Page 22 of Husband Material
This did not endear me to the Transport for London guard. “Who works here, me or you?”
By now, Bridge’s army of wedding guests had arrived and surrounded Tom, wearing expressions of varying betrayal and exhaustion. Except for Baby J who was, y’know, a baby which meant he looked like all babies always look: grumpy and a bit squashed.
Apparently resigned to being caught, Tom put his phone down and said, “Sorry. She’s my fiancée—”
“Oh,am I?” asked Bridget.
Which, if he’d needed one, was Tom’s big clue that maybe not everything was in a perfect state of totally fineness. “And as you can see,” he continued, “we’ve got a lot to talk about, so would it be okay if we just left and pretended none of this ever happened?”
The guard looked uncertain. Then again, he’d been looking uncertain since we showed up. “I’m not sure I can do that. I think I’m supposed to issue an on-the-spot fine.”
“I am really sorry,” offered Bridge, “and I really wouldn’t have jumped the barrier except it was a romantic emergency.”
“Wait, what romantic emergency?” Tom’s unflappable demeanour flapped very slightly.
“Yeah, what romantic emergency?” asked the Transport for London guard, suddenly getting interested.
Bridge adopted a posture of supreme indignance. “We’re getting married in a week, and he’s running around with other women.”
“I am bloody not,” protested Tom.
“I have proof,” Bridge told the Transport for London guard.
The Transport for London guard gave Tom a disappointed look. “Mate, if you’re running around on your bird, be a man and admit it.”
“I’m not,” protested Tom again.
“Look at this.” Bridge brandished her phone in Transport for London guy’s face. “What’s that if it’s not running around on his bird?”
The guard assessed the evidence dispassionately. “I agree it don’t look great. But there could be an explanation.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to explain himself for days,” Bridge wailed. “He ghosted me.”
Tom’s face had gone very, very impassive. “It waswork,Bridge. You know,work.”
“What?” The Transport for London visibly scoffed. “You some kind of spy or something?”
Bridge gave the fakest laugh I have ever heard. “No. Of course not.” Her voice had lifted by at least an octave. “He’s a”—she paused, way longer than any woman should have had to before saying what her fiancé did for a living—“fireman.”
There was a long silence.
“Oh, crap.” The Transport for London guard’s eyes had gone very wide. “Is this a… Is this an MI5 thing? Is that woman some kind of secret agent?”
“Yes,” said Tom without missing a beat. “She’s a defector from a foreign power, and it’s vitally important that myfiancée”—he gave the word a verbal air quote—“and I be able to discuss the rest of this in private.”
Transport for London Guy nodded and backed right the fuck off. “’Course. Won’t say a thing. You can count on me, agent.”
The moment he was gone, Bridge rounded on Tom, brandishing her phone in his face. “Look. I know she’s not really a spy, so who is she? What were you doing? And why are you leaving me for somebody from Harrow?”
Tom looked more flustered than I’d ever seen him, which, to his credit, was a lot less flustered than I was in most situations.“I told you, it’s work. And she’s not from Harrow. That’s why we’re here.”
“That,” Bridge said sharply, “makes no sense.”
His flusterance intensifying, Tom glanced around the increasingly crowded platform. “Can we go somewhere else?”
“No.” Bridge, still brandishing, was now also bristling. “I have been trying to call you since yesterday, Tom.Since yesterday.Where have you been?”
Tom took a deep breath and leaned in very closely. The rest of Bridge’s Bitches (Used in the Reclaimed Sense) gathered in. “I have been,” he whispered, “in a safe house with an informant.”
