Page 24 of The Art of Loving You

This is what we had both wanted for so long. Somewhere rural but not too far out of town. A place we could call our own, make our own. I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and took a sip. For the first time in what felt like forever my throat didn’t feel as though it was full of razor blades when I swallowed. I was over the worst of my illness and now I was feeling better I began to see the potential as I scanned the room. The original ceiling rose we could paint a bright white. The ornate fireplace. We had floorboards to sand, cracks to fill on the walls, but today things didn’t seem quite as dire as they had. But then today was cause for celebration.

Our anniversary.

Jack was still sleeping. He’d had a restless night, flinging the covers off before dragging them back up to his chin. I’d tried to cuddle him but his body was a furnace, skin damp with sweat. Had I pass-the-parcelled my sickness on to him?

I wondered what the day would bring. Last week I had offered to book a table at the Italian we liked, the one with the extra buttery garlic bread with melted cheese on top, but Jack had said no.

‘Let’s not make arrangements to go out. It will be our first weekend in our new home and we’ll be far too busy having sex in every room to—’

‘Oh will we now?’ I had placed my hands on my hips. ‘You’re very sure of yourself.’

‘Sure that you can’t keep your hands off me.’ He had caught me around the waist and pulled me close. ‘Seriously, Libs. I want to cook. I want it to be perfect.’

‘You’re perfect.’

‘Am I now?’ He smiled.

‘No. No.’ Immediately I had taken it back. ‘You’ll be unbearable now. You have lots of faults. You can’t keep track of time, you can’t—’

To cut me off he had kissed me, gently at first before his mouth moved more urgently against mine, our movements frenetic as we tugged at our clothes, until there was nothing but that moment, the words I had been going to say lost in an all-consuming passion.

Jack’s eyelids twitched before he prised them open. He’d been in bed for ten hours but he still looked worn-out.

‘Happy anniversary,’ he croaked. ‘I think I’ve caught your flu.’

‘Sorry.’ I darted across the bedroom, floor cold against my bare feet, and pulled a present from the wardrobe. ‘Here.’ I placed it on his bedside table before I climbed back into bed. ‘This might make up for it a bit.’

‘I haven’t picked your present up from the studio yet. I must …’ He raised himself onto his elbows. ‘I really don’t feel good, Libs.’

Under different circumstances I might have made a joke about man-flu but I knew how unwell I had felt over the past couple of weeks. It would be much worse for Jack with the pain from the wound to his abdomen as well. I placed my palm against his forehead.

‘You’re burning up.’ I shook the foil-clad paracetamol from the box. ‘There’s not many left. I could pop out for more and pick up some—’

‘Please don’t go out for Lemsip. That never ends well.’ He tried on a thin smile which slipped away in a flash.

‘You can’t have Lemsip with the paracetamol anyway. It’s ridiculous the hospital didn’t give you anything stronger.’ I felt so helpless, hopeless, watching the pain furrow his brow as he propped himself up against his pillows. ‘Bloody district nurse. Do you reckon Maggie will come this morning?’

Jack shrugged. ‘She said so but perhaps being Sunday we’re more likely to see her tomorrow.’

‘Shall I call the ward?’ Angela had been so kind.

‘And say what? Jack’s caught my flu? No, it’s just lousy timing. I had something memorable planned as well. You could drive me to the studio—’

‘Absolutely not. You need to get your strength back, mister. We can celebrate when you’re feeling better and next year …’

‘The stress of doing up this place will have—’

‘Hey.’ Jack was always my silver-linings optimist. ‘Don’t get all blue because you’re sick. We have builders quoting next week and it’ll be fine. Let’s not dwell on it today. Open your present.’

He carefully peeled back the Sellotape. Unfolded the ends of the paper that sparkled silver like the starry night sky.

‘Libs. It’s beautiful.’ He opened the lid of the mahogany wooden box. Inside nestled paintbrushes, handles made of maple.

‘I know you have a ton of brushes already but …’

‘These are special.’

I smiled. Pleased he loved them. I didn’t share that I had bought them because wood is the traditional five-year wedding anniversary present. It seemed so lame because we weren’t actually married.

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