‘You poach a good egg, Mr O,’ I say, giving my egg a little exploratory poke with the very tip of my knife. ‘I never get it right.’
‘I phoned Mum and she told me how to do it.’
Heroically, I don’t throw him a ‘you did what?’ look, even though I can well imagine Lucille’s face when Oscar told her that I was lazing around in bed while he slaved in the kitchen. It’s barely eight on a weekend morning, but all the same, I know she’ll have filed it in the ‘Laurie is a lazy layabout sponger’ dossier in her head. She might need to start a second one soon, I expect it’s stuffed to busting after the wedding.
‘Well, you made a marvellous job of it.’ I watch with satisfaction as the yolk spills all over the English muffin. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘I like treating you.’
‘Being married to you is one long treat.’
He smiles, pleased at the compliment. ‘Will we always feel like this?’
‘I don’t know. If we want to?’ I say.
‘People keep telling me to give it a few years, that the glow wears off.’
‘Do they?’ People have said similar things to me, of course, that our relationship has been a whirlwind, that when reality bites all the romance will disappear.
He nods. I don’t ask him if by people he means Lucille.
‘Well. What do they know.’ I lower the finished-with tray carefully down to the floor and settle into the crook of Oscar’s arm against the pillows.
‘They don’t know us,’ he says, lowering the strap of my slip to reveal my breast.
I lift my face to his kiss as his fingers close round my nipple. ‘My wife,’ he whispers, as he so often does. I love it, but I sometimes wish he’d say Starfish instead, like he used to.
I wrap myself round him when he rolls me on to my back, and we make love. Afterwards, I haul the quilt up over our shoulders and snooze with my cheek against his chest. I wish it could be just us, that life was always just like this.
Later, over roast lamb (cooked by me, without having to consult my mother), Oscar looks at me as he tops up our wine glasses.
‘I’ve got a bit of news,’ he says, replacing the bottle in our new metal stand that tilts the bottle just so. Don’t ask me why. It was a wedding gift from Gerry and Fliss.
I pause. We’ve been together all weekend, and news generally isn’t something that steals up on you on Sunday evening, is it? If I’ve got news, I can’t help but burst out with it at the first opportunity. What news can Oscar have that he’s chosen this moment to drop it casually into conversation? I smile and try to look pleasantly inquisitive, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone just drew an ice-cold fingernail down my spine.
‘I’ve been promoted at the bank.’
Relief washes through me. ‘That’s great news. What will you be doing?’ I don’t know why I’ve asked this, because I don’t especially understand what he does there now.
‘Kapur’s moving over to the States at the end of the month so they need someone to take over the Brussels account.’
I’ve met Kapur a couple of times; he’s my idea of an archetypal banker – pinstripe suit, pink shirt and a big mouth. I don’t like him very much.
‘It’s a decent step up?’ I phrase it as a question, smiling to show I’m pleased even if I don’t completely understand the hierarchy.
‘Quite a big one really,’ he says. ‘VP. I’ll be over four staff.’ Oscar wouldn’t even know how to be boastful, it’s one of his many endearing qualities. ‘I wanted to talk to you about it first though, because it’s probably going to mean spending part of the week over there.’
‘In Brussels?’
He nods, and his eyes flicker with something.
‘Part of every week?’ I try, and fail, to keep the note of alarm from my voice.
‘Probably. Kapur usually goes out three days a week.’
‘Oh.’ I flounder, because I don’t want to be a buzzkill; he’s earned this and I want him to know I’m proud of him.
‘I can pass on it if you think it’s going to be too much,’ he offers, and I feel like a bitch.
‘God, no!’ I get up and round the table, sliding into his lap. ‘My clever husband.’ I wrap my arms about his neck. ‘It’s just that I’ll miss you, that’s all. I couldn’t be prouder.’ I kiss him to show I mean it. ‘Well done. I’m thrilled. Honestly, I am.’
‘I promise not to be a part-time husband.’ His dark eyes search mine as if he needs reassurance.
‘And I won’t be a part-time wife.’ I say it, but I worry how it can be true in either of our cases. He’s increasingly ambitious and clearly excited by the prospect of the promotion, and I’m going to have to find new ways to fill half of every week. I can’t help but compare us to my parents, who always make a big thing of the fact they’ve never spent so much as a night apart, other than when Mum was in hospital having us kids, and when Dad was poorly. Being together all of the time is part of the marriage deal, isn’t it?
Oscar unbuttons the top couple of buttons of my shirt and I pull back to look at him. ‘I know your game, mister,’ I say. ‘But this table’s digging in my back and I haven’t finished my dinner yet, so you’re fresh out of luck.’
He looks downcast, then lifts one eyebrow, amused. ‘The lamb is bloody good.’
And that’s that. Three months into wedded bliss, and we’re about to live apart for half of our lives. The lamb doesn’t taste quite so good when I pick my cutlery up again.
27 May
Laurie
Lucille knows perfectly well that Tuesday is one of Oscar’s Brussels days, so why she’s pressing our door buzzer is anyone’s guess. For a second I consider pretending I’m not home. I don’t though, because she probably watched me come in a few minutes ago; or more likely has a spy-cam in here watching my every move.
‘Lucille,’ I say, my face wreathed in welcoming smiles when I open the door – at least I hope it is. ‘Come in.’
Instantly I feel crass for inviting her into her own flat. After all, it’s her name on the deeds. She’s far too polite to say it though, even if the haughty look as she passes me suggests otherwise. I sweep the empty coffee cup up off the table, glad I ran the hoover round before work this morning. Oscar keeps trying to get me to agree to a cleaner, but I just couldn’t imagine telling Mum that I was paying someone to clean up after me. HRH Lucille flicks her critical eye around as she takes a seat. God, what do I say to her?
‘Oscar isn’t home today, I’m afraid,’ I say, and her face falls.
‘Oh.’ Her fingers flutter to the fat, buttery pearls she always wears. ‘I didn’t realize.’
Sure. She has his engagements in her organizer written with a special green pen she uses just for him. ‘Cup of tea?’
She nods. ‘Darjeeling, please, if you have it?’
Normally I wouldn’t possess such a thing, but someone gave us a selection of different teas as a wedding gift so I just smile and leave her to her own devices for a moment while I check. Ha! Yes, I could punch the air, I have Darjeeling. I know full well that she only asked for it because she thought she’d catch me out, and the sense of victory I feel is unbecoming. I wish it wasn’t this way between us; perhaps now is a good time for me to try and make some headway. While I wait for the tea to brew, I put the sugar bowl and milk jug – more wedding presents – on a tray with two teacups and add a plate of shortbread.