in an Arctic-worthy jacket, thankfully devoid of book, and perches on a wobbly metal chair. I wait for him to register my new make-up and exclaim, ‘Wow, Laura, you look gorgeous tonight. Let me kiss you, irresistible wife!’ Nothing is forthcoming. Next time Jed and I have a hot date, I may wear a boiler suit.
I glance around our garden. The bleak rectangle is bordered by brick walls all shedding their white paint skins. The borders are already sprouting weeds. ‘You know,’ I murmur, ‘we really should do something with this place.’
‘Like what?’ Jed prods a pasta quill. He looks so good, so strong-jawed and handsome in the yellowy flicker of the tea lights, even with his big fat jacket on.
‘Get some pots,’ I suggest, ‘or hanging baskets. Maybe even some turf to make a proper lawn.’
‘Feel free,’ he says with a chuckle, ‘but I don’t imagine it’d stay perfect for long. The kids would soon mess it up.’
‘It wouldn’t have to be perfect,’ I insist. ‘It could be wild, full of colour like, like—’
‘Like . . . your dad’s garden?’ he says gently.
I nod. Dad lived for his garden. Finn would help him to plant things, when he was still eager to please. He even had a notebook in which he’d document what he’d planted and when the first shoots appeared. ‘My cornflowers came up!’ Finn wrote carefully, and Mum let us cut some to bring home. As Dad grew sicker, the borders ran wild. ‘He’ll knock it back into shape when he’s better,’ Mum would say as the exuberant colours blurred beneath a blanket of weeds. I could have helped, if I’d known. After Dad had gone, Mum had the whole garden turfed over.
‘You okay, love?’ Jed asks.
‘I’m fine.’ I muster a smile. ‘I just think the kids would enjoy the garden more if we spruced it up.’
‘There’s the park, though, isn’t there?’ He forks in some pasta and splutters dramatically. ‘God, Laura! How much chilli did you put in this?’
‘Just what the recipe said,’ I say curtly.
‘Oh, wow . . . this is bloody hot.’ He slugs his wine and starts blowing out air.
I take a tentative nibble. It tastes fine at first, if a little fiery. Then the heat builds up until an inferno tears at my throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I croak, my eyes streaming as I fork in an enormous mouthful to prove just how bloody fine and delicious it is.
‘I can’t eat this,’ Jed announces, lurching inside to the kitchen. I hear the tap being turned on full blast. My entire digestive system is combusting. No amount of chilled white wine can cool my throat. I slam down my fork and march into the kitchen where Jed is bent under the kitchen tap with cold water gushing directly into his mouth.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I rasp, my mouth searing. ‘You’re acting like one of the kids.’
He straightens up and dabs his face with a tea towel. ‘Oh, isn’t it? So I suppose you don’t want some water?’
‘Um, yes please.’ He hands me a glassful, which I gulp down. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I threw in a few extra chillies to make it look colourful.’
‘Right,’ he snorts. ‘Like a little garden or something?’
‘Something like that,’ I say as he fills a second glass for me. The back door is open, and the tea lights flicker feebly on the table.
‘Hey,’ Jed says gently, sliding his arms around me. ‘I’m sorry, love. I know you went to a lot of effort.’
‘It’s okay. It was my fault.’
‘Look,’ he adds hesitantly. ‘I . . . I know I’ve been . . . wrapped up in other things lately . . .’
Like Celeste? ‘I suppose we’re just not used to being together anymore,’ I cut in quickly. It feels so good, being held by him, that I don’t want to spoil it by saying her name.
‘Of course we are,’ Jed says. ‘We just don’t have the chance very often.’ He pulls back to study my face. ‘You smell good,’ he adds. ‘And you’re wearing make-up. It suits you.’
‘Oh, it’s just some old stuff I found . . .’
‘Well, you look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile, stretch up and kiss his soft lips. Then we’re kissing and kissing, and it doesn’t matter that I ruined our meal, or that Jed has spent the past four months in some parallel universe, because right now everything feels perfect. His hands, which were resting gently around my waist, slide down over my hips, pausing as he detects the suspender clips. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘You have gone to a lot of effort.’
‘It’s amazing what you can buy at Tesco these days.’
‘Tesco?’ He laughs softly. ‘Classy.’ Then he clutches my hand, as if it’s something he’d lost and has just found and says, ‘We, um . . . we could just go to bed.’
‘Okay,’ I say, grinning. ‘If you insist.’
My heart is pounding as we climb the stairs together, the way it did the first time we kissed. We’d met at a party. Jed had just started out in teaching, and I’d vaguely known one of his housemates from college. What if? was our favourite game back then. What if your date hadn’t stood you up? he’d ask me. What if you hadn’t gone home feeling totally fed up, and played that message from Helen who you hadn’t heard from in years? What if you hadn’t rung her straight back? What if she hadn’t invited you to our party? What if my girlfriend hadn’t dumped me, and I hadn’t been sitting on the stairs, pissed off, nursing a warm bottle of Becks?
He’d known instantly, he insisted, although he hadn’t been remotely aware that I’d spied him too, the moment I’d walked in. Jed is oblivious to women’s glances and flirtations. But he’d spotted me, breezing in and brimming with confidence, as if I had no expectations of the night ahead because so far it had been crapper than crapsville. ‘And you thought I was just being friendly,’ I used to tease him. ‘You had no idea how cute you were. What did I have to do? Take you home to bed! The lengths I had to go to to make you realise I was crazy about you . . .’
‘Even then, I thought I was just a sympathy lay,’ he laughed.
Jed and I reach the landing. Hell, my unfinished chicken-shave job. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ I murmur.
Disappointment flickers in his eyes. ‘Don’t be long this time.’
‘I’ll only be a minute. Honestly. There’s just, um, something I need to do.’
It takes longer than a minute as I strip naked and stand at the sink, trying to make myself symmetrical as speedily as possible without causing myself irreversible damage. My libido is ebbing away rapidly. The stockings have formed a crimped ring around the top of each thigh. In my eagerness to escape from that perv in Tesco, I must have grabbed too small a size.
I’m covered in suds, and water dribbles in rivulets down my legs as I try to wash them away. The floor is soaked, and I mop up the water with a fraying bath towel and an old T-shirt of
