Page 44 of The Work Husband

But it meant I was going to have to text him.

It took me a while to compose my message. I typed several drafts and deleted them because I sounded too self-justifying, too desperate or too self-pitying.

In the end, I settled for:

I’m sorry. Are you okay?

The blue ticks popped up almost immediately, and I could see Sam typing a reply.

Okay-ish. You?

Sad. That was my fault.

Not just your fault. I’m sorry too.

I felt the beginnings of relief. He was sorry. He didn’t hate me. Or maybe he did, and that was what he was sorry about.

Are you coming home?

Not tonight. I think we could do with a bit of breathing space. I’ll see you tomorrow.

I looked at my screen, helpless. I love you, I typed – but I deleted that without sending it. If I did, Sam would either reply that he loved me too, in which case I’d feel as if I’d manipulated him into saying something that in that moment wasn’t true – or he wouldn’t, in which case I’d feel even worse.

Okay. I miss you.

I miss you too.

That might also not be true – if I was him, I wouldn’t miss me. But it was something – the beginning of a bridge back to normality.

I didn’t do any of my normal Friday night things. I didn’t open a bottle of wine, run a bubble bath or cook nice food. I just went and sat on the balcony with Milton perched on the wall next to me, watching as the blue sky darkened to black, lights came on in the buildings opposite and the street below me filled with people on their nights out, takeaway drivers zooming up and down, the occasional commuter making their way home, weary after a long week.

It was almost midnight before I forced myself to get up and go to bed, where to my surprise I slept deeply and dreamlessly.

I was still asleep when Sam came home. I heard his key turn in the lock and half-woke, thinking he might have got up early to go to the gym, and then turned over to go back to sleep. But before I did, I remembered what had happened the previous night.

The shadow of our awful row rushed in on me, and I squeezed my eyes closed, trying unsuccessfully to banish it.

I could hear Sam’s footsteps on the floor, and the sound flooded me with dread. Had he returned to pack a bag and leave properly, for longer or even forever? Or to tell me things he hadn’t told me last night, castigating me for my horrible behaviour before finishing with me once and for all?

I heard him enter the bedroom, then felt the mattress sink beneath me as he sat down next to me.

‘Georgia? Are you awake?’ His voice was gentle, like an extra-soft blanket settling over me.

I turned over onto my back and opened my eyes, looking at him like he was the morning – like he was Christmas morning. ‘I am now.’

‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I just wanted… I couldn’t stay away any longer.’

There was none of what I’d dreaded seeing in his face – no anger or blame. Relief flooded me in a huge rush. Maybe – just maybe – it was going to be okay. I felt myself smiling back and reached for his hands.

‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I said.

‘Same.’ I heard the thump of his trainers landing on the floor as he kicked them off, then he lay down next to me, wrapping his arms around me.

We were still there for a moment. I felt my heartbeat settle, even though I hadn’t realised it was racing before. I felt the duvet and Sam’s arms around me, warm and comforting. I felt the even rise and fall of his chest. I felt safe. I snuggled my face into his neck, inhaling the familiar smell of his T-shirt and the unfamiliar smell of his skin. He must have showered that morning, at Jared’s place – or wherever he’d been.

‘I stayed over at Jared’s,’ he reminded me, as if he’d sensed my moment of doubt.

‘But you came back.’