Читать книгу The One That Got Away - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 12

SIX

George

I’m awake before the alarm, a ball of morning energy. While Ness stretches luxuriously, her hair cascading over the pillows like some fairy-tale princess, I leap out of bed and zip downstairs to make the coffee, singing out loud as I take the steps two at a time.

‘Morning, darling,’ I say, bounding back upstairs, presenting the cup to Ness like a trophy. ‘Ta-da!’

‘Oh wow,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did someone win the lottery?’

‘Nothing! I just felt like spoiling my lovely wife. What’s wrong with that?’ I lean down and kiss her forehead. In the bathroom, I take a sip of my coffee and look at my reflection in the mirror: not bad for thirty-three – I regularly get mistaken for much younger. I like to think the boyish light is still in my eyes, and that the lines that are slowly starting to appear add character rather than age. I smile at myself, pleased with the decision I made to get my teeth professionally whitened. It really does make a difference. I run a hand through the hair on my temples, turning so the light catches it: there’s no grey there yet, but I’m not scared of the day it does start to appear: I’ve always fancied being a silver fox; a bit of a George Clooney. I rub the bristles on my jawline – even though I haven’t shaved for a couple of days, there’s no grey there, either – then I gently massage a few drops of shaving oil all over my face, to pep up the circulation and plump up my skin.

I can’t stop whistling in the shower, then, with the towel slung around my hips, I pull out my best suit and newest shirt. I match my cufflinks to my shirt and agonise over my tie: bold and bright, or classic? I hold each up in turn, turning this way and that to see which best brings out the light in my eyes. I suppose it’s not surprising that Ness looks up from her own mirror.

‘Important meeting?’ she asks, head cocked to one side, hairdryer in hand.

‘Yep. Which tie?’

She points to the bright one. ‘Need me for lunch?’

‘Oh – thanks, but no. It’s pretty much in the bag.’

‘OK.’ She shrugs and turns back to her hair but I can tell from the jerkiness in her movements that she’s thinking; irked perhaps. She usually comes to these lunches: I joke that she’s my client-magnet, though we both know she’s really just an ornament at the table. I tut silently to myself, my head in the wardrobe as I look for my belt: Didn’t think that one through, did you, George? I slide my belt through its loops and fasten it, then I go over to Ness and put my hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror. She puts down the hairdryer and her eyes meet the reflection of mine.

‘It’s a cert. I didn’t want to bore you with it.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yep.’ She fiddles with a pot on the dressing table, unscrewing and screwing its cap. Then she sucks her teeth. ‘Will you be late tonight?’

I turn and cross the room, my back to her as I pick up my suit jacket and slip it on, find my wallet and slide it into my trouser pocket.

‘’Fraid so. Didn’t I mention it?’

‘No. You didn’t.’

At the door, I pause and turn to look at her. ‘Yeah. Potential new client. Drinks in the West End.’ I shrug. ‘Sorry, hon. He chose the location. But it’s not dinner. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cooking,’ I add. ‘I’ll pick up something on my way.’

‘OK,’ she says.

Our eyes meet across the bed and hang together for a weighted moment – a moment in which I wonder if she’s on to me – how could she be? – then I smile.

‘I’ll be home as soon as I can. Have a good day, babe.’