Читать книгу Sunshine on a Rainy Day: A funny, feel-good romantic comedy - Bryony Fraser, Bryony Fraser - Страница 8

I stirred my rum and Coke with one perfectly manicured finger and took a large gulp. I hadn’t smoked since my teens, but I’d have pushed a vicar through a stained-glass window for just a couple of puffs.

‘You alright, love?’ Dad sat opposite me, nursing his own rum. I blinked at him.

‘Besides the obvious?’ I said, gesturing with my glass at my outfit, our location.

‘We’ve got plenty of time, Zoe. Have a drink. Take a deep breath. Decide what you want to do.’

That was what I needed to hear, ever since this morning, when I’d woken up in my old bedroom. Or when I was booking marquees. Or when Jack first asked me.

I sighed and stared out of the window. ‘Did you and Mum never fancy this?’

Dad shifted in his chair a little. ‘Did it ever bother you and your sisters that we weren’t married?’

‘No! God, no. It was quite cool, actually. But I’m just wondering, now … Why did you two never fancy it?’ I turned my engagement ring round and round on my finger, gold band … sapphire stone … gold band … sapphire stone …

‘Things were different. And it just didn’t suit us, back then. But we weren’t who you and Jack are.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

‘The thing is, love … sometimes you just have to do what you think is right.’ He took a sip. ‘Even if it might seem like the hardest thing in the world.’

I looked at Dad’s pale, smiling face, then knocked back the rest of my drink, stood up, and pushed my veil forwards over my face. ‘Let’s do this, Dad. Let’s get me down that aisle.’

We stepped out of the Queen’s Head into the cold, thin January sunlight, where the wedding car was waiting for us, driver Al in the front with a Daily Express and a bag of salt and vinegar. As he saw us coming out, he started up the engine; Dad tucked me into the back seat, passing me the second-hand Chanel clutch he and Mum had surprised me with last night, as if it were a vaguely radioactive but very precious baby, then sat down beside me, trying not to crumple my outfit.

‘Fifteen minutes, Al,’ Dad said. ‘Do you think we can make it?’

‘Nooo problem,’ Al shouted over his shoulder, revving the engine and sweeping out into the traffic.

Fortunately, having huge wedding ribbons on your car seems to make other drivers a touch more charitable – there’s no way we’d have made it in time otherwise – and we got to the register office to find Jack outside at the front, pacing with nerves at my delay, alongside his best man, Iffy, and my maid of honour, my oldest friend, Liz. My sisters were outside too: Esther watching Jack’s pacing with crossed arms and Ava standing with her arms around Kat, who was painting her nails, both of them huddled together in a tiny splash of winter sun, breath hanging in the air. The rest of the wedding party waited inside as the wedding before ours began filing out. As the car drew to a halt, Jack bounded over, reaching in to help me out of the car before it had even come to a full stop.

As soon as I saw him, I thought, Yeah. This’ll be ok. I watched Dad climb out behind me and give me a thumbs up, and thought again, harder, This will be ok. I’m sure it will.

Then Jack took my hand and smiled at me, and we headed inside.

‘You may kiss the bride!’

There was a moment’s silence while we leant into each other, then my sisters started whooping as one, and as we kissed the whole register office applauded, and it felt alright for a moment. We pulled away and Jack looked like he was glowing, happiness pouring out of his freckles, and I thought, I wonder if I look like that?

Then the registrar said a few more things, the music started up and we were back down the aisle, out into the sunshine and then … then we didn’t know where we were supposed to go. The car wasn’t there – Al wasn’t due back for a good while yet. He was probably sitting back in the pub he’d picked me and Dad up from, enjoying a quiet drink before the happy couple spilt prosecco all over the back of his car. We milled about for a while, doubling back on ourselves to watch everyone trooping out, then we had to walk back in and out again so the photographer could get some shots of everyone throwing confetti at us on the stone steps.

My shoes hurt and my eyes felt heavy from the fake eyelashes I’d let myself be talked into, despite my choice of natural hair, plain white jumpsuit and simple faux fur. I was happy enough at this precise moment – all these people! Jack’s face! – but I’d wanted us to just keep on walking when we got outside, just hit the road, no looking back until we’d had some time to talk about all of this. I squeezed Jack’s hand and he squeezed back.

