‘Armed? For Christ’s sa—’
‘—with a potato peeler.’ She gives him a wry look. ‘Can you imagine? That’s what I’m saying. There she was, sitting on a roof in the pouring rain with a vegetable scraper. It kind of sums up her pitiful life. She needed someone who really understood what she was going through.’
‘And why does it always have to be you who gets these kids?’ Alex looks annoyed but his eyes are soft.
‘You know why. I was that girl, once upon a time.’
Alex leans forward and kisses her forehead. ‘But you’re not now. Look, why don’t you go into the laundry and strip off in there while I run you a bath. You look absolutely shattered.’ He moves past her, squeezing her hand briefly as he bounds up the stairs. The sudden touch shocks her. It feels like forever since he’s spontaneously shown her any kind of affection at all.
‘Yep, great idea.’ She pads through the kitchen, knowing that her wet socks are leaving smears across the stone tiled floor. She instantly feels guilty about the mess and tries to tiptoe the rest of the way, but it doesn’t make a lot of difference. Overhead, there’s the sudden drumming of water into the bathtub as she begins to peel off the layers. Her guilt worsens as the slow-drifting scent of some kind of casserole twitches her nostrils and she peeps into the Rayburn where she sees a banana cake, her favourite, just beginning to rise. Her heart crumples just a little; god, Alex. Good, decent, kind, Alex, who’s been through so much stress recently and yet he still tries, in all these little ways, to show how much he values her. How she wishes she could make him see the same value in himself.
‘You coming up?’ His voice echoes from the top of the stairs as she listens to the creak of him moving from the bathroom to their bedroom. ‘This bath will be ready in a few minutes. I’ve put some bubble stuff in it.’
Her heart wavers just a touch. ‘Lovely! Right. Perfect!’ She tries to keep her tone light and grateful, but his words have sent her antennae twitching.
‘Come on! Don’t let it get cold!’
She takes a quick inward breath as she sneaks quickly across the kitchen in her bra and knickers and makes her way up the stairs. Not only has he run her a steaming scented bath, but he’s also laid out her snuggly dressing gown and socks on the chair. He’s trying to make things normal and right between them; she can see that. Perhaps tonight will be different. Perhaps tonight he’ll try to be the old Alex she used to know, and they can sit down together, eat a meal, relax.
‘I’ll get the bottle of red I opened earlier, shall I? And bring up a couple of glasses.’
He disappears, leaving her to strip off, pin up her hair, and sink gratefully into the crackling bubbles. Lying back, she lets the water cluck into her ears, staring up to watch the condensation billow around the light fitting. The kinks of tension ease a little in her neck. She loves this room, this echoing space with its long, slanted ceiling, sash windows and a white turn-of-the-century fireplace with beautiful Art Nouveau tiles. This is the one room in the house where she can truly relax. She closes her eyes, trying not to dwell on what’s happening downstairs, but she knows he’s taking too long. Her stomach contracts. He’ll be down there now, going through her bag. She knows it. She deliberately left it zipped at the foot of the stairs. He’ll try to memorise its position, before rifling through the splay of jumbled contents, picking her phone up and trawling through the calls and checking the numbers. Then he’ll work his way to the clothes on the laundry floor, going through the pockets, one by one. He won’t know what he’s looking for: some telling shop receipt perhaps, a suspect serviette from a café he doesn’t recognise, some tiny inconsequential thing that he’ll find to build a whole story around. He’s even searched through the files on her computer, her Twitter account, her Insta, her WhatsApp.
Alex thinks she’s having an affair.
She presses her lips together. Her irritation mixes with her guilt as it seeps quietly into the bathwater. She knows, because she’s been monitoring him. She’s set little traps: the event viewer on her PC to note the times he logs on, the strategically placed bits of paper in her handbag, the single strands of hair across the cover of her phone that have disappeared when she comes to use it. She knows it all, but if he ever found out about the flowers and the notes… A squall of dread clutches at her insides. She’d never explain. He’d never understand.
‘Dinner smells wonderful.’ She sets her face, gazing up at him appreciatively as he appears in her sightline clutching two wine glasses and an open wine bottle in the crook of his arm. He pours, handing one to her, and then settles himself on the wicker laundry basket.
She takes a sip. It slides thick and fruity across her tongue. ‘God, that’s good…’
‘Frankie.’
She turns to find he’s studying her. She wonders if he’s going to tell her that he’s been prying.
‘I would never try and stop you doing something you wanted to do, you know that.’
‘Okay.’
‘But you really can’t keep pulling these kinds of stunts.’
No, clearly not.
He leans forward cradling his glass, elbows on his knees. The chair creaks comfortingly. His eyes are full of genuine concern. ‘Look, I understood it when you were working as a care worker with volatile kids on a day-to-day basis – even when you became a manager, I knew there’d be the occasional bump and bruise. But with this new job I was hoping you might just sit in endless
