Page 4 of The Work Husband

‘Hey.’ I reached across the table and touched his hand. ‘You’re not jealous, are you? Come on. He’s just my work husband – not that that’s even a real thing – and you’re my actual… well.’ Oh no, why had I gone down this road? ‘Boyfriend. Partner.’ I coughed. ‘Whatever,’ I added hurriedly, taking a large mouthful of wine.

It sounds stupid, I know, but even thinking the word ‘husband’ in the context of Sam made me feel all kinds of conflicting feels. He and I had been together for four years and known each other for ten years before that – although, admittedly, despite having met at university, we hadn’t been much more than acquaintances back then. And, of course, we’d lost touch entirely while I travelled round the world working as a yacht stewardess and losing touch with pretty much everyone, even the fellow crew members I swore undying friendship with when we parted on various docks from Miami to Melbourne.

Partly, that had been because of the itinerant nature of my work, which I’d fallen into and chosen from a desire I didn’t fully understand (or maybe kind of did but liked to push aside, like old knickers under the bed when you have a date coming over) to rip up what roots I had and avoid putting down new ones for as long as I possibly could. The other reason was that if I’d had any romantic interest in Sam back when we’d sat in art history lectures together or happened to be in the student union bar on the same evening, it would have been a totally pointless, unrequited romantic interest.

Because back then, Sam wasn’t just Sam. He was half of SamandAva – a couple so perfectly suited, so visibly head over heels, so inseparably joined at the hip, it was impossible to imagine them ever apart, and we said their names as if they were one word. People barely even talked about Sam or Ava as individuals – it was always SamandAva, a natural unit with no need even for portmanteau shortening.

So, when I bumped into him again on my return to London, at a house party at my best friend Molly’s place, I’d registered at first that something about him was different, wrong. Had he changed in some dramatic, physical way? Got a facial tattoo or lost loads of weight or something? No, he looked much the same as I remembered. Then I realised – there was no Ava by his side. No petite, red-haired, beguilingly freckled, permanently smiling girl, who I recalled always carried a purple corduroy backpack.

‘Hey, is that Sam Finch over there?’ I’d asked Molly.

‘Yep, he’s living in South East London somewhere. Works as a videographer for an ad agency.’

‘But where’s Ava?’ I scanned the room again, assuming I’d just missed her.

She laughed. ‘I know, right? Quite a shock to the system when you first see him on his own, but you get used it. I believe they split up a couple of years back. I’m not sure why. Why don’t you go and chat to him?’

So I’d downed my chardonnay and gone and chatted to Sam, and discovered that he made me laugh. And more importantly, he laughed at my jokes, which wasn’t a given when I was talking to a guy. He was an amazing listener and had an incredibly sexy voice, deep and husky with a hint of a Manchester accent. We’d exchanged numbers and met for a drink the following week, and I’d spent that night at his, and the night after that and never really left, even though we only moved in together officially almost a year later.

So Sam and Ava had become Sam and Georgia. SamandGeorgia. GeorgiandSam. It might not have had the same ring to it as SamandAva, but that didn’t even slightly dent my happiness. We’d saved like crazy and bought a flat together. We’d had massive rows in IKEA. We’d been on holiday together. I’d spent Christmas with his parents, and he’d survived dinner with my mother on my thirtieth birthday.

We were a couple. We were settled. It would surely only be a matter of time before we took the next step – marriage, or a baby, or one then the other. I wasn’t sure which order I wanted them in, or even – if I was completely honest with myself – if I wanted them at all, but I was sure that if I wanted them with anyone, it would be with Sam.

But there was one other thing I was equally sure of, and that was that if Sam and Ava had stayed together, he’d already be a husband, a father or both. It wasn’t that I thought he didn’t love me; I knew he did. It was just that he’d loved Ava first. Because their relationship had had that head start, they’d inevitably have been further along its path than he and I were. Stupid though it was, I couldn’t help feeling insecure about that – as if, somehow, by being Sam’s second really serious girlfriend, I was also second best.

I’d asked him, once, what had gone wrong between them. It was quite early on in our relationship, when were still at the stage of wanting to find out everything there was to find out about each other, and no detail was too dull. It was summer and we’d gone to the park with a bottle of Pimm’s and a blanket, and we were lounging on the grass, his head in my lap.

‘Sam?’ I asked, running my fingers through his hair.

‘What?’ he murmured sleepily, his eyes flickering but not opening.

‘What happened with you and Ava?’

Now his eyes did open, as suddenly as curtains being yanked apart to reveal blue sky. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘I’m just curious. You two were so close, and then when I got back from abroad, you’d split up. It must’ve been hard.’

‘Yeah.’ His voice gave nothing away. ‘It was hard.’

‘So what… I mean, you don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not.’

I felt stung – rebuked, like I’d asked something offensive. ‘Okay. Sorry.’

He sat up, threaded his legs outside of mine and pulled me close. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out like it did. The thing is, I don’t really know.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Just that. One minute, things were fine, then a few days later she started being all weird and cold with me, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, and a month or so later she dumped me. The end.’

And that was it. There was nothing more he could tell me.

Still, I couldn’t shake the knowledge that she was his One That Got Away and – even after all the years, the flat, the holidays and all the rest of it – I was the one he’d settled for. And so a part of me – a jealous, insecure, cowardly part I didn’t like one bit – felt a sneaky bit of pleasure when Sam seemed to be jealous of my work friendship with Jamie.

Now, though, it seemed like that part of me wasn’t just spiteful and petty, but also wrong.

‘I’m not jealous,’ Sam said. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just worried for you. That’s… I dunno. Unethical, isn’t it?’