‘Happy?’ he said.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’

We smiled at each other, but neither of us answered.

The photographer moved us around from car park to entrance steps to under the one tree in the vicinity not surrounded by cigarette butts and cider cans, in an attempt to get a satisfactory shot. I tried to avoid Dad’s eye, until our driver finally turned up again. I dragged Jack into the car, and we sat back with a sigh, his arm around my shoulders, and we stayed in comfortable, quiet stillness until we reached our reception venue twenty minutes later. Al didn’t attempt small talk either, just turned up the heaters in the back a little more.

As we pulled up the drive to our hired manor house, the first arrivals of our wedding party, Jack stroked my handbag with one finger. ‘This looks fancy, Zo.’

‘Gift from Mum and Dad last night. More Mum than Dad, I expect. In fact, probably more my sisters than either, but still …’

‘You’ve always wanted one of those.’ I shrugged, smiling, and Jack went on, ‘And if everything else goes wrong in life, at least we know we can flog this and live like kings.’

I clutched it to my chest. ‘You wouldn’t …’

‘Of course I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t dare, my dearest.’ He picked it up, and looked at it more closely. ‘It doesn’t matter how expensive it was – you deserve something this gorgeous.’

Jack pulled me in for another kiss and I wondered if we could tell Al to go back down the drive. No one’s seen us. We could still escape, just me and Jack. Then I remembered Dad’s words this morning – sometimes you just have to do what you think is right – and swallowed the feeling down.

‘Looks great, doesn’t it?’ I said, in an attempt to distract myself from the thoughts running through my head, as the car stopped at the manor house. The marquee beside it, spread out over the small lawns and laid with hard flooring for the dancing later, was swagged with winter wreaths; huge thermal jugs of hot mulled wine waited for our guests under a smaller, flower-laden gazebo near the main entrance to the manor house. I could see through the doors that the photobooth was set up in the entrance hall; the unseasonal ice cream van played its chimes softly by the outdoor heaters, accompanied by the gentle pop pop of the vintage popcorn stand in the marquee. I could hear our pianist already playing soft jazz inside the manor house, so the guests could hear her while they milled about with canapés and cocktails. It was a perfect wedding, copied dutifully from the wedding magazines and Pinterest boards everyone had sent me. Hadn’t I done it right?

Jack got out of the car and held the door open for me, then suddenly swooped me up in his arms and half ran with me towards the hot wine.

‘Quick! First toast. While everyone else is tagging along behind in the bus.’ He held out a glass to me before taking one for himself. A passing waitress smiled at us both – the happy couple. ‘It’s going to get busy any minute, and we’re probably not going to be able to talk until tomorrow. But I just wanted to say how amazing you look, how amazing this is, and how amazed I am that you’re now my wife.’

‘Don’t blow your whole speech.’

‘I mean it, Zoe. Sometimes I didn’t … I didn’t always know how we were going to end up, even though I always knew I wanted to be with you. And to look at us today, to look at all this …’ He was welling up.

I chinked my glass against his. ‘Happy wedding day.’

He smiled, and replied, ‘Happy wedding day, wife.’

I drank my wine in one gulp, burning my throat.

The rest of the reception was a blur. I noticed that Liz, my maid of honour, was there without her boyfriend. She hadn’t said that Adam couldn’t come, but she didn’t mention his notable absence, so neither did I, sensing it wasn’t something she wanted to discuss. Instead she cooed over my bag, gasping as I explained that Mum and Dad had insisted the bride should have a special gift on her wedding day. Esther, my responsible, married eldest sister, who had our dad’s smaller stature and our mum’s gentle stubbornness, had been clapping her hands with glee when Dad handed me the box last night, having received a Céline bag (also second hand) when she’d got married four years ago – it had swiftly become her nappy bag when William was born a year later. Ava, taller and quieter, the next eldest, looked on with peaceful, happy excitement, while Kat, the youngest of us four by four years, bold and foot-stamping ever since Mum and Dad brought her home from the hospital, had stood with folded arms and bright purple pursed lips while I’d lifted the layers of tissue paper to find an old, impossibly soft, black Chanel 2.55 handbag.

