‘You started it,’ he declares.
‘Well, can you just not do it? My name’s Kate, Vince. KATE!’ I must have shouted that bit, as several people have glanced round, including a station employee in a hi-vis jacket and the dachshund lady. Our eyes meet and I sense my cheeks burning hot.
‘All right,’ Vince huffs. ‘Message received...’
‘Kate?’ The dachshund woman has called out my name. Now she’s staring as if she knows me from somewhere, but can’t place me.
I smile briskly in acknowledgement, hoping that’ll be that. But instead of continuing on her way, she and the two little dogs seem to be making their way back towards me. She looks normal and perfectly nice, and not as if she’ll start ranting that I’m going to hell, or try to snatch Tash’s tote bag containing my work blouse and yesterday’s knickers. But you never know.
I flash her another tight smile then avert my gaze, relieved when a family with a gaggle of excitable children comes to a halt between us.
‘Have you had some kind of funny turn?’ Vince asks.
‘No, I haven’thad a turn.’
‘What is it then? Please, enlighten me!’
The man in the hi-vis jacket gives me a curious look. I realise I must look wild-eyed and verging on out of control.
‘It’s not just last night,’ I start. ‘It’s the way we’ve been these past few months – actuallyyears– with you barking orders at me as if I’m staff, which I am now. I know that—’ Without warning my eyes flood with tears. But by some biological miracle, my body sucks them back in.
‘Do I need to come and get you?’ Vince asks. ‘Do I need to get in the car and drive to London this very minute?’
‘—But it’s not that either,’ I rant on, unable to stop now. ‘It’s not even the party or you laughing at my chocolate clusters. What was it you said again? That they looked like the deposits of a middle-sized dog—’ I stop abruptly as the dachshund lady appears by my side. In Tash’s paisley top and faded denim jacket, plus my drab work skirt and scabby old trainers, I don’tthinkI look like I work here. But her apologetic smile suggests that she’s waiting for me to finish my call. Does she think I can dispense travel advice?
‘It was a joke,’ Vince thunders. ‘Fucking hell, Kate...’
I step away and try to merge with the crowd, and be anonymous or, preferably, invisible.She has her talents,said my husband who no longer finds me desirable. Now I’m picturing the two of us in our bedroom a couple of nights ago. I’d just done a full day’s work on Vince’s book, walked Jarvis three times and hosed him down in the garden after he’d rolled in something disgusting in the park. So I was looking forward to curling up in bed with my book.
I’d just pulled on what Vince calls my ‘maiden aunt nightie’ when I looked round to see him standing there, wearing just his boxers. Vince has always had a good body. It’s nicely proportioned with well-shaped shoulders, toned thighs and – although it pains me to admit it – a very attractive pert bottom that a thirty-year-old would be proud of, never mind a man in his fifties. All without him putting an iota of work into it, which seems unfair. I mean, all he does is sit on it. And suddenly, the mental strain of a day’s writing (contrary to what Vince thinks, it doesn’t come easily) melted away. Even my annoyance at having to shampoo Jarvis – who hates being washed and snapped at me – dissipated as I looked at my husband and thought,You are lucky, Kate Weaver. Doesn’t he look good?
Without thinking I went over and gave his butt a cheeky squeeze, just for fun. Because I’d glanced at Vince and thought,Look at you. You’re still the man I fell in love with twenty-five years ago, and I do still love you.
‘Vince,’ I start, ‘d’you remember when I squeezed your bottom the other night?’
‘What?’ I can virtually hear his brain cogs clanking, sticky with last night’s alcohol.
‘I squeezed your bum, remember? And you slapped me away—’
‘I didn’tslapyou,’ he retorts.
‘You did! You shouted “OOF!” and whacked my hand away as if I were an annoying fan assaulting you in a supermarket—’
‘Well, yeah. I thought you were getting a bit...’ He clears his throat.
‘A bit frisky?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah, and I was tired—’
‘You’re always tired, aren’t you? You’re tired of me, Vince. You might as well admit it—’ With a gulp, I stop and press my hand to my eyes. I know I should finish this call and rush off to buy my ticket and catch that train. But I can’t make myself do that either.
The gentle prod to my arm makes me flinch. It’s that lady with the dogs, and she’s looking at me with concern. ‘Sorry,’ she mouths apologetically, as if reluctant to interrupt my call.
I blink at her, confused.
‘ItisKate, isn’t it?’ she asks.
‘Er, yes.’ I nod. Do I know her from somewhere?
