Читать книгу The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop - Tracy Corbett - Страница 12

Laura read through Jamie Oliver’s instructions again. Heat the oven to full whack. Check. Place rock salt in an ovenproof dish. Check. Place the oysters on top and cook for twenty minutes. Laura glanced at the kitchen clock, wondering if it was too early to put them in. It was eight forty. Martin promised he’d be home by seven. His promises didn’t seem to count for much these days.

She sent him another text. ‘Where are you?’

The clementine jelly was setting in the fridge, the Asian seared tuna was ready to warm up when required, but the salad was starting to wilt. Her romantic meal was in danger of turning into a shrivelled mess.

She went upstairs to check her appearance wasn’t doing the same.

The house wasn’t designed for a single occupant. It was a ‘highly desirable property with spacious living area’ and meant for a family. Laura hadn’t wanted something so vast, but Martin had convinced her it was an investment. Getting a bigger place would give them time to adjust to the mortgage payments before starting a family, preventing them from having to move again.

Martin was a good salesman, she’d give him that. She’d fallen for his spiel. But the modern design, white decor and three empty bedrooms only served to increase her trepidation about having kids, not endear her to the idea. It was too much, too soon. They should be living it up, relishing their early thirties, not behaving like wannabe parents in training.

She gazed into the floor-length mirror, checking her carefully chosen outfit was still intact. Her cheeks were a little flushed from cooking, but the black dress she’d purchased showed off her curves and auburn hair. More importantly, it advertised her intentions. With heels to enhance her calves and a hint of hold-ups showing through the clingy fabric, Martin couldn’t fail to want her … could he?

She had one more ace up her sleeve, her anniversary gift. Traditionally, five years meant something wooden, and she had come up with a rather naughty interpretation of what that might mean.

She picked up the wrapped parcel, carrying it downstairs. With any luck, the contents would be in play well before they reached the bedroom. Sex toys had yet to feature in their relationship, but intervention was required if she was going to save her marriage.

That intervention came in the form of fruity, juicy lube, a satin eye mask with ribbon ties and a set of sex-position playing cards. Martin wasn’t the only salesperson in the household. She also knew how to close a deal.

She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Keep calm, she told herself. All will be fine.

Except it wasn’t. Nine thirty came and went. Nine forty-five. Ten o’clock. Finally, at ten thirty-five, when the oysters had retreated into their shells and she’d stopped bothering to reply to Martin’s apologetic ‘I’m running late’ texts, he walked through the door.

‘I’m so sorry, love.’ He dumped his briefcase and rain-soaked coat on the kitchen table. ‘I got away as soon as I could.’ He kissed her cheek, smelling of day-old aftershave and damp fabric. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Dinner smells good.’

‘I doubt that.’ Frustration overrode any desire to be sultry and seductive. ‘It’s ruined. I’ve binned most of it.’

He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘That’s a shame. Order a takeaway and we’ll crack open a bottle of wine. It’s no big deal.’ He hooked his jacket on the back of a chair, placing a wrapped box onto the table. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

She looked into his tired eyes. Love and tenderness stared back. They were at a crossroads and she was in the driving seat. She could park up and switch off the engine, accept his apology and order in a takeaway, making the most of what was left of their anniversary … Or she could run the bastard over. Why should she let him off the hook? Why was it always down to her to concede, to accept the shreds of affection he deemed to throw her way? It was time to make a stand. Revving the engine, ignoring all warning signs telling her to slow down, she hit the junction with full-on tyre-screeching, wheel-spinning throttle.

‘What do you mean, it’s no big deal?’ Her hands settled on her hips. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary, Martin. Of course it’s a big deal.’

He closed his eyes as if choosing his response carefully. ‘I just meant that we don’t have to sit down to a formal meal in order to celebrate our anniversary. What matters is that we’re together. I’m here now. Let’s make the most of what’s left of the evening, instead of disagreeing.’

She hated it when Martin tried to reason her out of an argument. ‘So it doesn’t matter that I’ve spent all frigging evening cooking? Preparing a romantic meal? Trying to make it a special night for you?’

He sighed. ‘Yes, of course it matters. And once again I’m sorry.’ He came over to where she was standing. ‘I was caught up at work. There was nothing I could do about it.’

She stepped backwards. ‘There was a time when you would’ve said stuff work. I was more important.’

He took her by the shoulders. ‘You still are. I left as soon as I could. I’m here now. Can we please try to enjoy what’s left of the evening?’ His eyes searched her face, pleading with her to relent. ‘Would you like your gift?’ He manoeuvred her over to the table, sitting her down. ‘I think you’ll like it.’

