‘That dress is gorgeous, by the way,’ Darcy says to me. ‘I meant to say earlier how cute you look tonight.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, now bitterly regretting its purchase.
‘Four hundred and thirty quid,’ I hiss. ‘That’s just insane.’
We’re halfway home and my earlier good mood has evaporated. I’ve pushed myself up against the cab door as far away from my husband as I can get, my fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. All I can think of is the mounting credit-card debt that Jared believes will one day magically vanish in a puff of smoke.
‘I didn’t know the bill would be that much,’ he says, squeezing my arm, trying to calm me down.
I shrug him off, shaking my head. ‘Well, maybe you should have waited to see it, before offering to pay it.’
‘Louisa,’ he says, ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. You know, with them organising that big birthday party for the boys. It seemed only fair to—’
‘We could have had twenty kids’ birthday parties for the price of this evening’s dinner. And I didn’t even want a big party for Joe. I wanted a low-key kick about at the park, followed by pizza.’
‘That’s not my fault,’ he says.
‘No, but offering to pay the equivalent of half the national debt for dinner at a snooty restaurant is most definitely your fault.’
He scowls, and slides away from me, across to the other side of the cab. I don’t want to have an argument, but I’m unable to swallow down my anger. I’m worried about how badly my husband wants to fit in with these people. I should never have agreed to this dinner date. This whole lifestyle is way out of our league and we shouldn’t have pretended otherwise.
We sit in hostile silence as the taxi cruises alongside the harbour, the driver wisely choosing not to make conversation. I’m too angry to feel any embarrassment at what the guy must think of us; I’m sure he’s heard dozens of couples arguing in his cab before tonight.
I glance to my right. Jared is angled away from me, his dark expression reflected back in the window. My stomach churns and twists. I hate it when we fight, but I don’t know how we’re going to get past this. He doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. He doesn’t see the problem. We already have everything we need, yet it never seems to be enough.
‘Mike has offered me free office space for a year,’ he says, breaking the silence, turning back to face me. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything to you about it tonight because I know you’re not exactly thrilled about me setting up my own agency. That’s the real reason I offered to pay for dinner.’
I don’t reply. I’m digesting the information.
His eyes brighten. ‘Free office space is worth thousands, Louisa. It’s nothing compared with a paltry four hundred quid.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, Jared. But, at this moment in time, we haven’t got four hundred quid. So hypothetical free office space isn’t going to help us pay the credit-card bill next month.’
‘You don’t get it,’ he says.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘You’re right. I don’t.’
This time, the silence continues right up until the taxi driver drops us outside our front door.
My stomach is still churning. I thought it was anxiety and stress about our argument, but a twist of pain grinds in my gut, followed by a wave of nausea that suddenly sweeps up my back and over my scalp. This is more than just anxiety – I think I’m actually going to be sick. I take a deep breath and pray that I’m going to make it inside the house in time. I really don’t want to throw up in this man’s cab or on the pavement. Jared sorts out the taxi fare – to add to tonight’s mounting expenses – while I fumble for the house keys, stagger out of the vehicle, and lurch towards the front door.
Luckily, we have a downstairs loo and I only just make it there in time before being violently sick into the toilet.
I hear the front door bang shut followed by a tap on the loo door.
‘Louisa, are you okay?’
As the toilet door opens, I throw up again. My stomach feels as though someone is screwing it up into a ball.
Jared’s hand rests on my back. ‘Shall I get you some water?’
‘Yes please,’ I say, before heaving my guts up once more. Salmon and pavlova. Champagne and stomach acid.
He returns moments later with a glass. I take it from him and use the water to rinse my mouth out. Not yet daring to swallow.
‘I didn’t think you were that drunk,’ Jared says.
‘I think it’s food poisoning,’ I gasp.
