Page 14 of Perfect Wives
There’s something about the comment that makes me hesitate. I search Nate’s face. He’s not accusing or irritated. Just…something.
I shake it off, force a smile and sip my coffee. Nate is just being curious, that’s all. He likes to know what everyone is doing. ‘It’s the PTA quiz night next week,’ I reply lightly. ‘Lots to organise.’
He makes a pained face. ‘And I’m going to that?’
I pretend I don’t see through his question to the one he’s really asking – do I have to go? – and give a breezy, ‘Yes. Rosie is babysitting,’ I add, grateful for the teens who live on Magnolia Close. Bill and Jean next door have two daughters. Rosie is sixteen now and always happy to babysit for some extra money. Not that Nate and I go out as much as I’d like.
There’s a whoop of joy from Oscar. ‘I love Rosie. She reads the best bedtime stories.’
I smile, pretending his comment doesn’t sting a little. Storytelling skills aside, I know I’m his world.
I turn back to Nate. ‘You’re on the Magnolia Close table with Alistair, Marc, Dan and Ryan, Bill and Jean, and Susie.
The table plan makes me think of Keira, and my thoughts drag back to last night and the strange sense that our jokey fantasy about Jonny was something more. I shiver before pushing the thought aside and focusing on Nate. ‘They need your encyclopaedic knowledge of capital cities and cocktail ingredients.’
‘Can’t wait,’ he says, drawing in a long breath like he’s steeling himself for it.
‘It’ll be fun,’ I say. ‘My events always are.’
I glance at the clock on the cooker. There are still thirty minutes before we need to leave for school. ‘Have I got time for a quick shower before you log on?’
Nate flashes me another pained face before nodding. ‘If you’re quick. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes.’
‘Great,’ I reply, grabbing my phone. ‘Quick selfie for my socials.’ I scoot in beside Nate and snap a photo of us both smiling, knowing my followers love to see me and Nate together, even if Nate’s smile drops the moment the photo is taken.
I’m halfway to the door when Nate calls my name, and I turn back.
‘I’m out tonight,’ he says. ‘Did I tell you?’ His eyes are on his coffee machine as it grinds the beans.
The whir of the grinder fills the kitchen, and I wait for it to stop before I speak. ‘I don’t think so.’ He didn’t and we both know it, but I play along.
He pulls another face. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s a company social event at the London office. I wasn’t sure I was going to go, but I feel like I should. You’re not working today, are you? You can collect Oscar.’
There’s a pause. It’s just long enough for the niggling doubts to creep in – the thoughts about Nate and my marriage I’m trying so hard to ignore. Thoughts that make me feel like Nate is holding something back.
‘Better get cracking if you want that shower,’ he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I nod and turn away, but the worry is still twisting in my gut. There was a time when we couldn’t leave a room without a kiss, a touch on the arm, a whispered joke. Now it feels like I’m always holding my breath, hoping he’ll look at me the way he used to, hoping he doesn’t say something that we can’t come back from.
I climb the stairs, telling myself whatever that moment was with Nate just now, I’ll fix it later. But even as I do, I’m already wondering how many more ‘laters’ we’ve got left before they catch up with us.
EIGHT
GEORGIE
Twenty-nine minutes later, I’m in a clean burgundy activewear set and my hangover is lingering in the very back of my mind in the same way my interaction with Nate is. He’s been going out in the evenings more recently. Once or twice a week. Old friends and work socials. I wouldn’t mind if it didn’t feel like he was avoiding me.
We used to go out together all the time. Even when Oscar was a baby, we’d still have regular date nights. Live music bars were our favourite. Sharing a bottle of wine before pulling each other onto the dance floor. Nate’s hands roaming my body as we swayed to the music. Then once a week became once a month.
I jog down the stairs and call to Oscar. ‘Time for school. Shoes on please.’
Oscar straps on his shoes before standing up, hands on hips, chest out, throwing himself into the superhero pose we do every morning. I copy the movements with a smile, trying to feel the energy of the pose.
‘Got everything?’ I ask.
‘Got everything,’ he repeats with a firm nod.
‘You sure?’ I grin and hold up his bright-red book bag.