‘Now, it’s not brand new,’ Dad had said, apologetically.

We’d all laughed. ‘Dad! It’s beautiful. Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad.’

I hadn’t expected it. My wedding to Jack seemed so different, somehow, to Esther and Ethan’s, that I’d had no idea I’d get any kind of present. Their wedding had been all any of us had talked about for months – a happy event which had been a given since they’d got together – but ours just seemed to have arrived, surprising even me. I didn’t think anyone would take it as seriously, somehow. And yet this bag! I’d slept with it on my bedside table, intending it to be the first thing I saw when I woke up that day, but in the end that honour had fallen to the breakfast tray Mum had brought up to me, with her coral necklace from her own wedding day on the side plate next to the boiled egg.

The wedding party bubbled on: speeches and toasts to us and to absent loved ones, tears, food and dancing, hugs and good wishes from some of Jack’s employees at Henderson’s, his shoe shop. All the while I was aware of Dad watching us, and Liz too, each wearing concerned faces when they thought no one was looking. My sisters were too busy to notice; flirting with the bar staff, even Esther, the Sensible One, hugging her toddler to one hip and ogling one of the hot barmen.

Mum hugged me whenever she walked past, kissing me and saying how wonderful this whole day was, how perfect, how sorry she was that Grandma wasn’t alive to see it, but how much she would have loved it all – loved both me and Jack. Then she’d start to cry again, leaving Dad to come and steer her away and I would look at whoever I was with and laugh, loving my mum’s easy emotions.

At one point I looked over to see Benni, my boss, on the dancefloor with Iffy, making wild jigging circles and calling out, ‘Chidinma! Philip! Get on here!’ as she tried to lure my parents into dancing too; Benni’s wife Gina sat with Liz, watching them all and laughing fondly, enjoying a night off from her and Benni’s twin boys. Later on, Benni and Iffy took the mic from the DJ to croon ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ at Jack and me. We joined in, far from embarrassed at their drunken serenade – it didn’t seem too different to an average night out for us. Liz was unusually quiet without her plus one; she’d not mentioned anything to me recently about problems between them, but maybe she’d thought the run up to today wasn’t the time. I wanted to return the countless favours of support and tact she’d given me over the recent months, but it felt like it would have to wait.

Jack and I met occasionally throughout the rest of the reception party. We hadn’t wanted a first dance, so we mostly all danced together in a big group with our friends. I saw him at the bar; he kissed me while I was talking to his aunt. Then suddenly it was midnight, and our carriage awaited. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave the moment of this party, didn’t want to leave my sisters and our friends. I didn’t want this party to be over, to face what days and months and years came next. I loved Jack, but I didn’t want to start married life.

A cheering crowd lifted us both up and carried us to our wedding car, driver Al looking more hangdog than ever, his vintage Triumph covered in foam and balloons. Whistles, hollers and cheers followed us back up the drive.

‘I’m sorry about your car,’ I shouted forwards to him. ‘About the foam and stuff.’

He waved his hand over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, love, it’s all covered by the costs. Cleaning’s part of the package – it happens every time.’

Jack gave me a look.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ He sighed. And I’d done everything I could to act the happy bride today. ‘Did you have a good time, Zo?’

I smiled at him. ‘When do I not have a good time at a party?’

‘Good. Me too.’

At the hotel we were too tired to do much more than sign in, which Jack did with a flourish and a grin. When I looked at the sheet, he’d filled in Mr and Mrs Bestwick and I felt a different kind of exhaustion when he gave me a jokey wink. Up in our room, we lay on our bed, vases of flowers from friends and family all over the sideboard and dressing table, and I reached out and put my hand on the small of Jack’s back. Then, with the lights still on, fully dressed, we both fell fast asleep.

The next morning we woke up to blinding light and sixty missed calls on my phone. We’d slept right through the bacon sandwich brunch for all our guests, and were being called by reception on the blaring landline to gently enquire whether we’d be checking out shortly or staying for another night. I was all for staying for another – hide away a bit longer, make the most of this massive bed and giant bathtub – but Jack reminded me that we’d blown our budget with even one night here. We’d debated for ages about whether to go home after the reception, back to the flat my parents had helped us buy, full of wedding presents that had already been delivered. But we’d thought we’d splash out because that’s what you do, right? You lose your mind and do everything that’s out of character and out of budget. And if for a moment you wonder if really that’s the right decision – to get outfits that cost more than a white tiger, and the hotel room that you won’t even notice because you were so tired and drunk and emotional you could have spent the night on a park bench and not noticed the difference – well, you just take a deep breath and repeat But It’s My Wedding, and stamp your feet to really get into the role.

