Page 66 of The Work Husband

‘Well, now I have, did you enjoy it?’ He was still smiling, like it was inconceivable that I’d say anything that wasn’t Yes.

This time, my hands went to his shoulders, and I pushed him. He didn’t push back, but he looked surprised as I moved him away.

‘That’s not the point. This isn’t about enjoying. It’s – it’s not right, Jamie. It’s not okay. It’s not what I wanted.’

My knees felt almost liquid with shock. I had no idea how that had happened – whether I’d given some signal I wasn’t aware of that had communicated the massive, crystal-clear Yes he expected and assumed; whether I’d kissed him back and that had made it carry on for as long as it had; and, crucially, whether now that he knew I hadn’t wanted it, he was going to stop.

‘Guess I got that wrong, then.’ His grin was rueful. ‘Sorry, Georgia. God loves a trier.’

I shook my head, bewilderment mixing with relief. He didn’t seem to think this was any kind of big deal, so maybe that meant it wasn’t.

‘I need to go home.’ That was the one thing in this whole tangled mess that I was certain of.

‘Sure.’ He leaned over and kissed me again, on the cheek this time, the kind of kiss that would have felt entirely normal and safe five minutes before but now didn’t. ‘I’ll see you on Monday. Take care, babe.’

I didn’t say anything more. I turned and went back round the corner into the Tube station, my legs still feeling like they could barely hold me up. I fought my way through the crowds to the ticket barrier, pulling my phone out of my bag to tap myself through. As I reached the escalator, my legs seemed to recover their strength, and I hurried down to the platform.

Then I leaped onto the train just before the doors slammed shut behind me, my breath coming in gasps as if I’d just run up the moving staircase instead of down it.

THIRTY-THREE

I sat up in bed, my mouth as dry as cotton wool and tasting absolutely foul.

Something had woken me. It wasn’t even early – I could see that the sun was high in the sky outside. But I hadn’t woken with the usual gentle drifting in and out of dreams, deciding to sleep for just a bit longer and then longer still until eventually thirst or the need for a wee forced me out of bed, as was normally the case when I had a lie-in.

There’d been a noise. And something was wrong. Something had happened last night. This wasn’t just one of your everyday hangovers – it was one that had announced its arrival with the all-singing, all-dancing symptoms list: manky-smelling sweat on my sheets, a banging headache, churning nausea and a crawling case of the horrors.

Shit. Jamie. Jamie and I had kissed – at least, he’d kissed me. I’d stopped him – I definitely had. Nothing more than that had happened. But still. I’d kissed a man who wasn’t Sam.

Guilt settled over me in a dark fog. If things between me and Sam had been irretrievable before, they were irretrievable-plus now. There was no way Jamie would have done that without some sort of signal from me – no way he’d have carried on for as long as I remembered him having done without my consent.

If Sam found out, he’d never, ever forgive me. And even if he didn’t, I’d never forgive myself.

Then I heard the noise again – a tap on the door, soft and tentative.

My heart raced. Surely it couldn’t be Jamie turning up unannounced again?

I jumped out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown. My feeling of unease escalated. I hadn’t let him think this was a good idea, that he’d be welcome here – had I?

If it was, I’d see him through the peephole and just not let him in. I’d say I’d been out, if he asked. I’d find a way to patch things up on Monday, to style things out between us.

Besides, it might be Sam. Sam, electing not to use his key to let himself in because he had chosen to leave and was being considerate. That thought sent me dashing to the door, and I flung it open, all thoughts of peering out first forgotten.

But it wasn’t Sam standing there, smiling sheepishly and ready to say sorry. It wasn’t Jamie, grinning cheerfully and bearing bacon sandwiches.

Ava.

I could barely see her face because it was concealed by a massive bunch of flowers – not roses or peonies but a burst of colourful gerbera daisies, snapdragons, sunflowers and other things I didn’t know the names of.

‘Hi, Georgia,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to turn up like this. I didn’t have your number. Did I wake you?’

There was no point in denying it – my dishevelled hair, yesterday’s make-up and bathrobe gave me away.

‘Uh… yes, a bit. What time is it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She lowered the flowers, which revealed she was blushing. ‘It’s ten o’clock. I thought…’

Of course. She’d thought that the right time to turn up on a Saturday was exactly ten a.m., when normal people would be awake but wouldn’t yet have headed out to do whatever they’d planned to do that day.