
But again, I say nothing. I am not about to start spying on my husband.
I am not.
“One more coffee, and then I’ll hit the road,” Shane is saying from over by the kitchen table. “You don’t have any students today, do you?”
“No. Not ‘til Thursday, actually,” I reply, feeling faintly ashamed of this fact. Thursday is three whole days away. I’ve had a rash of cancellations lately, and my piano lesson appointments are erratic and entirely pattern-less at the best of times.
“That’s no bad thing,” he says. “Gives you a few days off.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
It’s not like money is a problem for us, but my lack of students makes me feel like a failure.
“Is there anything you want me to pick up when I’m out?” he asks.
I laugh uneasily, not used to such attentive thoughtfulness from my husband. “Are you okay, Shane? What’s gotten into you? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” I say lightly, wishing that I could wave a magic wand and stop being so damn jealous, insecure and paranoid.
“I’m the same man I’ve always been,” he laughs.
Are you, Shane? I think sadly. Are you really?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TESS
Shane never cooks for me, and this fact alone is enough to put me on edge. The thunderstorm that is raging outside doesn’t help my already shredded nerves.
Not only has he cooked, he has also been extra attentive today. Charm personified, in fact. He made me sit in the living room while he was cooking dinner. He even put on my favourite romcom on Netflix.
Maybe I’m being overly paranoid, but he is acting out of character. Like he wants something from me, and is buttering me up to get it. Or maybe he’s trying to make up for something – like the fact he’s been sleeping with other women behind my back.
Women like Alice. Or Isla, perhaps.
“More wine?” he asks, hovering over me where I sit at the head of the kitchen table.
Chilled Chardonnay glugs into my glass before I have a chance to reply in the affirmative or the negative.
“I really shouldn’t,” I protest weakly. I’m still suffering from yesterday, when we celebrated Jack’s birthday.
I’m not the only person suffering, I think, picturing a rather hungover Kirsty. When she had come to collect her car today, she had been somewhat subdued. She hadn’t even bossed Shane around once.
“Why not? It is Christmas.”
“Not quite,” I laugh softly. “It’s only the thirteenth.”
“It’s as good as, so therefore it is obligatory to drink too much.”
I feel the half-smile dropping from my lips, thinking about the reason I gave up drinking in the first place.
Shane fills up his own glass at the same time as he sits down next to me.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass towards me.
I echo the sentiment, then take a long pull of the wine. The chilly wetness trickles down my oesophagus, turning instantly warm and fanning outwards in a spreading fuzziness.
I stare down at the large bowl of soup before me, my stomach clenching, but not in hunger.
“I hope you like it,” Shane says. “Kirsty gave me the recipe.”
I gaze into its orange depths. “It looks… lovely,” I finish, only just stopping myself from saying orange in time.
“I doubt it’ll be in the league of anything you make, but it seemed to come together okay, once I got the hang of the food blender.”
“Hmm,” I say noncommittedly, not really listening.
I’m not sure why, but I feel uneasy. I put it down to the residue hangover from last night. But drinking too much yesterday aside – for my body really isn’t used to it anymore – I’ve had a hell of a few days, all in all. Not to mention that I’ve recently miscarried for the second time. I smirk humourlessly to myself. I guess I really need a holiday. Or just a break from myself – that would be even better.
“What’s so funny?” Shane asks me.
“Huh?” I say, my gaze snapping in his direction.
“You were laughing to yourself about something.”
“I was just thinking that I need a holiday,” I reply honestly.
“You were? And pray, may I ask why that’s so funny?”
“Because there’s no way we’re having one is there? Not for the foreseeable future, anyway.”
“Never say never. You know what? Why don’t we book us a week somewhere hot, come the new year? It isn’t like we can’t afford it, right?”
“What about work?” I ask him. “I thought you said you were way too busy to take your eye off the ball?”
And could you bear to be away from your little workmate, Isla? I think bitterly. I force such thoughts from my mind; I am jumping to conclusions as his relationship with this girl is probably entirely innocent.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, whispers that little voice in my head. Except this time, the voice sounds just like Alice, in all her sarcastic, drawling glory. Her beautiful, smug face blares unbidden in my mind, mocking me.
“The business isn’t going to fall apart without me at the helm for a few days,” he says. “At least, one would hope not. How’s the soup?”
Once more, I stare down into the orangey depths of the bowl – I haven’t even touched it ye
t. Hesitantly, I dip my spoon into the thick liquid and bring it to my lips. I sip at the edge of the spoon with Shane’s eyes fixed upon me, as if seeking my approval.
“Mmm, it’s lovely,” I say, trying not to wince. Because it isn’t. It tastes bitter.
“It is? You really think so?”
His eyes gleam like a puppy’s, desperately seeking validation from its master.
“Sure,” I say, washing away the slightly acidic aftertaste with a good slug of wine.
“You don’t think it’s a little bitter?”
He looks down at his own bowl, stirring its contents around with the spoon, the faintest pink blush staining his cheeks.
“No, Shane, it’s fine,” I lie.
“I may have slipped a little with the turmeric,” he says sheepishly.
My God, I think. Why is he getting so weird over the soup?
Without warning, he reaches the short distance across the table and clasps the hand that isn’t holding the spoon.
“I think we should try again,” he blurts out. “I mean, fourth time lucky, right? We should get Christmas out of the way – you deserve to relax after everything you’ve been through. You know, have a few drinks, eat all the good, wrong foods. Have sex that isn’t part of a schedule. We can start on this holiday we’re going to take. Or maybe we shouldn’t properly start then. Maybe we should just use that week to eat, drink, and be merry and start when we get back…”
“Shane?” I say sternly, interrupting his flow, because he’s beginning to gabble.
“Yes?”
“Stop. You’re speed talking.”
“Sorry.” He gives my hand that rests on the tabletop a squeeze.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s just, I don’t know… Maybe we should wait?”
“Right. Yes.”
He looks crestfallen, hurt passing over his face like a shadow. Then he removes his hand, and my skin feels cold and barren where he had previously warmed me through.
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just, it feels too soon. It’s only been a few weeks, Shane,” I gently add.
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