tetchily. ‘And could you slow down? You took that corner a bit too fast.’
I exhale loudly. It’s a long time since I’ve read anything about reigniting passion, but I’m sure they never recommend talking about drains. ‘Just an idea,’ I say flatly. ‘I was trying to think of something different to do, but if you don’t fancy it, that’s fine.’
Mustering a smile, Jed nicks a Quaver from the packet on my lap. ‘Tell you what, love,’ he says, patting my leg. ‘Shall we just have a cosy night in?’
*
Despite my plummeting spirits, I’m determined to make this work out and for us to have an unforgettable evening. Jed and I hardly ever go out. He seems to have forgotten that emerging from our house after dark – just the two of us – is a real possibility. I see couples heading out at night, holding hands or with the girl kind of tucked under the guy’s arm, being hugged as they walk. It squeezes my heart to see that. We used to walk that way, although doing that now would feel ridiculous. Jed would assume I felt faint and couldn’t stand up properly. Yet sometimes it feels as if the whole world is out there, hugging and kissing in public, and that Jed and I have somehow slipped off its edge.
The first year we were together, I don’t think we saw a single DVD right through to the end. We’d put one on, when he’d taken a minicab over to my tiny Archway flat, or we’d plan to watch one when I’d cycled over to see him in his maisonette in Bethnal Green. The credits would start, and we’d have a little kiss – and before we knew it we’d be tangled on the floor together, kissing and laughing that that was another movie we’d never know the end of.
And now, I can’t imagine how Jed would react if I pounced on him while he was watching a movie. He’d probably think I’d lost my mind.
I unload our overnight bag from the boot – a gesture which seems particularly tragic – and let us into the house. It feels too still and quiet without the children. The carpet is littered with components from Toby’s Lego fort, and I almost tread on a partially-constructed rocket which he and Grace had been making out of a plastic water bottle and a mangled toothpaste tube. ‘One of my regulars told me that new Moroccan place is good,’ I tell Jed, pacing the living room. It’s a downside of being a hairdresser. You hear every detail of your clients’ glittering social lives. You make them look gorgeous for nights out you’ll never have.
Jed looks up from the armchair. ‘I don’t really fancy it tonight, love. I thought we’d agreed to stay home.’
‘Oh, come on!’ I snap. ‘We can stay home any night we want. What’s the point in arranging for the kids to stay over at Mum’s if we’re not going to do anything? It seems crazy. Such a waste. Let’s, let’s . . .’ I flounder for words. ‘Let’s do something spontaneous.’ Jed blinks at me and looks rather tired. He didn’t used to be like this – a boring fart in an armchair who can’t even muster the wherewithal to take his wife out for a drink. Back in the old days, before he lost the will to live, we’d go to bars and restaurants and parties all the time, and he’d tell me he was proud to be seen with me. We were perpetually skint, but he still managed to buy me sexy dresses, teetering shoes, beautiful lingerie in black silk and ivory lace. Things a man would only buy for a woman he wanted to have wild sex with.
‘I’ve been working all week,’ Jed protests. ‘I’d just like to chill out, Laura, okay?’
‘I’ve been working too,’ I start, catching myself: of course I haven’t been working like he has. While Jed’s been mentoring disadvantaged kids, I’ve been . . . cutting hair. What does that matter in the great scheme of things? If there were no hair-dressers, what would people do? Hack it themselves with the kitchen scissors. It would be fine. No one dies from having badly-cut hair. Finn would probably enjoy that – chopping at it himself – as it’s the effect he seems to be after at the piercing place.
‘Why don’t we watch a movie?’ Jed suggests, his voice softening. ‘I’ll pop down to the Spar and choose something if you like.’
Well, whoop-di-doo. ‘Okay,’ I mutter. ‘Let’s do that. Let’s stay in and watch TV.’
‘Don’t be like that, darling.’ He throws me a wounded, big-eyed look.
‘I’m not being like anything.’ I snatch Grace’s pens and scissors from the floor, unable to think of anything else to do. Once I’ve tidied the entire room, and rounded up a few stray dishes, I perch on our other armchair and peer at him.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, looking up from his book.
‘Nothing. I’m just thinking, maybe you’re right. I can’t remember the last time we were home alone together. Maybe it could be quite fun.’
Jed nods. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Sort of . . . peaceful.’
‘Well, it could be nice. Why don’t I pop out for some shopping and cook us a special meal? Something the kids wouldn’t like?’
‘Sounds good,’ Jed says, eyes fixed back on the book. I have to say, he doesn’t appear to be primed for an evening of hot lust.
‘And I’ll get some wine,’ I add.
‘Yeah. Great.’
‘And maybe we could, you know . . . go to bed early.’ I move over to his chair, and try to nuzzle into him, but his gaze remains fixed on the page. What’s he reading? Some American crime novel where people are bludgeoned to death every three pages. I can smell the testosterone radiating from its pages. God, it must be riveting. If he were any other straight man, in a child-free house with his wife dropping walloping hints, trying to drag him off to a hotel, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be reading a goddamn book. What do I have to do – dress up as an air hostess? Trill ‘doors to manual’ while wearing an Ann Summers tunic emblazoned with a Lust-anza logo? A couple of years ago, Simone had a brief fling with a guy – one of her clients, in fact – who was into that kind of stuff. He even suggested buying a hostess trolley that she could wheel through her house to dispense drinks. Is that what turns men on these days?
‘I’ll go then,’ I bark, causing Jed to flinch.
‘Yeah. Um, what?’
‘You relax and enjoy your book’ – a mere smidgeon of bitterness there – ‘and I’ll nip out to Tesco.’
‘Okay, darling.’ His jaw twitches from the effort of glancing up from the page. ‘That sounds great.’
*
Before leaving I quickly scan my cookery books. I used to love cooking fancy stuff – proper grown-up food involving coriander and limes – before my culinary gene shrivelled up. The children howled in protest whenever I presented any thing with ‘weirdy green bits’ (i.e. herbs). So my confidence shrank, and my cooking acquired a distinctly retro vibe: pies, sausages, roasts. None of it terribly waistline-friendly. As I’m usually ravenous by the children’s dinnertime, I tend to pick at their clammy leftovers, then often eat again later with Jed. Double-dinner Laura. No wonder I’ve gone up from a size twelve to a sixteen since we met.
I pore over recipes, uninspired by dishes involving grilled chicken and watercress. Can’t imagine Jed getting revved up over that. He can eat like a horse, lucky sod, and not gain an ounce. My eyes land on a pasta dish with prawns, chillies and rocket. How delightfully non-fish-fingery. ‘Won’t be long,’ I announce as I head out, feeling
