I let my tense muscles relax as he pulls back. “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”
“I didn’t.” He swings his coat on, stilling when he’s shoved one arm through the sleeve, his face lowering to the collar a little. He almost scowls, and I know that it’s because he just got a waft of my girly perfume lingering on the threads. “Richard did,” he finishes, looking at Richard like he hates him.
I have a feeling that coat will be going on a super-hot wash to get rid of my lingering scent the moment Jack gets home. Maybe even in the bin. Arranging the collar, he flexes his neck, and I see it again. Marks, but this time I’m a lot closer, and I can see there are four perfect lines. Scratches?
“What have you done?” I ask before I can stop myself, my hand lifting to his throat to touch gently below one of the raw red marks.
Jack freezes, his wide eyes burning into my concerned ones. It’s silent for a few tense seconds; not even Richard says a word. “It’s nothing.” Jack moves away from my touch and back over to the drawings. “Do we have the bifold door spec on here, too?” he asks.
I look at Richard, my arm dropping to my side. His narrowed eyes turn to me, and he shakes his head, his lips in an angry, straight line. “Bottom right corner,” he answers for me.
“They’ve changed. The drawing I have states five meters wide.”
“Colin wanted more light,” I say quietly, my head spinning. What’s happened?
“Get them re-quoted,” Jack orders shortly, and Richard nods. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
Without so much as a second glance, Jack storms out, leaving me and Richard standing in awkward silence. I know it’s not my place to ask, and I know I really shouldn’t, but—
“Don’t ask,” Richard grunts, marching off after Jack. I remain where I am for a few moments, stunned and quiet, and once I’ve finally found the will to move, I do so on heavy feet, collecting my bag and files and making my way out to the front.
Jack’s car is still in the driveway, him sitting in the driver’s seat, the door open with Richard leaning in. Although it’s quiet, I can see strong words being exchanged, and Richard puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s a reassuring gesture, one that gets my curiosity raging more, no matter how hard I try to beat it back.
I stand there, quietly observing while they talk, Jack’s head getting lower by the second. Until his eyes shoot up and catch me watching him. His stoic expression and his hard stare make it impossible for me to move. I hold his eyes, as he holds mine, electricity sizzling between our distant bodies like they’re touching. I see it all again, every second from that night, in clear, vivid detail. I start to breathe slowly, seeing Jack’s chest rising and falling, too.
It’s only when Richard moves back that we both snap out of our trances, and Jack grabs the door, yanking it shut. He practically wheel-spins off the gravel, leaving me with a racing mind and Richard shaking his head in despair as he marches back toward the building.
“Everything okay?” I ask as he passes me, unable to hold back my misplaced concern.
“Personal problems,” Richard grunts, disappearing through the door.
*
As I roll into suburban hell early on Wednesday evening, I spot my dad on the front lawn trimming his shrubs. The garage door is open and his old Jaguar is in the drive, sparkling like new despite being twenty years old. As I pull up at the bottom of the driveway, he looks up and frowns. “Don’t plonk it there!” he calls, waving his shears over his head. “Makes the cul-de-sac look untidy!”
I roll my eyes and throw my arms into the air. “Then where shall I park?”
He huffs and puffs and stomps over to his Jaguar. “Behind Jerry.”
“Jerry the fucking Jag,” I mutter, ramming my car into first and speeding up the driveway. Dad’s face is a picture of horror as I screech to a stop inches away from the bumper of his prized possession. I jump out, just as Mum comes dashing out of the front door, an apron wrapped neatly around her waist, protecting her flouncy skirt. She has a mixing bowl and wooden spoon in her grasp. “Hi, Mum!”
“Annie, darling!” she sings, delighted to see me.
I shut the car door and pass my father, who’s still staring down at the bumper of his Jag, like he’s worried my filthy Golf might stick its tongue out and smear the sparkling paintwork. “How are you?” I ask, kissing her cheek gently as I pass her on the doorstep.
“Wonderful!” She follows me into the kitchen and the smell I thought I’d be glad to see the back of when I lived here invades my nose. I stop and inhale it all in. “Roast chicken,” I breathe.
“You know your father loves his roast dinners, darling.” She places her bowl on the countertop and brushes her hands down her apron. “It’s an all-day affair preparing the bird and mixing the batter for his Yorkshire pudding.” She rolls her eyes like it’s an inconvenience. I don’t know why. She thrives on faffing around him.
“I’m starving,” I say, flicking the kettle on. This is what I need. One of my mum’s home-cooked dinners. Comfort food.
“Good!” she says. I’ve made her day. Now she has two people to faff over. “And I did a crumble!”
My mouth waters. Mum’s crumble is the nuts. “I can’t wait!”
She looks at me, slight suspicion in her eyes. “You look stressed.”
I lift my files for her to see. “Work,” I lie. I don’t get stressed out with work. I love work. I get stressed out by handsome married men who neglect to mention that they’re married. “Mind if I load up my laptop at the dining table?”
She smiles, losing her suspicious look in a second. She’s so easy to fool, wrapped up in her perfect little ideal world, baking and faffing over Dad. She’d pass out if she knew what her daughter has been up to. Adultery. The ultimate sin.
“I’ll clear it for you.” She’s off into the dining room quickly. “Though you’ll have to stay at one end so I can set the table for dinner.”
“Thanks, Mum. Want any help?” I ask, pulling down some teacups from the cupboard and finding the teapot before I let my mind spiral into the realms of my sins again.
“You make the tea, darling. And remember your father likes half a teaspoon of sugar.”
“God help me if I put just one granule in too much,” I say to myself, measuring out a perfect half teaspoon and tossing it into the cup.
“Pardon?”