“Sorry,” I said, smoothing down my hair. “We, um, I was just about to shower.”
“I do apologize. Mrs. Novak, I’m assuming.”
“Of course,” I said snippily.
He looked a little abashed, and withholding a grimace, I let him in.
Ash was still irritated, and his dick was in danger of trying to shake hands with our visitors. I sent him to shower while I made coffee, and Lord knows, I needed some, too. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen window, horrified by the red patches on my cheeks, chin, neck and chest—and wild, wild sex hair.
My heart was thumping, and not just from the last half an hour. The Immigration Service only made impromptu house calls when they suspected a sham marriage. I wondered who had reported us. Would Collin have been so vindictive? Even though things had ended badly between us, I didn’t want to believe that.
The man, Phillips, eyed me suspiciously, but his colleague seemed more sympathetic. Maybe it was a version of good cop/bad cop, or maybe her mood had been improved by seeing a mostly naked Ash first thing in the morning—it always worked for me. But I wished that Ash and I had thought to discuss what to say if this happened. I’d been such a fool.
I served up the coffee, taking several gulps of the steaming brew, then turned to head for the shower, but Moira, as she asked me to call her, was admiring some artwork in the living room. Too late, I realized that she’d delayed me just long enough that Ash was already dressed and out, giving us no time to confer. She smiled benignly as he passed.
I sighed, taking myself off to shower and dress, quickly returning to the living room where Ash sat looking surly and on edge.
“And we’ll want to interview you separately,” concluded Mr. Phillips, after explaining the process.
Ash shot me a quick look, but what could I say?
Ms. Walsh accompanied me into the bedroom, and Ash was left with Phillips.
“Oh, what a pretty room,” she exclaimed as I hurried to straighten the sheets and smooth out the quilt. “You do have some lovely views.”
“Yes, thank you. It’s why I chose this apartment.”
“And you didn’t know Ash then?”
“No.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Six years.”
“And how long have you known your husband?”
“Three months.” Nearly.
She tapped her pen against her notepad. “That was a short engagement.”
I didn’t reply.
“What does your family think?”
I was cautious, wondering how much to say.
“They like Ash, but they would have preferred a big, family wedding.”
“But you didn’t do that?”
“No.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I have three older sisters. For each of their weddings, my Mom went completely over the top. That’s not me. Or Ash.”
“And how did you meet?”
I took a deep breath and launched in. By the time I finished, Ms. Walsh’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath her bangs.
“Extraordinary!” she muttered. “Just extraordinary.”
She was right about that.
I thought maybe the questions were at an end, but I was wrong.
“Does he have a pet name for you?”
I blinked, surprised.
“Well, yes. It sounds like ‘moy suncheck’ but I don’t know what it means. He won’t tell me.”
She frowned at that, but wrote it down anyway.
The interview gradually became more personal: what color toothbrush did Ash use; what side of the bed did he sleep on; did he like the light on or off during sex; what position did he prefer.
Anger at the intrusive nature of the questions began to build inside me. And it felt like punishment. My government really wanted to know this?
“Mrs. Novak, if you could answer, please?” Ms. Walsh asked gently but firmly.
“He sleeps on the left,” I said tightly. “Sometimes we keep the light on, sometimes we don’t. And we enjoy a variety of positions.”
My cheeks were scarlet. I felt violated and dirty as she noted down every word.
Ash
The questions were weird. He wanted to know who took out the trash and who bought the groceries, who cleaned the apartment, who did the vacuuming. He started to get annoyed when I answered almost everything, “We both do,” but it was true.
“Do you have lamps in the bedroom?”
“Laney has one on the bedside table.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t read much.” And reading English was hard work.
He gave a dry laugh. “You don’t read much, although she writes for a living; and she doesn’t dance, although that’s your profession. Exactly what do you and your wife have in common, Mr. Novak?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. On paper, we had nothing in common. But we never ran out of things to say to each other. There were no uncomfortable silences with Laney—just silence, and that was peaceful.
“She likes listening to music, too,” I said weakly.
“Hmm. And which side of the bed does your wife sleep on?”
What the fuck? I took a deep breath. “The right.”