I stripped off my wedding jumpsuit and climbed into the shower, while Jack rang our families and packed up our stuff. By the time I’d got out, rubbed in some coconut oil and got into my favourite jeans, headscarf, soft sweater and Nikes, reception was calling again with a slightly less gentle enquiry. Jack said the Bacon Brunch had gone ahead without us at my parents’ place, and everyone had had a great time. Both his dad and my parents were fine, understood completely, and everyone sent their love.

After finally managing to check out, wrapped in scarves and coats against the cold, we hit the Tube to discover that the only free seats were at either end of the row. Jack sat me down with the bags then turned to the man next to me.

‘Sorry, mate, would you mind taking the seat at the end? We only got married yesterday, and I’d like to sit next to my wife.’ He giggled a bit as he said the final word.

The man beamed at me, saying, ‘Sure! Congratulations, guys!’ in a sunny Australian accent, but I’d already covered my eyes with my hands and was trying not to set the carriage alight with my blushes. It’s fine, I thought, it’s fine, he’s just being romantic, he’s just excited, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. One day I’m sure I’ll get used to that word. Wife.

Everyone was watching us now, so I was too self-conscious to start up a conversation with Jack. We sat in a sleepy silence, holding hands, bags at our feet, watching everyone watching us. At Seven Sisters, we stepped out and heard someone call, ‘Good luck, newlyweds!’ and a few people in the carriage laughed. I squeezed Jack’s hand, trying to swallow my nausea.

‘Do you remember when we used to use actual words to talk to each other instead of hand actions?’ he said. That got a laugh out of me, and he said, ‘Thank god! I thought one of us might have had a stroke and forgotten English. Right. Lunch. Pub? Or home?’

We chatted about the various options, and it felt like normality again, the two of us planning meals and making plans. In the end, we picked up bits for lunch from the shop on the corner, and by the time we’d got to our front door I’d forgotten completely about what was waiting for us inside.

Boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff. Bedding, picture frames, coffee cups, lamps, a blender, an espresso machine, vases, cushions; piled up on our sofa, the floor, the kitchen counters, even balanced on the big hatch between kitchen and living room. Like the whole of the Generation Game conveyor belt had been carrying its load into our flat. Upstairs Jan, the neighbour above us in the top half of the house, had also left a bunch of flowers and a card for us at the door, and we added them to the pile like a tiny cherry on a huge, sprawling cake.

‘I’d forgotten this lot was here. Do you remember asking for all this stuff?’ I said.

‘Not really. That day was a bit of a blur. Remind me why we unpacked it all already?’ Jack was scratching his beard, wide eyed at everything filling our living room.

‘This cushion, though. I don’t even remember seeing it, let alone wanting it.’ I picked up a needlepoint cushion with a white terrier picked out in murky shades of beige and brown.

‘Or this vase.’ Jack held up another vase. ‘Or that one.’ We worked for a few minutes, going through the gifts and lining everything up on the kitchen hatch and along the coffee table. We stared around us. Eventually, I said, ‘Hang on, why would we want … seven vases?’

We looked through everything around us, at the plaid garden kneeler and the brass rabbit ornament.

‘This isn’t ours,’ we said at the same time. The giddiness and bustle of the upcoming wedding had meant we’d opened and unpacked every box without really noticing what was in there; it was only the coffee maker which looked familiar from our own list.

‘Mmm. Can we keep the espresso machine, though? Didn’t we want one of those?’ Jack looked at me pleadingly.

‘Hell yes. We’ll claim it as compensation for our missing gifts.’

While Jack made us a barrel of coffee each, I started on the sandwiches: bacon, avocado and feta, slathered with hot pepper chutney. My sore head and tiredness got the better of my manners, and I’d almost finished mine by the time Jack brought the coffees to the sofa.

