Page 12 of The Work Husband

‘Like invent a secret boyfriend of your own. Rattle his cage, make him jealous. Wait for him to come crawling back and beg for forgiveness.’

‘Oh my God. Imagine…’

Jamie grinned. ‘You’re not temped to do it anyway?’

‘Of course not. I’m going to talk to him like an adult.’

‘Good job. Let me know how it goes.’

‘I will.’ I turned back to my computer screen. The mountain of emails didn’t look insurmountable any more, just like a normal Monday’s work. ‘Thanks, Jamie.’

‘You’re welcome. Just promise you’ll let me know if you change your mind.’

‘What? Why?’

Jamie stood up, phone and vape in hand. ‘Because the other way would be whole lot more fun.’

SIX

My chat with Jamie, as was often the case when I confided a problem in him – whether it was what shoes to wear to Molly’s thirtieth birthday party, whether my new balayage highlights looked brassy, or how to respond to the latest passive-aggressive voice note from my mother – left me feeling much better.

Of course he was right. Sam hadn’t done anything wrong. Staying overnight with an ex-girlfriend might be unusual, but he’d kept in touch and told me what was happening. Only a clingy, insecure person would make a big deal of it, and I wasn’t that person – at least, I didn’t want to be.

So I stuck to my resolve to take the high road, do the sensible, mature thing and talk to him.

On my way home from work, I popped into the farm shop, which rinsed me of the best part of twenty pounds for three small pieces of cheese, and bought a bottle of fancy red from the wine merchant next door, even though it was a Monday. And when Sam got back from work half an hour after me, I greeted him freshly showered, my hair washed (at last) and smiling.

‘How are you?’ I asked, hugging him. ‘How was’ – Don’t ask about Ava – ‘your day? I’ve missed you.’

‘Long.’ He dropped his bag next to the front door, where I was guaranteed to trip over it on my way out the next morning, and stretched his arms over his head, yawning. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night.’ It wasn’t a guess – I knew that he’d been up at midnight and had got the first train back to London at six in the morning. But I didn’t want to think about what other form not much sleep might have taken.

He shook his head. ‘Ava’s couch wasn’t the most comfortable, I’ve got to say.’

Couch. That was something anyway.

Feeling the knot of tension inside me ease slightly, I followed him through to the kitchen, where I’d arranged the cheese on a plate along with a bunch of grapes, a loaf of sourdough bread next to it filling the room with its warm, yeasty fragrance. Milton was prowling around us, meowing enthusiastically – he loved cheese. I gestured to Sam with the bottle of wine, and he nodded.

‘So how is she?’ I asked carefully, pouring merlot into two glasses. ‘It must have been weird seeing her after all this time.’

‘Not really.’ He sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him and taking a sip of wine. ‘She’s just the same.’

That wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. An unrecognisable Ava, permanent smile and purple corduroy backpack consigned to the past, possibly with a new and unflattering haircut and a dodgy spray tan that had gone orange, would have been a far easier image for me to accept.

‘Is she living in Manchester permanently now?’ I probed.

Sam shook his head. ‘She’s just crashing at a friend’s place. She’s between jobs and the friend’s off travelling. But she’s starting work in London next month.’

Definitely not what I wanted to hear. ‘Is that why she wanted to see you? To tell you that?’

It would have been kind of strange, I analysed rapidly, to ask Sam to make a six-hour round trip to tell him she’d be living in the same city as him in just a few weeks. But maybe reassuring. Don’t worry, Sam, I imagined her saying, I’m moving to London, but it’s not because of you. I know you’re with Georgia now. I just thought I should warn you in case we bump into each other on the Tube.

Unlikely, but not impossible…

But Sam said, ‘No, that’s not why she wanted to see me.’

I’d been digging my knife into the brie, easing off a long, runny slice with a piece of bread ready underneath it. But now I stopped, put down the bread and knife and watched the cheese ooze across the board, so slowly I could barely see it move, although I knew if I took my eyes off it for a minute and then looked back, it would have run down onto the table.