‘Fingers crossed then. Sorry about not making it into work. How are things?’
‘Yeah, good.’ He layered slices of roast beef on top of the mustard. ‘I’ve got a job for you this afternoon if you can manage it.’
Disappointment oozed through her, thick and black like an oil slick. Lunch wasn’t an olive branch after all, but a schmooze. ‘What is it?’
‘The community garden wants us to donate some equipment in exchange for advertising space.’
‘Boolanga has a community garden?’
‘Apparently. Might be good to be linked in with them if the big boys arrive in town. Bit of good will.’
She scanned the piles of neatly sliced tomatoes, capsicum, grated carrot and spied a packet of her favourite cheese—Mersey Valley Original. She opened the pantry and pulled out a new jar of pickles.
‘Oh good. I thought we were out.’ Jon picked up the jar and clamped his big hand around the black lid.
She opened her mouth to say, ‘Can I help with lunch?’ but heard instead, ‘I want to talk about Saturday.’
‘The end-of-season footy thing?’ He grunted, unable to break the seal on the lid. ‘I didn’t think you wanted to go. Bloody hell, did they glue this lid on?’
Jon usually popped a lid in two seconds. Tara was the one who needed to use a rubber glove or lever a knife to break the seal.
She handed him a glove and stayed on track. ‘Not this Saturday, last Saturday.’
He was gripping the jar so tightly his knuckles gleamed white and a tremor rode up his arm. ‘What about last Saturday?’
Seriously? He was making her do all the work and her heart kicked up.
‘Are you having an affair with Rhianna?’
The jar tumbled from his fingers. He jumped back as glass, vinegar and cucumber pickles smashed against the black and white tiles, spraying glass and liquid across the kitchen. He stared at her, his body trembling and his eyes wide and frantic like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of a gun.
‘Christ, T.’
The shaking started in her toes, racing quickly up and across her body. ‘Is dropping the jar a yes or a no?’
‘What the hell sort of question is that?’
‘Given the circumstances, a perfectly reasonable one.’
He bent down and, with trembling hands, picked up shards of glass. ‘What circumstances?’
‘You and Rhianna looked pretty cosy in the kitchen. She had her hand on your arm.’
‘And when I was four she used to watch me pee. It doesn’t mean I’m having an affair with her!’
‘Is it someone else?’
His jaw clenched. ‘No.’
‘Then why aren’t we having sex?’
‘Not this again!’ He dropped the glass he was holding and stood up, pressing his palms flat on the bench. ‘We’re not twenty-five any more.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘We have the same amount of sex as any other couple married with two kids, a business and a mortgage.’
‘Come on, Jon. You know things have changed. You’ve changed.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Tara. I’m an average almost forty-yearold bloke who falls into bed most nights already half asleep. You’re the one who’s changed. Ever since you started this insane exercise routine, you’ve become sex obsessed.’
‘I’m not obsessed!’
‘You are. You’re wearing all that scratchy lace in bed instead of your soft cotton PJs. After the awards dinner you did a Pretty Woman impersonation, and on Saturday you wanted to have sex when we had guests on the other side of the wall!’
‘I only did those things because you’ve been turning your back on me for months. I thought you’d like them!’
His face tightened. ‘Well, I don’t. I want a partner, not a porn star.’
Hurt slammed her so hard tears stung the backs of her eyes. ‘So what are you saying? That me making the first move is a turn-off? I’m the reason you can’t get hard?’
‘Not always …’
It hurt to form words. ‘But?’
‘But lately …’ His gaze slid away. ‘It’s a lot of pressure, T.’
Shame, anger and confusion swirled, clouding her thoughts. She craved intimacy and Jon saw her need as pressure? Fear punched her. How had this happened? For years they’d tumbled together without a second thought and now … Was this why he’d lost his erection the last few times they’d tried to have sex?
‘I didn’t mean to pressure you,’ she said. ‘I just miss us.’
‘We’re still us.’
Are we? It wasn’t just the lack of sex. He’d stopped cuddling her in bed, stopped sneaking up behind her and copping a cheeky feel of her breasts, and his kisses were mostly perfunctory pecks on the cheek. But if she mentioned any of that, he’d accuse her of being sex obsessed. Was she? If she was honest, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Dreaming and fantasising about it. Flirting with Zac.
‘Are we still us?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
He walked around the bench and wrapped his arms around her. It was the first time he’d really touched her in a long time. Despite the confusing spin of emotions, she gave in to temptation and laid her head on his chest, loving the reassuring lub-dub beat of his heart.
He kissed her and she felt his love in the tremble of his body. Then his erection stirred, pressing against her. Hope soared.
She returned his kiss—deep and hard—then remembered ‘too much pressure’. As difficult as it was not to grab his hand and hustle him down the hall, she held back, waiting for him to walk her backwards to their bedroom, lower her onto the bed, pop the buttons on her blouse and bring his hot wet mouth down onto her aching breasts—
He pulled his mouth from hers and stroked her hair. ‘You know what I think?’
It took a moment for her lust-soaked brain to catch up and for her eyes to focus. All she could manage was a shake of her head.
‘With both the kids at school, you’ve been struggling all year to work out who you are and what you want to do. You need a real challenge, T, and
