Page 65 of The Spare

‘Exactly.’ She leans over and deposits the laptop on the floor, righting herself with another sigh before she peels off the hoodie to reveal the same silky nightie she was wearing the night Pa died. The night we first fucked.

Instantly, my Sex? barometer shoots up again, flying past the fifty-percent marker.

Ladies and gents, we are in business.

‘Sounds fair,’ I say lazily. ‘If she’s not up to the job, either sack her off and find someone else, or breathe down her neck until she comes around.’ I’m not particularly interested in the details of Slinky’s plan to renovate, just as she’s not interested in my input. She wanted my blessing; she got it, of course. I’m not Xavier. This place is a home, not a shrine. But in terms of specifics, I’m delighted to leave things to my wife. After all, she runs an actual lifestyle brand. She has flawless taste, excellent connections, and a lot of experience. She knows what she’s doing, and she doesn’t need a philistine like me wading in.

‘I’m not sacking her.’ She slides under the covers next to me before reaching over and clicking off her light. ‘I’m not starting again from scratch. She just needs to remember that she’s there to execute my vision. If she wants to go off on some creative tangent, she can do it on her own bloody dime.’

‘That’s my girl,’ I say. Under the covers, I find her waist before letting my fingertips travel the curve of her silk-covered hip. Mmm.

‘There’s nothing more frustrating than when an interior designer wants to flex their muscles instead of doing the job you’re paying them for,’ she goes on. The tension is radiating from her body; she’s practically breathing fire. ‘Same with architects. It’s infuriating. So much ego.’

‘Yeah,’ I say on autopilot. ‘So annoying.’ My hand travels down a little more until I can slip it under the short hem of her nightie. Fuck, her thighs are so smooth and toned. There’s no woman on earth whose thighs you want wrapped around you more than Slinks. I begin to trail my fingers upwards and around the front, edging towards the access I want as I shuffle closer and kiss her. Her lips are soft beneath mine, but when I try to deepen the kiss, she presses them into a hard, hostile line and makes an angry-sounding mmph. At the same time, her thigh goes completely rigid under my hand.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask against her mouth.

A pause, and then she rolls away from me, onto her back. ‘Seriously.’

‘What?’

‘I was in the middle of talking to you,’ she spits out, staring at the ceiling. ‘I was trying to have a conversation.’

‘I know,’ I say in my most placatory tone. ‘I just thought maybe I could relax you.’ It’s at least partially true. A little bit, anyway.

She tugs her hands out from under the duvet and covers her face. This time, the sound she makes sounds seriously pissed off. ‘Unbelievable.’

Now, I am fully aware that my wife’s period ended almost three weeks ago—several mates advised me to track this myself for a whole host of reasons—and that she may be feeling a little off. So I should tread carefully here. ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ I say, feeling a lot like I’m blindfolded and standing in a field full of land mines. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘I’m not offended. It’s just—’ She pulls her hands off her face and lets her arms flop down on the duvet with a huge sigh. The way she does it reminds me of an exhausted kid. ‘I can’t just⁠—’

‘Can’t just what?’ I prompt her. She turns her head to look at me. She looks more distressed than pissed off now, and it’s enough to risk my putting a reassuring hand on her bare shoulder. ‘You can say anything,’ I tell her. ‘You don’t have to choose your words around me—I hope you know that.’

‘I’m not a robot.’ The words come fast. ‘I can’t just turn it on, you know.’

‘I know that,’ I protest.

‘I’m completely in interior design mode.’ She raises the arm furthest away and taps her temple. ‘All I can think about is the renovation. It’s taking up every inch of brain capacity I have, and when I’m in that mode I can’t, like, switch. I can’t go from being fed up with the designer to suddenly being horny in the space of a millisecond.’

‘I know, sweetheart,’ I repeat, although I have to admit, this is not a point that has occurred to me before now. I could have been deep in the West Ham game, and if Slinky had come downstairs and stuck her hand down my sweatpants, then I would absolutely have been horny in the space of a millisecond. But I was warming her up. That’s why I kissed her. ‘I was going to go down on you,’ I say. ‘I know how important foreplay is—I’m not a total caveman. I wanted to make you feel good. You know, relaxed.’

‘But I don’t want you to go down on me.’ She screws up her face, closing her eyes tightly, as if this is mortifying to admit. ‘I’m not in the mood, so it’ll just feel… excruciating. Like, overstimulating. It’s completely black and white—I’m either up for it, and it’s amazing, or I’m not, and then I have to lie there and try to force myself to stop thinking about whatever is making my brain so busy, and then I get stressed about trying to come, and then I feel guiltier and guiltier if you have to do it for ages and I’m not reacting, and it’s just… not good. Not neutral—actively not good.’

She blows out a deep breath and relaxes her face, but she won’t look at me.

Holy fuck, is this a masterclass in the female psyche. I can’t imagine a world where actual oral sex being performed on you doesn’t flip that switch, and instantly. But the experience she’s describing does sound stressful. Deeply stressful.

I have to admit, I don’t want you to go down on me is a line I never expected a woman to say to me, ever, especially one with whom I have such intense sexual chemistry. But tonight’s not about me and my fragile male ego.

‘Bloody hell, blokes are basic,’ I say, and she gives a tired little laugh. ‘I didn’t really know women felt like that.’

‘Well, maybe the other women you’ve been with don’t,’ she says in a small voice, still looking into the distance, ‘but it’s like that for me sometimes. I can be a bit of a freak like that. I can’t shut my brain off easily, especially if I’m stressed. It just keeps focusing on the wrong things.’ A tiny tear escapes and rolls down her temple.

No, no, no. ‘Hey.’ I scoot towards her and kiss the tear away. ‘No. You’re not a freak. You have an amazing brain. Honestly, it’s incredible. No wonder you can’t turn it off easily. That’s a good thing.’ I stay where I am, whispering into her ear. ‘And, let’s be honest, this is the first proper relationship I’ve had. There’s a big difference between my being with some woman at Alchemy, who’s there for that explicit reason, and my jumping into bed and pawing at my poor wife when she’s just trying to think about how to improve our home.’

She gives a little sniff and rolls onto her side to face me. Our noses are almost touching. ‘But I’m worried that…’ She trails off.

I don’t need a decade of marriage under my belt to know that Slinks worries a lot. That she overthinks everything. ‘Your worries are my worries,’ I say. ‘Tell me.’