Page 50 of The Work Husband

Seconds later, he emerged from the bedroom again in dry clothes and put his arms around me. My rigid body relaxed as I leaned into his embrace.

Please make it be okay, I prayed silently.

‘What’s up, Georgia? You haven’t been yourself. I’m worried about you.’ His voice was gentle; I could feel the vibration of it in his chest against my cheek.

‘It’s…’ I began, then my courage failed me. ‘Shall we eat, then talk? Would you like a glass of wine?’

‘You know what, it might be a school night, but yes.’

I opened a bottle of rosé, and we perched at the kitchen counter. The smell of the macaroni cheese was enticing, but when I took a forkful, my throat closed up.

I drank some wine instead. At least there were calories in that.

‘I know you said there’s nothing for me to worry about with Ava,’ I began. ‘I trust you, Sam. I want to trust you.’

‘I hope you do,’ he said sombrely. ‘Because without that, there’s not much point, is there?’

‘No,’ I agreed. Then I forced another sip of wine down my tight throat and went on, ‘The thing is, I…’

We both heard it at the same time. The sound of footsteps on the landing outside, then a cry of alarm and a loud thump.

‘What the hell is that noise?’

‘I’ll go and check.’ Sam put down his fork and hurried to the front door. I heard the click of the latch and then his voice saying uncertainly, ‘Hey, mate. Are you… oh, it’s you.’

‘These tiles are a fucking death trap. I hope you’ve got good public liability insurance.’ The voice was unmistakably Jamie’s, although his words were indistinct.

Jamie? Here? Why? He hadn’t been in the office that day – I’d barely seen him since our lunch a few days before. He was going to come up with a plan, he’d said then. But surely turning up at our flat at night couldn’t be part of it?

I hurried to the front door and stood there for a moment, aghast. Sam was helping Jamie to his feet. He was just as wet as Sam had been, his grey suit almost black with moisture, his normally sleek hair hanging in soaked tendrils over his eyes. His white shirt was almost transparent, and I could see the tattoo on his chest through it.

From the floor at his feet, Sam was retrieving a huge bouquet of red roses.

‘I came to see Georgia,’ Jamie slurred.

It was that – and of course the fact that he’d managed to come an absolute purler outside our front door – that made me realise he was totally plastered.

Sam was looking at him and clearly reaching the same conclusion.

‘I reckon you’d better come in, mate,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Have a strong coffee or something.’

‘I need to see Georgia.’

‘I’m right here, Jamie.’ I stepped around Sam and into his line of sight. ‘Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?’

‘Only my pride.’ Jamie peered owlishly at me. There were smears of dirt on the knees and arms of his suit, even darker patches on the darkened fabric. I’d never seen him looking less than immaculate before, and it took some adjusting to. ‘Pride comes before a fall, right?’

‘Come on.’ Sam took his arm and guided him inside.

As the door closed, I noticed one of our neighbours’ doors opening and a curious face peering out.

‘I brought champagne.’ Jamie looked around as if he expected a bottle to materialise out of thin air. ‘Champagne and roses for Georgia. But it’s not here. And these are squashed.’

He handed me the flowers. It was true – they must have broken his fall because they looked distinctly battered. Scarlet petals as well as drops of rainwater were cascading down onto our floor.

‘You must have left it somewhere,’ I said. ‘In an Uber or on the Tube.’

Jamie looked crestfallen. ‘It was Perrier-Jouët too.’