‘That coffee machine was literally harder to set up than an actual spaceship.’

‘Literally.’

‘Having flown many, I’m confident in that comparison.’ We peered into our mugs, staring at the black speckles scattered through the frothed milk. ‘I might not have entirely mastered it quite yet.’

‘Tea?’

‘Tea.’

I swallowed my last bite of sandwich, headed into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Hungover-peckish, I opened the fridge.

‘Oh my god!’

Jack leant in through the hatch. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Look!’

Inside the fridge was the whole top half of our wedding cake, in all its creamy, buttery, sugary glory – one of my sisters must have dropped it off this morning, before we’d got home. Jack gulped down the sandwich he was holding, pulled out the cake, and said, ‘Right, you keep doing the teas, and I’ll get the forks. Do we need plates?’

I shook my head at him with mock horror. ‘Plates? Please, who are we, the Queen?’ Within five minutes we were back on the sofa, giant mugs of tea in our hands, forking wodges of cake from the platter. As we lazily watched The Antiques Roadshow, I cuddled up under Jack’s arm.

This was better. This was the married life Jack had promised me.

He started laughing.

‘What?’

His eyes creased up with how funny this genius thought was, and soon he was barely able to get the words out.

‘I bet you’re thinking … how if this is married life … it really suits you!’

‘That’s it? That’s your searing insight of the day? How much I like lying on the sofa, eating cake and watching TV with you? Well done for having registered the basic facts of my life preferences.’

‘Is this how you always saw yourself when you were grown up?’

‘Unlike every other normal child, I didn’t spend my youth fantasising about the chosen decor and potential TV habits of my adult self. I was too busy getting skinned knees and crushing on the local lifeguard.’

‘I hope you’ll give me his name so I can send him a note letting him know he lost his chance.’

‘Romance, thy name is Jack. I think he was gay, anyway.’

‘Wow, he really did miss his chance.’

‘Listen, much as all this talk of the homosexual lifeguards of my childhood is turning me on, shouldn’t we be consummating our marriage or something?’

‘Is that an invitation?’

I responded by stripping off as quickly as possible, despite my sore, sugar-rushing head.

‘Do you remember when we used to worry about sophisticated chat-up lines?’

‘Jack, I said “I do”. What more do you need?’ I started trying to pull his trainers off.

‘You’re such a femme fatale.’

‘I’ll give you femme fatale.’

‘Ooh, will you?’ Jack’s face lit up.

‘If you mean will I put on red lipstick, then yes, I’m willing to do that. If you mean literally anything else, then no, unless you do it too.’

‘I knew married life was going to change you.’

I stopped trying to pull his other trainer off.

‘Yeah, you’ve got me. Now, are you going to get this kit off or am I going to have to go and visit my local pool for any heterosexual leftovers from my teenage years?’

Jack pulled his top off. ‘You had me at heterosexual leftovers.’

We couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Dad had said, Dad-like, that he’d never even been out of the country until he was in his thirties, which made Mum narrow her eyes at him until he’d offered us another cup of tea and a biscuit. Friends and family sent hampers and vouchers, and the three days after the wedding were spent mostly wrapped around each other in our flat, occasionally moving upright to get more smoked salmon or chocolate eclairs or boar pâté down us, or to tighten the curtains against the cold January winds. But just as I started worrying I might be coming down with either gout or scurvy, the honeymoon was over, and we were due back at work the next day.

It was a cold Monday morning as Jack handed over my packed lunch, kissing me goodbye outside our front door. ‘Back to school. Have a good day, wife.’ I was still uncomfortable with that. I’d swallow it down, though, just like that second tier of wedding cake.

‘Have a good day, dearest husband of mine.’

We both made mock-vomiting faces, kissed again, then went in our separate directions: me a bus ride away to Walker High School, the secondary where I’d been teaching Science for the last four years, and Jack to the shoe shop he owns and designs for, all slick white spaces and open brickwork and handmade shoes strewn artfully around.

When I got into the Science office, I immediately set eyes on a tray of bubbling prosecco laid out on a table piled high with cards and gifts, with balloons sellotaped to each corner. No one was about. I walked around to the small kitchenette, where everyone was clustered around something on the other side of the room.

