they escape in an avalanche. “Why don’t you just go and… and talk about computers together?”
“Becky, calm down,” says Luke, clearly amazed.
But I can’t calm down.
“It’s OK! You can be honest! If you prefer a miserable skinflint with zero dress sense and zero sense of humor to me… just say so! Maybe you should marry her if she’s so great! I’m sure you’d have a wonderful time together… ”
“Becky!” Luke cuts me off with a look which chills me to the marrow. “Just stop right there.”
I don’t dare move a muscle. I feel like we’ve plunged to some new, scary place in our relationship.
“I know you didn’t get along with Jess,” he says at last. “But you should know this. Your sister is a good person. She’s honest, reliable, and hardworking. She spent hours on this for us.” He taps the disc. “She volunteered to do it herself, and she didn’t ask for any pay or any thanks. I would say she’s a truly selfless person.” He takes a few steps toward me, his expression unrelenting. “You could learn a lot from your sister.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. I feel quite hollow with fear. Right now there’s nothing in Luke’s face to say he’s my husband and he loves me.
“I have to go.” Luke looks at his watch. “I’ll get my stuff.”
He strides out of the kitchen. But I can’t move from the spot.
“I’m off.” Luke reappears at the kitchen door holding his case. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“Luke… I’m sorry.” At last I’ve found my voice, even if it is all shaky. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you.” I raise my head, trying to keep a grip on myself. “But if you really want to know… you’ve been a disappointment to me too. You’ve changed. You were fun on our honeymoon. You were fun and you were laid-back and you were kind… ”
Suddenly I have a memory of Luke as he was. Sitting on his yoga mat with his bleached plaits and his earring. Smiling at me in the Sri Lankan sunshine. Reaching over to take my hand.
I feel an unbearable yearning for that easy, happy man, who bears no resemblance to the stressed corporate animal standing in front of me.
“You’re different.” The words come out in a sob and I can feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “You’ve gone back to the way you used to be before. The way you promised you’d never be again.” I wipe away the tear roughly. “This isn’t what I thought married life would be like, Luke.”
“Nor me,” says Luke. There’s a familiar wryness to his voice, but he isn’t smiling. “I have to go. Bye, Becky.”
A few moments later I hear the front door slam.
I sink down onto the floor and bury my face in my knees. And he didn’t even kiss me goodbye.
For a while I don’t move. I just sit there in the hall, hugging my knees. Our marriage is in tatters. And it hasn’t even been a year.
At last I rouse myself and get stiffly to my feet. I feel numb and spaced-out. Slowly I walk into the silent, empty dining room, where our carved wooden table from Sri Lanka is standing proudly in the middle of the room.
The sight of it makes me want to cry all over again. I had such dreams for that table. I had such dreams of what our married life was going to be like. All the visions are piling back into my head: the glow of candlelight, me ladling out hearty stew, Luke smiling at me lovingly, all our friends gathered round the table…
Suddenly I feel an overwhelming, almost physical longing. I have to talk to Suze. I have to hear her sympathetic voice. She’ll know what to do. She always does.
I hurry, almost running, to the phone and jab in the number.
“Hello?” It’s answered by a high-pitched woman’s voice — but it’s not Suze.
“Hi!” I say, taken aback. “It’s Becky here. Is that—”
“It’s Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?”
Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Is Suze there, by any chance?”
“She’s just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We’re off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?”
“Er…” I rub my face. “No. I don’t.”
“Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Petit Bateau overalls! It’s a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There’s a butterfly farm!”
“Right,” I manage. “Great.”
“I’ll get her to call back in two secs, OK?”
“Thanks,” I say in relief. “That would be great. Just tell her… I really need to talk to her.”
I wander over to the window, press my face against the glass, and stare down at the passing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again — and a new set of cars come to a stop.
Suze hasn’t called. It’s been more than two secs.
She isn’t going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Petit Bateau overalls and picnics and butterfly farms. There’s no room for me and my stupid problems.
My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven’t been getting on that well recently. But I thought… I honestly thought…
Maybe I could call Danny. Except… I’ve left about six messages for him and he’s never returned any of them.
Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to pull myself together on my own.
What I will do is… I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.
No milk.
For an instant I feel like falling to the floor again and crying till nightfall. But instead I take a deep breath and lift my chin. Fine. I’ll go and buy some milk. And stock up generally. It’ll be good to get some fresh air and take my mind off things.
I pick up my Angel bag, slick on some lip gloss, and head out of the apartment. I walk briskly out the gates and down the street, past the weird shop with all the gold furniture, and into the delicatessen on the corner.
The moment I get inside I start to feel a bit more steady. It’s so warm and soothing in here, with the most delicious smell of coffee and cheese and whichever soup they’re cooking that day. All the assistants wear long striped ticking aprons, and look like they’re genuine French cheese-makers.
I pick up a wicker basket, head to the milk counter, and load in a couple of pints of organic semi-skimmed. Then my eye falls on a pot of luxury Greek yogurt. Maybe I’ll buy myself a few little treats to cheer myself up. I put the yogurt into my basket, along with some individual chocolate mousses. Then I reach for a gorgeous handblown glass jar of gourmet brandied cherries.
That’s a waste of money, a voice intones in my head. You don’t even like brandied cherries.
It sounds a bit like Jess’s. Weird. And anyway, I do like brandied cherries. Kind of.
I shake my head irritably and thrust the jar into my basket, then move along to the next display and reach for a mini olive-and-anchovy focaccia pizza.
Overpriced rubbish, comes the voice in my head. You could make it yourself at home for 20p.
Shut up, I retort mentally. No, I couldn’t. Go away.
I dump the pizza in my basket, then move along the displays more swiftly, putting in punnets of white peaches, miniature pears, several cheeses, dark chocolate truffles, a French strawberry gateau…
But Jess’s voice is constantly in my head.
You’re throwing money away. What happened to the budget? You think indulging yourself like this will bring Luke back?
“Stop it!” I say aloud, feeling rattled. God, I’m going crazy. Defiantly I shove three tins of Russian caviar into my overflowing basket and stagger to the checkout. I drop the basket down on the counter and reach inside my bag for my credit card.
As the girl behind the till starts unloading all my stuff, she smiles at me.