Her anger hadn’t abated, but it seemed churlish to refuse. She opened the card first. The words ‘you’re my world’ written in Martin’s bold scrawl threw another emotion into the mix. She didn’t want to cry. She opened the present, ripping away the paper in an effort to disperse any weakness. She needn’t have worried. The contents washed away any threat of blubbing.

Martin stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. ‘Do you like it?’

Words almost failed her. ‘It’s a blender.’ Even to her own ears her voice sounded lifeless.

‘I know. You said you wanted one.’ He stopped massaging, no doubt sensing her lack of delight at his choice of present.

‘I do, but …’

‘But what? You said you wanted a blender, I’ve bought you a blender. Tell me what I’ve done wrong now?’

Laura stood up. There was no way he was going to hijack her anger. How dare he play the wounded card. She was the one whose feelings had been hurt.

Actions spoke louder than words. So instead of explaining why his attempt at an anniversary present was woefully inadequate, she fetched her own gift.

There was a sense of trepidation radiating off Martin as he took the gift, as though being handed a grenade with the ring removed. He placed the package on the table, tentatively removing the ribbons and large bow.

Laura watched him, waiting for his expression to register the significance of her gift compared to the insult of being given a kitchen appliance. He unwrapped the scented tissue paper from each item and looked at it without comment before placing it on the table. Other than pausing longer over the playing cards, his expression gave nothing away.

Laura lost patience. ‘Don’t you like them?’

He rubbed his eyes, wearily.

She felt her anger increase. ‘Don’t just pull a face. Tell me what’s wrong?’

He picked up the tube of lube. ‘This is all a bit … juvenile, don’t you think?’

Laura wondered if she’d heard him right. ‘Juvenile?’

‘Yes, juvenile.’ He dropped the tube on the table. ‘It’s tacky. Cheap.’

She couldn’t believe it. ‘Oh, you mean unlike giving a sensible gift, like a blender.’

Martin flinched, but didn’t say anything.

She picked up the satin mask. ‘There was a time when you would’ve loved getting stuff like this. You would’ve relished the opportunity to try them out.’ She shook the mask in his face. ‘You would’ve seen the funny side.’ She threw it on the table. ‘So what’s changed, Martin? Don’t you want a decent sex life?’

He looked stung. His face creased into a frown. ‘Of course I do, but this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t us, Laura. We’ve moved on. Grown up.’

‘Grown up?’ Laura was in danger of throttling her husband. ‘So what, now we’re thirty we can’t play around? Next you’ll be telling me it’s the missionary position or nothing.’

Martin looked annoyed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not being ridiculous.’ She moved towards him. ‘I’m trying to keep our sex life from dying out completely. Is that such a crime?’

He reached for her. ‘And that’s the problem, Laura. You’re trying too hard.’

She shrugged him away. ‘Well, one of us has to. You’re not making any effort.’

‘That’s not true. What you have to appreciate, Laura, is that life moves on, it changes. People change.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘We’re not students any more. We have careers and responsibilities. The mortgage needs paying. My job does that.’ He overrode her attempts to object. ‘And yes, I work long hours. I don’t always want to, but I need to. If we’re going to become financially secure and have kids then that’s the reality.’

Laura threw her hands in the air. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you played the kids card.’

Martin groaned. ‘You know how I feel. I want kids, Laura. I always have. I thought you did too?’

‘One day, yes. But what’s the hurry?’

He had the audacity to look affronted. ‘We’ve been married for five years. It’s time we settled down.’

Laura rounded on him. ‘It seems to me we’ve already settled down. If we were any more settled we’d be dead!’

He backed away. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

She followed him, cornering him by the hot oven. ‘And you’re being a selfish prick.’

‘How am I being selfish?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I love you. I provide for you. I work stupidly long hours to give you the best life possible. How is that selfish?’

The pain in his expression mirrored her own. ‘Because it’s not what I want, Martin.’ His hands dropped from her face. ‘I never see you. We never go out. We never have fun any more. And now you want me to give up my business, the one thing I have left, and be stuck at home all day with screaming babies while you’re off building your precious career.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting that at all. And do you have any idea how ungrateful you sound? Most women would count themselves lucky to be in your position.’

‘Well, why don’t you go and be with one of them then, because I don’t want this. I don’t want—’

‘Me. Yeah, that’s abundantly clear.’ He brushed past her.

‘That’s not what I meant.’

He swiped up his jacket from the chair. ‘I’ll be in the spare bedroom if you need me.’

Why did he always do that? Back away before things had been resolved? ‘Is that it? You’re quitting?’ She followed him to the door. ‘Martin? Martin …’

He didn’t reply.

A few moments later a door slammed upstairs. The shudder rattled a vase of giant yellow roses balancing on the hall table. The words ‘Happy Anniversary, darling’ danced in front of her wet eyes.

Crap.

So much for a romantic night.