‘Happy New Year. Is it someone’s birthday?’ I asked, making everyone scream in surprise. Our lab assistant, Miks, yelped and knocked the cake they’d all been huddled around off the counter. We all stared at the mush of icing and crumbs on the floor, the candles still somehow burning as they lay at odd angles from the side of the pile.

‘You’re early! You’re never early, darling!’ wailed Benni. ‘These guys just wanted to do something to mark your wedding—’

‘Since not all of us made the exclusive guest list,’ Miks interjected, eyes rolling cartoonishly.

‘And I said, Oh, don’t worry, Zoe’s never early, we’ve got plenty of time, and now …’

We all stared at the pile on the floor again.

‘I solemnly swear never to be early to work again.’

‘Better,’ said Benni. ‘Darling, you know I find it immensely unnerving when you get all Motivated Teacher. Or is this Jack’s magical influence? Has marriage finally uncovered your work ethic?’

‘If my work ethic involves eating wedding cake from unlikely places – not like that, Miks – then you might just be right. If you mean am I likely to be willing to stay until 9 p.m. to attend a four-hour school performance of Annie for you, then no, I’m afraid my marriage certificate has not yet altered the fact that I still prefer home to school. Just. Much as you’re the best boss in the world, Benni.’

Benni, head of Science, smiled at me, then gave me a hug. ‘Don’t tell the Head about the prosecco. Anyway, I’ve given them a blow-by-blow of the actual wedding, so everyone can pretend they were actually there. I told them about the ceremony, your outfit, how drunk the priest got, how you punched a barman, how that fire spread so fast—’

‘I’m sorry you guys couldn’t all be there,’ I laughed.

‘You didn’t invite us!’ called Miks.

‘But that’s it now. We eat this cake, we open these gifts – thank you, by the way – and then all of life is as before. Ok?’

A look passed between Benni, Miks and the dozen other Science teachers and technicians.

‘What? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened,’ soothed Benni. ‘But, darling, we’d all just like to take a moment to remind you what a great sport you are.’

‘Oh god.’

She led me back around to my space in the Science office, where the computer screen, keyboard, back and top of my desk were papered with ‘Mrs Bestwick’ signs, in a hundred different fonts and colours. I wanted to cry and set the desk alight immediately, but I threw my hands up and shrieked, laughing and shaking my fist at them. I left most of it there for the rest of the day.

I managed to escape comment throughout the day, but in my Year 11 class after lunch, my most promising and least delivering student put her hand up and said, ‘Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis! I heard you got married, Miss.’ At least my students didn’t think it was funny to call me by Jack’s surname, even if he did.

There was a buzz around the classroom: teachers aren’t supposed to have lives, eat meals and go shopping, let alone get married, which is so inextricably linked with sex. The thought of your teacher doing it with someone is enough to start a riot.

‘I did, Michaela.’

‘Why, Miss?’

Of all the questions, this was the last one I was expecting. I’d expected a barrage of Did I take a helicopter? Did I go in a carriage? Did I have a bridezilla meltdown? Was there a fight? But this …

‘That’s enough, Michaela. This is a Physics lesson, not a Facebook status update.’ The class hissed its approval.

‘Ooh, you got burnt by Miss …’

And that was the only mention I got all day. I felt like I had somehow got away with something.

By six o’clock, everyone had gone except me and Benni. She came over and perched at the edge of my desk, fingering the tattered ‘Mrs Bestwick’ print-outs.

‘You did well.’

‘Did I leave them up too long?’ I asked, indicating the celebratory remnants strewed around my desk. ‘Should I have taken them off sooner?’

‘No, that would have been too obvious. If I had medals to give, you’d be next in line, darling. After my mother, obviously, and possibly after my poor sons, but you’d certainly be on the shortlist.’

‘If I open my mouth can you tell me if I’ve any teeth left at all, or just stumps?’

‘It’s fine. People just like to make assumptions, particularly after something as black and white as a wedding. Give it another week and they’ll all be expecting the patter of tiny feet.’

‘And “oh my god, your babies would be beautiful” …’

‘I know, I know, we had the same. But with added, “And which one of you would be the mum?”’ She took my hand. ‘And yes, I know you haven’t changed your name. It was just Miks’s little joke. Ok?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Now, are you coming for a Monday night cocktail or do you need to ask your hubby for permission?’

