“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
I sit down on the step, and the cold marble chills me through the seat of my trousers. “I will be.”
“Why? Are you going to speak to Lachlan?”
“And say what?”
“That you’re lonely and don’t feel married.”
“And why would I say that?”
“Because it’s the truth, and I’m tired of pussyfooting around it.”
“I’m not unhappy. It’s just a bit like being married to…”
“To what? Big Foot? Boris Johnson?”
“A stranger. He’s away so much it’s like being married to Lord Lucan.”
“You didn’t really know him before he swept you off your feet.”
“Is that flowery expression anything to do with the Austen-themed wedding of last week?”
“Bloody thing. It’s entered my consciousness in a way few others have managed. Yesterday I looked for my riding boots before I remembered I can’t ride and don’t ever want to.”
I snort and then rub my eyes. “I’ll talk to him.” I brighten. “We’re away this weekend anyway.”
“Perfect timing.” His voice is soft when he speaks next. “I want to see you happy, and I haven’t seen that in a while, Joe.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I let myself into the house and immediately kick off my shoes. I take two steps before realising I’ve committed a major no-no. I guiltily shove them under the foyer console table and sigh. Guilt and worry should not be the first feelings I experience upon arriving home. And the ridiculous dance I do with my shoes every day is yet another reason for why this house doesn’t feel like home.
There’s no comfortable clutter. As I walk through the foyer, I’m not ensconced in cosiness. Where my flat felt like a warm, safe nest, this place feels like a huge mausoleum. A very tidy mausoleum.
The surfaces aren’t covered with empty mugs, or plates that have half-eaten pieces of toast on them. This is all thanks to Mrs Ward, Lachlan’s housekeeper, a woman who frequently sniffs at me as though I need to be scrubbed.
As if on cue, steady footsteps sound in the corridor. I look up and offer a half-hearted smile at my nemesis. “Good evening, Mrs Ward. How are you?”
“Your cat has regurgitated a hairball in the lounge.”
“Oh dear. I hope you left it for me to clean up.” Humphrey is fascinated with Lachlan’s housekeeper, but the sentiment is not returned, and he’s another blot on my copybook.
“Mr Moore is upstairs,” she says, ignoring my question. Her eyes narrow as she looks down and sees my shoes in a pile under the table.
“Oh sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m going to move them. I promise.” I give a nervous laugh and she sniffs disdainfully.
Her dislike was apparent from the first minute I met her. Granted, it wasn’t the best circumstances. She’d walked into Lachlan’s bedroom, probably expecting to find it in its usual polished and tranquil state, and she’d found me and Lachlan in bed, with our Vegas debauchery still clinging to us.
She looked me up and down, her cold eyes noting my extreme bedhead and equally extreme nakedness. They’d chilled even further after landing on the bling on my finger. She’d obviously found me extremely wanting. Lachlan had performed the introductions his voice quivering with amusement which had made the situation worse, and I knew I’d made an enemy.
My first week at the house, I’d made many attempts to break through her icy attitude. She obviously adored Lachlan—and he seemed to think the world of her, seeing as he’d employed her for so many years—and so I’d thought it would be a matter of measuring up, of proving I was good enough for “her Lachlan.”
But as soon as Lachlan was away, she’d dropped the names of his previous conquests—all men with money and status—and it became clear she thought me a sadly lacking husband for her darling.
She’d viewed my bungling attempts to make a home for Lachlan with disdain. When I cooked for him, she made noises about the mess and cooked him something else. When I painted our bedroom a cheerful yellow, she’d gleefully proclaimed it was Lachlan’s least favourite colour and arranged for a painter to redo it the next day. Lachlan never knew.
He’d assumed I’d slotted into his life easily, no change in the clockwork gears that Mrs Ward and Elliott, his assistant, ensure are always well-oiled and smooth-running, like polite automatons manufactured for his convenience.
Mrs Ward smiles at me. “He’s with Elliott. He’s helping him to pack.” Satisfied at giving me the bad news, she glides away like a crocodile in an apron.
At the thought of Lachlan’s assistant, I roll my eyes. Another one who’s in love with my husband. But then who am I to throw shade when I’m in the same club? I was probably on the way to loving Lachlan before we got married, but it’s a done deal now after seeing glimpses into the man he is under the worldly exterior—the man who likes standing naked in the kitchen and eating a midnight snack after sex, who has a deep lusty laugh, and who’s an absolute soft touch for the charity ads on TV. They’re small glimpses and then he’s gone again, turning into the businessman who’s away on yet another work trip leaving me isolated in his expensive house like Rapunzel, if she’d had unfriendly staff too.
I brighten a little. But we’ve got this weekend together. I have a rare few days off and he’d promised we’d go away. We’re staying in a hotel of his choice which means it’ll be hideously expensive, and it’s going to be just us. No dinner parties, no work calls. Just us. Maybe I can reach him then. I believe in working hard at marriage, so I can’t give up.
I spring up and take the stairs quickly, heading for our bedroom. This is at the back of the house and it’s a huge suite with a dressing room for each of us. We even have an area with sofas in case we’ve been made tired by traveling the huge floorspace and need a rest. That area is actually bigger than my flat.
I hear Elliott’s voice before I get to the door and the sound of Lachlan’s laughter. I come into the room quickly and blink. They’re standing close together next to a half-packed suitcase. Elliott is holding several ties and looking adoringly up at my husband while he deliberates his choices.
They both look up as I come in. Out of Lachlan’s sight, Elliott glares at me, but my husband smiles warmly at me, his eyes sparkling. “Joe,” he says simply, and I smile helplessly back.
Then the neckties register. Why the fuck does he need ties when he’d stated his intention of keeping me in bed the entire weekend?
“What are you doing?” I demand.
His smile falters and then his expression shutters, as usual. It’s like he’s pleased to see me but then wants to push me away.
“I’ve had an unexpected work trip come up.”
“What? But we had plans.” I can’t hide my disappointment.
Elliott smirks as he moves around, picking up shirts from the bed. “This one?” he asks Lachlan.
I’m gratified when Lachlan ignores him. “I’m sorry,” he says to me. “I know we were going to do something.”