“It was great.” Luke takes off his jacket. “Venetia’s very bright. Very switched on.”
“I’ll…bet she is.” I twist my hands together under the duvet, where he can’t see them. “And what did you talk about? Apart from work.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Luke is loosening his tie. “The arts…books…”
“You never read books!” I say before I can stop myself. It’s true. He doesn’t, apart from how-to-run-your-magnificent-business-empire kind of books.
“Maybe not,” he says, shooting me a wry look. “But I used to.”
What does that mean? Before he met me? So now it’s my fault he doesn’t read books, is that it?
“And what else did you talk about?” I persist.
“Becky, honestly. I can’t remember.”
His phone beeps with a text and he checks it. He smiles, texts something back, then resumes getting undressed. I’m watching in growing disbelief and anger. How can he do that? In front of me?
“Was that in Latin?” I say before I can stop myself.
“What?” Luke wheels around, his hands still tugging at his shirtsleeves.
“I just happened to see…” I falter. Then I stop. Sod it. I’m not going to pretend anymore. I take a deep breath and look at Luke straight-on. “She sends you texts in Latin, doesn’t she? Is that your secret code?”
“What are you talking about?” Luke takes a step forward, his brow darkened. “Have you been reading my texts?”
“I’m your wife! What does she text you about, Luke?” My voice is rising in hurt. “Latin books? Or…other things?”
“I’m sorry?” He looks bemused.
“You know she’s moving in on you, don’t you?”
“What?” Luke gives a short laugh. “Becky, I know you have a vivid imagination, but really….” He pulls his shirt off and dumpsit in the laundry hamper.
How can he be so dense? I thought he was supposed to be clever.
“She’s after you!” I’m leaning forward in agitation. “Can’t you see it? She’s a home-wrecker! That’s what she does—”
“She is not after me!” Luke says, cutting me off. “To be honest, Becky, I’m shocked. I never thought of you as being possessive. Surely I’m allowed to have a few friends, for Christ’s sake. Just because she happens to be female—”
“It’s not that,” I cut him off scornfully.
It’s that she used to be his ex-girlfriend and has long swishy red hair. But I’m not going to say that.
“It’s that…” I flounder. “It’s that…we’re married, Luke. We should share everything. We shouldn’t have anything separate. I’m an open book! Look at my phone!” I gesture widely. “Look in my drawers! I don’t have a single secret! Go on, look!”
“Becky, it’s getting late.” Luke rubs his face. “Could we do this tomorrow?”
I stare at him indignantly. What does he mean, “do this tomorrow”? We’re not playing Monopoly — we’re having a crucial discussion about the state of our marriage.
“Go on! Look!”
“All right.” Luke lifts his hands in surrender, and heads toward my bureau.
“I don’t have a single secret I’m keeping from you! You can look anywhere, poke about all you like—” I draw up sharply.
Shit. The gender predictor test. It’s in the top left drawer.
“Er…except that drawer,” I exclaim hastily. “Don’t touch the top left drawer.”
Luke stops. “I can’t touch that drawer?”
“No. It’s…a surprise. Or the Harrods bag on the chair,” I add hastily. I don’t want him seeing the receipt for my new hi-tech moisturizer. I nearly died myself when I saw the price.
“Anything else?” Luke inquires.
“Um…a couple of things in the wardrobe. Early birthday presents for you,” I add defiantly.
There’s silence in the bedroom. I can’t quite tell what Luke is thinking. At last he turns, his face working oddly.
“So, our marriage is a completely honest, open book except for that drawer, this Harrods bag, and the back of the wardrobe?”
I sense my position on the moral high ground is not quite as strong as I thought it was.
“The point is…” I cast around. “The point is, I wasn’t out all night with someone else, doing goodness knows what!”
Oh God. I sound exactly like a whingy EastEnders wife.