The Good Part(27)

‘Told you,’ Felix says, shaking his head, then he takes his sister’s hand and leads her into the next room.

As soon as they are out of earshot, Sam hands me a plate of buttered toast, and I wonder if I’m out of the woods in terms of everyone being annoyed with me. Sam’s wearing a grey T-shirt and faded navy-blue jeans, while his wavy brown hair is slightly mussed up at the side. He really is incredibly attractive. If I can shake this hangover, I wonder if sex might be on the cards. Surely that’s one of the perks of having a husband – you don’t need to get all dressed up, faff about with liquid eyeliner, or even leave the house; you can just get it on in your pyjamas. Would sleeping with Sam involve cheating on myself somehow? The thought hurts my brain.

‘So, you don’t remember falling asleep on the train? Me having to put the kids in the car and come fetch you from Alton station?’ he asks, in a tone that makes me think hot morning sex might not be on the menu.

‘Oh, shit. Did I? I’m so sorry.’

‘What happened yesterday, Luce? Let’s put aside the state you came home in, I got a notification on our joint account that you’d spent nearly three thousand pounds in Selfridges. Have you lost your mind?’

‘I, um . . . I wanted to treat myself. I never get to go shopping.’

‘Never get to go shopping – Lucy, you have a wardrobe full of clothes! We can’t afford to spend that kind of money, you know we can’t.’

‘We look to be doing okay,’ I say, waving my arm to indicate the beautiful house complete with shiny coffee machine and fridge the size of a small country.

‘Yes, we’re incredibly fortunate, but you know we’re over-extended. We need every penny we earn to cover the mortgage, the loan on the car, Maria’s salary, the new loft cladding, our pension contributions. You were having a go at me last week for buying new running trainers when we’re trying to pay off the eco-boiler, then you go and blow ten times that on one shopping trip?’

When he puts it like that, it does sound pretty irresponsible. Maybe I miscalculated how rich we are. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry,’ I say, sinking down in my chair. This conversation is depressing me. To think: you finally get a decent salary and money in the bank, but then you have to spend it all on boring stuff, like boilers and loft cladding, so there’s nothing left for fun shopping trips.

‘What’s going on with you?’ Sam asks, taking a seat at the kitchen table, his annoyance shifting to concern. I need to tell him the truth. Honestly, if I’m worried he’s going to think I’m insane, he’s already looking at me like I’ve lost the plot.

‘Sam, there’s something I need to tell you. Something strange.’



At first Sam’s eyes grow wide in disbelief, but as I go on, he hunches forward, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hands clasped so tight his knuckles start to go white. I tell him about going to my old flat and then to Badger TV despite not remembering where I worked or what I did there. He listens attentively, not saying a word, the crease in his forehead deepening with every new admission.

When I’m done talking, he gets up from the table and draws me into a hug. Does he believe me, or does he think I’m making all this up to distract him from the spending spree? When he pulls away, I see the blue in his eyes has melted into pools of compassion. He believes me, and he isn’t cross any more.

‘We’ll get this sorted, don’t worry,’ he whispers, pulling me close again.

There’s something incredibly comforting about the feel of his arms around me, the oaky, clean smell of his neck. I could happily stay like this for hours. Good hugs are underrated. I don’t think any of my past boyfriends have been great huggers, it always felt perfunctory or transitory. With Sam, it feels like his arms are creating a forcefield around me. It’s as though his body is telling me that if he could, he would absorb my every worry or pain. When he finally pulls away, he picks up his phone from the table and says, ‘I need to make some calls. Stay here, relax, don’t exert yourself.’ Then he disappears into the next room.

Well, that went better than I could have hoped. I was sure Sam was going to think I’d lost my mind, that he’d rush me to the doctor to have my head examined. Maybe in a marriage you just believe each other, no questions asked.

While he’s gone, I scan the front page of the newspaper, open on a tablet on the kitchen table. There are pictures of a war somewhere, a headline about drought, stories about an American politician I don’t recognise and an interview with Harper Beckham about her new role as UN ambassador. Reading these headlines makes my skin prickle with some new fear, and I quickly close the screen and push the tablet away. My brain is having a hard enough time catching up on what I’ve missed in my own life, I’m not sure it’s ready to absorb what I’ve missed in the rest of the world. If I open those floodgates I might drown.

When Sam comes back, he shoots me a sympathetic, wary smile, as though he’s worried that if he says the wrong thing I might spontaneously combust, right here in the kitchen.

‘I feel fine, I’m not ill. Honestly, it’s as though I’ve time-travelled here. Did you ever see that movie The Time Traveler’s Wife? Maybe it’s like that.’

He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Why don’t I make you a real breakfast?’