‘You might have been my “mentor” – your words, not mine, I might add – since I started teaching, but—’

‘If you don’t know I’m joking then I’m going to have to put you up for a very long and boring disciplinary procedure.’

‘Drinks are on you then.’

‘Drinks are on me, darling.’

It was half ten before Benni and I had finished at the bar – departmental stuff had come up that required intense discussions over many glasses of melon daiquiri – and my entry into the flat was noisier than I’d intended. Smash! The front door. Crash! A low bookcase falling over. Crunch! The pile of recycling I was going to lie on for juuust a second.

‘Shhh,’ I recommended.

‘Zo, is that you?’ Jack called from the sofa.

If I stay quiet, he won’t know it’s me, I thought.

‘Zo, if that’s not you, it’s a woefully clumsy burglar and I’ll need to actually get up and do something about it.’

Shhh, I thought again.

Suddenly, Jack was standing over me.

‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’

‘Bossy,’ I muttered, as he pulled me up and half walked, half carried me to bed. He removed my clothes, but as he tried to tuck me in I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly amorous.

‘Stay with me,’ I groaned.

‘I’ll get you a pint of water, then I’m coming to bed, ok?’

‘I don’t want a pint of water, I want you.’

‘You’ll want a pint of water when you wake up in three hours’ time, Zo.’

‘Yes, but I want you now,’ I said, closing my eyes to give them a rest.

When I woke up again at 2 a.m., my mouth tasted like the sole of my shoe, and Jack was snoring next to me. There was a time, even a month ago, when he would have been with me tonight. He’d have been out, I’d have been out, we’d have eventually met up on our routes and we’d only just be getting in now. There might even have been dancing, Monday night be damned.

I wanted to wake him up and ask him why that hadn’t happened tonight, but when I rolled over into a sitting position I realised I wanted to die instead, and any heart to hearts would just have to wait until I was able to sit up without vomiting, or had actually died, whichever came first. In my Magic 8-Ball brain, I thought about work tomorrow and came up with ‘OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD’. I’d email Benni and see if she’d mind telling the Head I’d passed on.

At 7 a.m., Jack was shaking me, shouting and shining a torch into my eyes like a friendly interrogator. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head, but he kept on. Eventually his words translated, and I heard, ‘Zo, wake up, you’re going to be late. I’ve made you a coffee and toast. Do you want me to turn the shower on?’

‘What the ever-loving fuck is this?’ I groaned again, trying to turn away without having to move my body. ‘What are you doing?’

Jack lifted the pillow off. ‘Zo, time to get up. You’ve only been back a day. You can’t call in sick.’

‘I was out with Benni, she’ll be the same.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, once you’re up you’ll feel much better.’

I pulled the pillow over my head again. Jack pulled it off again, and tried to lift me up.

‘Jack, just piss off, alright?’

There was a shocked moment of silence, then Jack lowered me down and put both his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m off to work, you do what you want.’ I caterpillared under the duvet and heard him pack up and slam the front door. I’d made one discovery already that morning: if there was ever a hangover tip to make you feel even worse, it was being a total bastard to your boyfriend. Husband.

I knew he was right though, and after a minute or two of checking my limbs were still attached, I crawled on all fours to the bathroom, threw up for a while, then got into the shower. I found a coffee and banana under the mirror when I got out again, once the water was running completely cold.

In the kitchen, Jack’s toast for me was also cold in the toaster. I mashed the banana on top with a little cinnamon, and sat chewing thoughtfully until the shakes had subsided. This was a bad one. I’d already sent a text to Benni to warn her of the state I was in (I’d just got a Ugh. Me too in response), but I needed something more than just a text for Jack. Looking at the scattered remains of my breakfast, I realised that this was why I loved him – his thoughtfulness, his commitment, his kindness. But this morning I had a killer hangover and I just wanted to lie in bed and suffer. Why couldn’t he just leave me be, if only for five more minutes?

I’d overreacted, but I couldn’t bear being treated like a wayward child by someone insisting on what was best for me.

Staggering through the school gates as the bell rang, I was sure we could fix it.