Page 10 of The Work Husband

But I didn’t say those words. When I formed them in my head, I could hear my mother’s voice saying them, and I didn’t want to sound like her. Not now. Not ever. Especially not to Sam.

Instead, I said, ‘Okay. I guess I’ll see you this evening, then.’

Sam leaned over and kissed me. ‘Thanks, Georgia. Thanks for understanding.’

He swung round and stood up, and a few moments later I heard the shower start up. But I didn’t move. I sat there, my hands empty on my knees where he’d let go of them, until after he’d dressed and left the flat.

Like a hamster on a wheel, my thoughts skittered round my head, going nowhere. What just happened? Why is he being like this? What’s changed between us?

And, most unanswerable of all, What am I going to do now?

FIVE

Devereaux Partners HQ was located in Mayfair (naturally), in a white stucco-fronted former mansion (naturally), which it shared with a bespoke milliner and a Qatari prince’s family office (naturally, naturally).

Normally, although I knew full well that I was only on the very periphery of the world of wealth and luxury all these things represented, I relished the walk from the Tube station to the office. I’d take pleasure in noticing that a new ‘farm shop’ had opened round the corner, where no doubt Jamie and I would purchase ham sandwiches that cost north of ten pounds next time we got paid. I’d pause to admire the new window display in the bridal boutique two doors down, indulging in a little fantasy of one day marrying Sam in one of those impossible fairytale dresses and somehow not looking like something your grandmother would use to cover a toilet roll. I’d stare in fascination at a passing Rolls Royce, regretting that its blacked-out windows prevented me from seeing if there was someone famous in there.

But today I noticed none of these things. My head deep under my umbrella and my mind filled with gloom as black as the rainy morning – summer having apparently decided its work here was done and it was going to up sticks for another year – I trudged into the cobbled mews and beeped my access card at the door, barely acknowledged the receptionist’s smiling greeting, and then dragged myself upstairs to the first floor. I shook the rain off my umbrella – soaking my tights in the process – hung up my coat and made my way to my desk, feeling as leaden and weary as if it was Thursday evening and not Monday morning.

And then it hit me.

‘God, what’s that smell?’ I asked, thudding down into my chair. ‘It’s like being on the 159 bus at school chucking-out time.’

Jamie looked up, his perfectly shaped eyebrows raised at the harshness of my tone. He looked hurt, and I immediately felt guilty about taking out my bad mood on him. ‘KFC nuggets. Breakfast of champions. Want one?’

‘No thanks. It’s not even nine o’clock, and they honk. Jasper will freak out when he comes in – he might have a client meeting.’

‘Well, you might not be eating these, but clearly something’s eating you.’ Jamie finished his nugget and looked at me pointedly. ‘What’s wrong? Can’t be a bad hair day because it looks as fab as always. Can’t be a hangover or you’d have bitten my arm off for one of my nuggets. Chewing gum on your seat on the Tube? PMS? If it’s that, I could do a chocolate run.’

I glared at him. ‘Yeah, right. When a woman’s having a bad day, it must be her period. You just aced misogyny 101.’

To be fair to him, Jamie looked mortified. ‘Sorry, fair point. Coffee, then?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ In spite of my snappiness, his concern was making me feel a tiny bit better. ‘That would be great.’

‘On it.’ He jumped up and hurried away to the kitchen, concern etched on his face.

I took my water bottle out of my bag and switched on my computer. While it booted up, for about the twentieth time since I’d left the flat, I checked my phone. Nothing. I put the phone on my desk, face down, resolving not to look at it again for at least another half an hour, and clicked open my emails, skimming through them blindly.

‘Extra froth and chocolate sprinkles.’ Jamie placed a tall porcelain mug gently down next to me. ‘Unfortunately, we ate the last of the biscuits on Friday, but I can get some at lunch.’

‘I don’t want a biscuit. Thanks, though.’ I tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. Then, to my total surprise, a massive tear splashed down into my coffee.

‘Jesus, Georgia.’ Jamie squatted down, forearms on my desk, and looked at me, his normally smooth forehead furrowed. ‘What’s up? You can tell Uncle Jamie.’

‘I…’ I began, but I couldn’t get any words out. ‘Hold on…’

I spun my chair around and got up, hurrying back the way I’d come, and let myself into the ladies’.

This was another part of my working life that normally gave me a ridiculous amount of pleasure. Not in the mundanity of going to the loo, obviously, but in the insanely plush surroundings in which I got to do it. There were no flimsy particle-board partitions, wonky seats and empty soap dispensers in the Devereaux Partners’ toilets. Since they were shared by staff and visiting clients, no expense had been spared in making them as luxurious as the powder rooms in a five-star hotel. The vanity units were rose-coloured marble. The toiletries were Aesop. The bog roll was quilted three-ply and a pack of it cost more than my daily Tube fare.

I grabbed a massive wodge of it, took a deep breath of the warm, frangipane-scented air, blew my nose and wiped my eyes. Staring mournfully at my reflection in the mirror, I wished I’d thought to bring my make-up bag with me. Even in the flattering warm glow of the ambient lighting, I looked like shit.

My eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, with deep shadows under them that might have been tiredness or mascara, or more likely both. My hair, normally a pleasing sheet of shiny blonde, was limp and greasy because I hadn’t had the energy to wash and straighten it that morning and it turned out I had run out of dry shampoo after all – Jamie was obviously just trying to cheer me up when he’d complimented it. There was an angry red blemish on my chin that my concealer wand clearly hadn’t been equal to.

And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it, even if I could be bothered.

Wearily, I returned to my desk, my coffee and Jamie.