The Playdate Read Free Page A

had converted out of the loft. The door was firmly shut.
    She nudged it.
    It swung open to reveal Jez at the computer, in front of a wall covered with charts and projections that had no meaning for her apart from when money appeared in her bank account. She had given up trying to make him explain what he was working on. “I just want to understand, hon, so I can be there for you if you need support.” But he had said there was no point. He’d let her know if there were any problems.
    Jez was still wearing his gray Paul Smith suit trousers with a charcoal shirt from his earlier meeting in town. Even on days when he didn’t have a client to meet, he dressed impeccably. He turned to look at her, his six-foot-three, 210-pound frame forcing a squeak out of the leather swivel chair. Jez looked big in any setting you put him in. Even among the midwestern men of her hometown with their cowboy-sized hands, who spent their weeks in office suites downtown and weekends hunting in the mountains, Jez had held his own, standing shoulder to shoulder with them in the local bar, meeting well-meant jibes about his English accent with a dry humor that quickly earned him a slap on the shoulder and a shot of bourbon.
    At the time, his strength had made her feel safe. She hadn’t imagined what it might be like to be on the wrong side of it.
    “What?” he said, turning to meet her with eyes that said nothing.
    What? What do you think? she wanted to say. But right now they were past words.
    So on an impulse she did something else.
    She reached behind her back and undid her bikini top through her dress.
    Jez watched. It took him a second to realize.
    “Oh . . . no,” he said firmly, shaking his head and turning back to the screen with a half smile to show how ridiculous he found the idea.
    The rejection stung. But it was too late. She walked over and put her hand on his shoulder, pulling him round with the momentum of the swivel chair.
    “No. Really—get off,” he said, the humor disappearing rapidly from his tone, the hard muscles in his shoulder twisting easily away from her fingers.
    But she was only five inches shorter, and before Jez could stop her, she had straddled him with one long leg and pushed her chest toward his face to stop him propelling her away.
    “Suzy!” he growled. “I said STOP. I don’t want to. Leave it.”
    How could she stop? Fighting back the humiliation, she pulled his hand and tried to put it inside the top of her dress, needing some kind of connection with her husband, even for him just to laugh at her desperation. Then she could join in and they would hug and joke about her wanting more babies. Anything that broke the silence.
    “Oh, will you fucking stop it!” he shouted suddenly, grabbing that wrist and the other one, and holding them high beside her shoulders. “You are not listening. I don’t want to.” Their eyes met inches apart. She could see the blackness in his now.
    Looking down at her bare legs that smelled faintly of pond water, and the bulk of loosened straps underneath her dress, she felt shame. Blood ran into her cheeks.
    “OK, then. Let me go,” she whispered.
    The doorbell rang downstairs. Callie with the kids.
    Jez held her wrists for a second more. Then she felt his grip loosen.
    “OK, then,” he said, lowering his voice. His expression softened for a moment.
    God, she saw it now. He felt sorry for her.
    There was a knocking downstairs.
    She dropped her gaze.
    “I am your wife,” she whispered, so quietly she was not sure he even heard. And with that she walked out of the room.

3
Callie
     
    By the time we have wandered through the park back to Churchill Road, Rae and Henry are holding hands. We walk along our quiet street of Victorian terraces, looking at neighbors’ window boxes. I say “neighbors,” but the truth is, apart from Suzy, the people on Churchill Road are just people with whom I happen to share a postcode. There was a nice woman my age at No. 25 when I first