I pick up the handle from the shelf in the shed and wave it about.
‘Oh dear,’ she says.
As she takes it from me, I catch sight of Sam’s crotch and am momentarily silenced. I am surprised he can walk. He registers my face and clasps both hands together in front of him, like he’s standing in church and about to sing a hymn.
‘Nora did say she’s been having trouble with that door. You’re lucky you didn’t get stuck in there.’
‘I think it’s going to need a new lock,’ Sam pipes up, in a conversational tone so nonchalant that you’d think he had a longstanding appointment to make out in the shed every Tuesday morning. ‘Would you like me to mention it to maintenance?’
‘Don’t worry, leave it with me,’ she offers. ‘I’m about to play doubles with George as it happens, so I’ll add it to his list. You two are here early, anyway. You’re obviously keen.’
My complexion deepens.
‘Jules has been working on her serve.’
She looks delighted. ‘Excellent! Hopefully you’ll be unstoppable at the match on Thursday. Have you had fun?’
Sam slides a glance towards me.
‘Very much so,’ he replies.
Chapter 29
What the fuck happened? Those are the words on repeat in my head in the aftermath of Shedgate.
What. The fuck. Happened?
The sentence first popped into my head the moment I stumbled out into daylight and regret started to spread through me like a virus. Even a day later, I can’t concentrate on a thing as I sit in video calls, staring at my screen in the glare of a ring light, trying to process not merely events in the shed, but also what happened afterwards.
The fact that Sam tried to stop me at the club gates to ask for my number. I mumbled something about the fact that I was already seeing someone so this was alla terrible mistake. He had a vaguely slapped look on his face, before I spun on my heel and darted to the house.
I read an article recently, written by a guy who’d had an affair. He described it as ‘the greatest tragedy of his life’ and said that his self-destructive behaviour not only killed his marriage, but crushed his spirit to the extent that it made him ill. I know this isn’t an affair. OfcourseI do. But I understand how he felt. And the fact that none of how I feel is about Gavin in itself probably makes me a terrible person.
It’s not him I feel like I’m cheating on. It’s Ed.
If I said this out loud with Jeff in the vicinity, he would protest so fiercely that he’d virtually be howling. Because although there is a part of me that thinks my husband probably would have wanted me to ‘move on’, I don’tactually
know that. It’s just some trite thing that people say. Truth is, in all the years we were together, that wasn’t a discussion we ever had. Besides, it’s actually not about how Ed would have felt about it. It’s about howIfeel about it. And all I can tell you is that it’s like being pierced in the gut, every time I unlock my phone screen and see his smiling face.
And yet . . .
That very same night, when I’m lying in the bath, I am suddenly assaulted by a full, sensory flashback of Sam’s hand as it slid across my lower back. The exquisite thrill that ran through my limbs. The way I’d turned him on so much that he was straining in his shorts. My body is reacting to this whole abhorrent incident in the most treacherous manner imaginable. Worst thing is . . . it’s not the first time today it’s happened. My nipples keep tightening. A blooming sensation begins to radiate from below. Now, when I close my eyes and submit to it, every cell in my body feels so sensually alive that I honestly don’t know what to do with myself.
In short, I am stuck in a relentless pain–pleasure cycle that is so distracting that during a meeting with a potential new supplier at work, I come dangerously close to placing an order for 400 Wednesday Addams wigs by a woman who makes costumes for dogs.
As if I need reminding that this is no time to be on anything less than my A game, the following day, head office announces a series of targets and cost-savings we need to make in the coming months. I’m all for ambition but these, quite simply, are so impossible it feels like we’re being set up for failure – though I’m not allowed to say those words, according to Angus.
‘Nothing is impossible!’ has been one of his mantras lately, along with a series of others that he seems to have picked up in the Barisian Group handbook. We need tomove the needle, apparently.Create synergies. Andreach outabout somethingor other,whichI swear he says more times each day now than theFour Tops.
Coupled with this, we have received various missives from the HR department, offering ‘generous voluntary redundancy packages’ for those who are prepared to jump before they’re pushed. Despite having had absolutely no desire to leave Fable & Punk, I idly enquire about the lump sum they would offer me in principle. It’s a decent amount, certainly enough to tide me over for a few months.
But what then?
I make some initial searches for alternative employment and am quickly disabused of the fantasy that I’d have competitors banging down my door to employ me, certainly not in the kind of job I actually want.
It seems things are not as easy as they used to be when you’re forty-seven years old, tied to the North-West of England and have certain salary expectations that go hand in hand with a daughter heading to university and a mortgage to pay. Things have been tight enough as it is since Ed died. Although he had a small life-insurance policy, after it emerged that he’d been put on stronger medication a few months before his death – and failed to let the company know – they didn’t pay out. It was an oversight on Ed’s part, which amounted to non-disclosure and meant that I’ve since had to cover all outgoings alone.
That night at 3am when I’m lying awake, as well as the lost dog and forehand technique videos, I now end up googling things like, ‘Pros and cons of becoming an Uber driver’ and ‘Best new careers in your forties’. Number one is apparently a wind turbine service technician. I curse myself for not having chosen a more useful career in the first place, the kind of job society will never stop needing. My grandma was clearly right: I should have become a nurse. Or an electrician. I wonder how much an undertaker earns?
