Cocktails at Le Carmen

chapter two

Any number of women's magazines will tell you that we all have various techniques when it comes to bringing up sensitive subjects with our other halves—cooking a nice dinner, making an effort with our appearance, or staying silent as the television is switched from Downton Abbey to Top Gear—and each one is as clichéd as the last. Extremely predictable it may well be, and indeed the most underhanded of them all, but my preferred method for dealing with such matters with Scott is aggressively sexual. Like most men, he is incapable of thinking straight after a bit of the horizontal tango.

Before you recoil in distaste with a cry of 'manipulative psycho bitch,' I should point out that this approach is undoubtedly the safest. The last time I made an effort with my appearance, I ended up burning my face with my hair straighteners, and, as for cooking, I have been known to mistake cumin for cinnamon when making an apple crumble. It should also be noted that men are just as guilty of playing on our weak points, although this is not always executed with resounding success. A botanist I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, but even I know the difference between a bunch of petrol-station carnations and a Jane Packer bouquet. And I can tell you that Scott didn't win any brownie points by opting for the former when cancelling a long-standing dinner date in favour of playing Xbox with the boys.

It was difficult to tell if a post-coital glow would be enough to counteract the shock he was bound to feel when I dropped my bombshell, and I suddenly wished that it were something as trifling as trying to justify an unnecessary footwear purchase in Kurt Geiger when we needed all our spare cash to pay the council tax bill.

Sliding my key in the lock, I stepped into the warmth and shed my coat while simultaneously undoing a couple of buttons on my top and hiking my skirt up a few inches for good measure. Scott was sprawled out on the living room sofa looking deliciously rumpled in his suit, his tie loosened and his shirt half untucked. One eye was on a financial crisis report on the news, and the other, as I had hoped, was now on my cleavage as I peeled off my top. He pulled me onto his lap with a hungry look in his eyes and flicked the television on mute—proving, as I had accurately anticipated, that Wonderbra triumphs over Wall Street every time.

After a one-all draw in the orgasm stakes and the burning of an estimated one hundred and ninety calories on his part and about fourteen on mine, I calculated that I had approximately ten minutes before Scott disentangled himself to either jump in the shower or head to the fridge in search of sustenance to restore his depleted energy levels. Figuring that it was best to get it over with, I silently began rehearsing my speech.

"Chloe," Scott said, his voice bringing me back to the present with a jolt, "let's order a pizza. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," I said automatically, before realising with surprise that, actually, I didn't feel like eating. The last time my appetite had deserted me had been more than two years ago when I was struck down with a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning after eating dodgy mussels in Marbella.

"I'll have a margherita, thanks," I told Scott as he waved the takeaway menu under my nose. I would have preferred the alcoholic variety, of course, for some much needed Dutch courage, but all we had in the house was a dusty, half empty bottle of sherry left over from last Christmas and a bottle of Becks that I knew Scott would claim for himself.

"Listen, Scott," I said as he came back from placing the order. "I've got something to tell you, and well, I don't think you'll like it."

Up until this point I hadn't mentioned to him what had been going on at work. Not because I felt like I couldn't talk to him about it, but because I'd convinced myself that doing so would be tempting fate. A look of alarm flashed across his face as he sat down.