“What’s all this?” I struggle awake and sit up because Oscar is standing beside the bed with a tray.
“Breakfast in bed to celebrate our anniversary.” He places the tray down on my knees, and I go into silent panic mode in case I’ve forgotten a special date. “We’ve been married for three whole months,” he says, putting me out of my misery. “Well, three months and two days, actually, but it’s better to wait for Sunday, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.” I laugh. “Come back to bed?”
I hold the tray steady as he climbs back in and relaxes back, still beach brown against the pillows. His skin tone is naturally predisposed toward tanning, so he’s managed to hang on to traces of his honeymoon tan long after mine has faded under the assault of a British winter. It wasn’t Thailand, in the end. We spent three loved-up weeks island hopping in the Maldives, total barefoot paradise. It’s probably as well that we didn’t return to Koh Lipe and try to re-create the magic of our first stay; the memories are too precious to risk. Does it sound ridiculously prima donna of me to say that I would have preferred Thailand to the Maldives? It’s probably not even true, really, it’s just that I’d have loved Oscar to have wanted to take us back there, or perhaps to have guessed that my romantic heart belonged there. I felt like the world’s most ungrateful wife at Heathrow when my heart secretly plummeted as we joined the Maldives check-in queue. The luxurious resorts Oscar had booked for our honeymoon itinerary were a long way from the simplicity of the Thai beach shack—we dined like royals in water bungalows, lazed in double hammocks on our own secluded beach, and a butler—yes, a butler!—took care of our every whim. Now we’re back in Oscar’s—I mean our—flat, and Oscar seems determined to never let the honeymoon end.
“Coffee?”
“Please.” I line the cups up ready and spoon sugar into mine. Oscar doesn’t take sugar. He doesn’t have a sweet tooth at all, really, so I’m trying to curb mine because eating cake or pudding on my own makes me feel a bit of a scoffer, which I’m sure isn’t Oscar’s intention, but still. I used to indulge my sweet tooth with coffee and cake binges with Sarah a couple of times a month, but we still haven’t spoken since our fallout. Whenever I think about it my heart feels too heavy in my chest. While we were on honeymoon I shoved it all to the back of my mind, telling myself I shouldn’t ruin even a little part of Oscar’s amazing trip. And since we’ve been back I’ve maintained the same approach—every day that goes by I bury my head deeper in the sand. The only positive to draw from it, if there is one, is that I’m no longer burdened by the weight of my secret. The worst happened, Sarah knows, and in a strange way I feel purged and more able to love Oscar without ambiguity. I’ve paid a high price for a clean conscience, though.
“You poach a good egg, Mr. O,” I say, giving my egg a little exploratory poke with the very tip of my knife. “I never get it right.”
“I phoned Mum and she told me how to do it.”
Heroically, I don’t throw him a “you did what?” look, even though I can well imagine Lucille’s face when Oscar told her that I was lazing around in bed while he slaved in the kitchen. It’s barely eight on a weekend morning, but all the same, I know she’ll have filed it in the “Laurie is a lazy layabout sponger” dossier in her head. She might need to start a second one soon, I expect it’s stuffed to busting after the wedding.
“Well, you made a marvelous job of it.” I watch with satisfaction as the yolk spills all over the English muffin. “I could get used to this.”
“I like treating you.”
“Being married to you is one long treat.”
He smiles, pleased at the compliment. “Will we always feel like this?”
“I don’t know. If we want to?” I say.
“People keep telling me to give it a few years, that the glow wears off.”
“Do they?” People have said similar things to me, of course, that our relationship has been a whirlwind, that when reality bites all the romance will disappear.
He nods. I don’t ask him if by people he means Lucille.
“Well. What do they know.” I lower the finished-with tray carefully down to the floor and settle into the crook of Oscar’s arm against the pillows.
“They don’t know us,” he says, lowering the strap of my slip to reveal my breast.
I lift my face to his kiss as his fingers close around my nipple. “My wife,” he whispers, as he so often does. I love it, but I sometimes wish he’d say Starfish instead, like he used to.
I wrap myself around him when he rolls me onto my back, and we make love. Afterward, I haul the quilt up over our shoulders and snooze with my cheek against his chest. I wish it could be just us, that life was always just like this.
Later, over roast lamb (cooked by me, without having to consult my mother), Oscar looks at me as he tops off our wineglasses.
“I’ve got a bit of news,” he says, replacing the bottle in our new metal stand that tilts the bottle just so. Don’t ask me why. It was a wedding gift from Gerry and Fliss.
I pause. We’ve been together all weekend, and news generally isn’t something that steals up on you on Sunday evening, is it? If I’ve got news, I can’t help but burst out with it at the first opportunity. What news can Oscar have that he’s chosen this moment to drop it casually into conversation? I smile and try to look pleasantly inquisitive, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone just drew an ice-cold fingernail down my spine.
“I’ve been promoted at the bank.”
Relief washes through me. “That’s great news. What will you be doing?” I don’t know why I’ve asked this, because I don’t especially understand what he does there now.
“Kapur’s moving over to the States at the end of the month, so they need someone to take over the Brussels account.”
I’ve met Kapur a couple of times; he’s my idea of an archetypal banker—pinstripe suit, pink shirt, and a big mouth. I don’t like him very much.
“It’s a decent step up?” I phrase it as a question, smiling to show I’m pleased even if I don’t completely understand the hierarchy.
“Quite a big one really,” he says. “VP. I’ll be over four staff.” Oscar wouldn’t even know how to be boastful, it’s one of his many endearing qualities. “I wanted to talk to you about it first, though, because it’s probably going to mean spending part of the week over there.”
“In Brussels?”
He nods, and his eyes flicker with something.
“Part of every week?” I try, and fail, to keep the note of alarm from my voice.
“Probably. Kapur usually goes out three days a week.”
“Oh.” I flounder, because I don’t want to be a buzzkill; he’s earned this and I want him to know I’m proud of him.
“I can pass on it if you think it’s going to be too much,” he offers, and I feel like a bitch.
“God, no!” I get up and round the table, sliding into his lap. “My clever husband.” I wrap my arms about his neck. “It’s just that I’ll miss you, that’s all. I couldn’t be prouder.” I kiss him to show I mean it. “Well done. I’m thrilled. Honestly, I am.”
“I promise not to be a part-time husband.” His dark eyes search mine as if he needs reassurance.
“And I won’t be a part-time wife.” I say it, but I worry how it can be true in either of our cases. He’s increasingly ambitious and clearly excited by the prospect of the promotion, and I’m going to have to find new ways to fill half of every week. I can’t help but compare us to my parents, who always make a big thing of the fact they’ve never spent so much as a night apart, other than when Mum was in the hospital having us kids, and when Dad was poorly. Being together all of the time is part of the marriage deal, isn’t it?
Oscar unbuttons the top couple of buttons of my shirt and I pull back to look at him. “I know your game, mister,” I say. “But this table’s digging in my back and I haven’t finished my dinner yet, so you’re fresh out of luck.”
He looks downcast, then lifts one eyebrow, amused. “The lamb is bloody good.”
And that’s that. Three months into wedded bliss, and we’re about to live apart for half of our lives. The lamb doesn’t taste quite so good when I pick my cutlery up again.