A couple of weeks ago, I got a nasty surprise when I overheard Elliot asking Lachie if Fliss was okay.
‘What’s this?’ I interrupted, and it may have just been my imagination, but Lachie seemed to tense up.
‘Her ex has been harassing her,’ he divulged, reluctantly, I thought at the time.
‘Lachie’s been her knight in shining armour,’ Elliot teased.
‘It’s no big deal.’ Lachie brushed us off.
‘In what way?’ I persisted, forcing a smile, despite my unease.
‘He’s just been giving her a bit of shit, always ringing her, turning up at her flat uninvited, wanting her back. He rocked up at that wedding we were doing last weekend, so I told him where to go.’
‘Pow!’ Elliot interjected, smacking his fist against his other hand.
‘You punched him?’ I asked my boyfriend, shocked.
‘I didn’t punch him,’ he snapped infuriatedly, shooting Elliot a look. ‘I just gave him a bit of a shove.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t a big deal.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Elliot pulling a face, as though he’d belatedly realised he’d landed his mate in trouble. I chose to drop the subject, but couldn’t let it lie.
‘Why didn’t you tell me what was going on with Fliss?’ I asked later.
‘I told you, it wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Elliot knew. How was that, then?’
‘He came out that night with us, remember? You didn’t feel like it.’
‘Only because it was eleven o’clock by the time you finished that wedding!’ I exclaimed. ‘I was already in bed! I thought you were going to come home!’
It was not the first argument we’d had in recent months.
‘Do you find her attractive?’ I ask Lachie now. It’s time we got to the bottom of this.
‘Of course she’s attractive – any bloke would think so.’
‘No, doyoufind her attractive?’ I repeat.
‘What do you expect me to say?’ he responds eventually, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
‘Oh, shit,’ I mumble, fighting back tears as I unzip my sleeping bag.
‘What are you doing?’ he mutters, reaching for my arm.
I snatch it away from him. ‘Getting some fresh air.’
I sit on a garden bench in the damp night, staring up at the stars. Lachie is snoring lightly by the time I return half an hour later. At some point during the night, he tries to spoon me, but the distance between us is real, and not just because we’re in separate sleeping bags.
The next day, five children pile into our makeshift bedroom at seven in the morning and we manage to feign excitement as we vow to come straight in and open, or, rather, dish out our presents.
Once they’ve left us to get dressed, Lachie meets my eyes directly. ‘I don’t fancy Fliss,’ he states adamantly. ‘I fancy you. Only you. Just… chill out, okay?’
I try to, but the tension between us doesn’t dissipate.
