Page 105 of Paper Roses

He’s been an exemplary partner through my recovery, and I needed that. My concussion was a bad one, and for a few horrible days, I couldn’t do anything except lie in bed, riding the pain and throwing up. Then it had been hospital visits to get a proper cast put on my broken arm. I couldn’t do much, and he’d taken on everything. I couldn’t have asked for a more caring or gentle partner. He’s bathed me, washed my hair, chauffeured me around and sat holding my hand in various waiting rooms. He’s cooked and cleaned and worn himself ragged trying to make sure I’m okay while balancing the needs of the business.

Yet through all of it there’s been this weird distance between us. He will talk and laugh with me, but it always seems false—like he’s wrapped in cotton wool, and I can’t find the real passionate man underneath.

I can’t blame him, and I can’t be angry at him. How could I, when I know why he’s behaving like this? He’s running scared. It must have brought back so many terrible memories of Mick’s accident and the long days spent at his bedside until they turned off his life support. And even that decision had to be made by Jed. What a burden to be under.

So, I don’t blame him. And yes, I’m aware what he feels for me is a thin thing compared to his love for Mick.

But I’m his husband, too. The thought stills me, and I look down at the letter from the solicitor. It’s done. The house is mine. Our marriage can end the way we always planned, and we can go our separate ways. I square my shoulders. But I have one more throw of the dice. It’s a desperate gamble, and I could end up losing everything, but it’ll still be worth it. I love and wanthim, and I know he cares for me. I want to give him the chance to ask for more.

I look at the other letter and shiver. And if everything goes wrong, I have another option.

The sound of Jed’s key in the lock rouses me, and my heart starts to hammer. I hear him come in and then wince when there’s the customary silence. He doesn’t move or call for me. Instead, there’s this waiting moment as if he’s girding himself to deal with me. My mouth twists in pain.

One chance, I tell myself.Be honest, and maybe…

I stop that thought in its tracks. “Jed?” I call.

“Here,” he says, his voice full of that fake cheeriness that sets my teeth on edge. He comes into the room, bringing the scent of the outdoors on him and a faint trace of his cologne. “Sorry, I’m late. I brought takeaway,” he says, coming over to me. He drops a kiss on my lips that is deliberately brief even though I lean into him. He pulls back and stands up, and I sigh.

He cocks his head, listening to the music. “Del Amitri? Aren’t you a little young for them?”

“Ben used to like them. He said they were retro.”

He winces. “Wanker.”

My mouth twitches in a smile. “Do you like them?”

“I saw them in concert once. I lost my shoes for some reason lost in time, but I’m not levelling any blame at the band.”

I chuckle, but it dies away as he paces over to the fireplace, clutching the mantle and staring into the flames. “How are you feeling?” he says over his shoulder.

“The same as I was an hour ago when you rang, and the hour before that, and the hour before that.”

He gives a strained chuckle. “Sorry.”

I’m horrified to realise I’m not sure what to say next. This isn’t something that used to happen with Jed—we could alwaysshare a good conversation—and I’ve never been more aware of the “fake” quality of our current relationship.

“What have you got there?” he asks, gesturing to the letters in my hands.

I hold one up. “A letter from Mr Davies,” I say almost reluctantly.

He winces. “Ah, yes. Is it done?”

I nod. “The house is all mine.”

I want to say ours, but I sense that won’t go well. My gaze drifts to the other letter.

“That’s good news. I brought champagne home. I’ll get it and plate the food. Are you hungry?”

“Jed.” My tone halts his frantic movement towards the door. “Please, can you come and sit down?”

“Be My Downfall” begins on the record player as he sits on the edge of the sofa opposite me. I hope it’s not an omen.

“What is it?” He holds up a hand. “Is it because I’ve been at work for so long? I’m sorry. I know there’s no excuse for it.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Ever honest, he grimaces. “I could have been at home.”

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