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.
"You're not...p-pregnant are you?" he asked, his face draining of colour, his features rendered rigid with fear.
I would have collapsed in shock at his accusation had I not already being sitting down. I knew that Scott liked children—I'd witnessed him playing enthusiastically with his nephews on many occasions—but I also knew that he didn't particularly want their sticky handprints on his sofa and their 'artwork' on the fridge. Which was why he insisted on at least two forms of contraception being used at all times. Still, we had been together for four years, and I was starting to wonder if children of his own were on his agenda at all.
"Of course I'm not bloody pregnant," I snapped. "It would be a miracle if the sperm, even that from a high achiever like you, could get past both the pill and a condom, don't you think?"
"Oh, thank goodness," he sighed, too relieved to take issue with my sarcasm. "So what are you so serious about then? Are you leaving me?"
I winced as he came perilously close to the truth. I was tempted to let him continue in this vein, reasoning that my news would come as a breath of fresh air if I reassured him that I had neither deviously appropriated his sperm nor replaced him in my affections with someone else.
"I, um, well," I faltered. "There have been some job cuts at work. Business hasn't been too good lately and basically they have got rid of my position."
Scott's face creased with concern as he pulled me to him for a hug.
"Oh, Chloe, I'm so sorry," he murmured, kissing the top of my head. "I know we were thinking about moving to a bigger place, but we can forget that for now, and I can put you in touch with some people, see if there are any job openings. George's wife works in communications," he added, practical as ever. "We'll see if she knows of anything."
"That's, er, great, but perhaps you don't need to do anything just yet," I said hurriedly. "You see, they've offered me a promotion. In Paris." I looked at him apprehensively, wondering how he'd react.
"Wow! Congratulations, Chloe! That's an amazing opportunity; it will be great for your career. I assume you're going to take it?" he asked a moment later, looking at me closely as he realised that it perhaps wasn't quite time to crack open the Dom Pérignon.
"I don't know," I said miserably, wishing that he could stop being so sensible and career-minded for just once, and resisting the urge to yell, 'Screw my career. What about us?' at him.
"The sensible thing in the current job market would be to take it, really; I'd be mad not to. It's more money, more responsibility, and it's Paris for God's sake," I said carefully.
Seeing Scott nodding vigorously in agreement, I made some vague noises about not wanting to start over again in a new city and leave my friends, attempting to gauge his reaction before I got down to the real reason why I was in two minds about leaving.
Scott immediately brushed away these concerns with a wave of his hand, sounding remarkably like my mother as he began to deliver a sermon on new opportunities. I took a deep breath and decided to cut to the heart of the matter.
"I...The thing is, I don't want to leave you," I rushed in a small voice. As soon as the sentence was out my mouth, I cringed. What did I sound like, for God's sake? I wasn't some mousy housewife too scared to be without her husband. I was a modern, ambitious career woman prepared to do whatever it takes to climb that ladder. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Chloe, I thought sarcastically. You're in thrall to a bloody man, and you know it.
"But, Chloe, it's only for a year, as you said." Scott took my hands in his, singularly failing to see my point of view. His next sentence threw me, as it was about as far as you could get from the various scenarios that I had been experimenting with in my head all day. These had involved the phrases 'fully supportive of whatever you decide;' 'I'll come with you;' and even a wildly optimistic, 'seal the deal with an engagement ring.'
'It will probably be good for us, you know,' had not remotely featured, and at first, I thought I had misheard him. I frowned, disconcerted, and as is my unfortunate habit when my nerves are on edge, jumped immediately to conclusions.
"Good for us?" I enquired somewhat acidly. "Good for us in what way, exactly? Good for us in that you can watch Sky Sports 24/7 without something as inconvenient as me trying to hoover round your feet, or good for us in that you can finally get to know our blonde upstairs neighbour a little bit better? I think she is a porn star, by the way. She has to be with that hair and those boobs," I added with uncharacteristic spite.
I ploughed on, unable to stop myself.
"I see what you're doing. You're trying to get rid of me!" I exclaimed belligerently, jumping up onto the sofa to give myself, if not the high ground morally, then at least physically.
"Chloe, snap out of it," Scott said exasperatedly, getting up to answer the door for the pizza deliveryman. "You know, people would kill to be in your position right now. I bet your colleagues weren't as lucky as you were today," he said as he returned to the living room and handed me a pizza box. "Christ, you really can be bloody narrow-minded and self-pitying sometimes."
"I'm sorry," I said immediately, feeling suitably chastened and anxious to get rid of the tense atmosphere that clouded the room. "I know I'm being silly. It's just, it's a big adjustment, you know?"
"I know," Scott said, sitting back down next to me on the sofa. "But I'm here for you. You know that, right? We'll make this work."
I nodded, blinking back tears. "I'm going to miss you so much," I said, my voice wobbling.
"I'll miss you too, Chloe. I'll miss you, too," he said, giving me a brief, one-armed hug before flicking the television off mute and tearing into his pepperoni pizza.