“She’s pretty.” I kept my gaze on him to see if there was any kind of reaction but got nothing at all, which wasn’t overly surprising. I’d always said he’d make a killing at poker. Sometimes I wished I could crawl into his brain to find out what was really going on in there. Then again, it was probably better I didn’t. What if I found something I didn’t like?
“Pretty, huh?” he said. “Did you think so?”
“Well, not chocolate-box pretty, but very attractive. And she has a great figure.”
He looked at me. “Far too skinny. But now you...you have a great figure.”
His words were like aloe vera on a sunburn. “Yeah, and I bet I look fab after lugging all those boxes around.” I clicked my tongue and rolled my eyes more at myself than at Liam because, while I continually craved his praise, believing it had never been my strong suit. Even after he’d told me, years ago, that doubting his compliments was akin to calling him a liar, I still had trouble accepting them.
Liam smiled. “Honestly, love, you look great. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Nate’s eyes grew stalks when he first saw you outside.”
“Stop it. You’re being crazy,” I said, even though I secretly agreed. I’d noticed Nate’s reaction, too. And I had to admit, only to myself of course, that I’d liked it, especially when I’d met Abby. She was the kind of woman who made people trip over their own two feet. The kind who needed five minutes in the morning to look gorgeous, when it took us lesser mortals an hour, and even then we never achieved the same impossible standard. Abby made me feel inferior just by breathing, so the fact that her husband had even glanced at me made my heart rate quicken. The fact that Liam had noticed it too made me practically want to burst.
“You went a bit quiet when you came back with the beer,” I said. “I thought maybe Abby had made a huge impression on you.”
What was wrong with me? I was basically forcing him to find her attractive, pushing him to admit something that would make me feel terrible as soon as he uttered it, but I really couldn’t help myself. I’d done it at school, too. Pointed out the prettiest girl to the boy I liked, then pretended not to be disappointed when he’d asked her on a date instead. But I’d known they’d want to be together, it was only a matter of time. Why bother putting myself through unnecessary heartache? And although I’d got the most handsome boy in the end, it wasn’t so much that I was surprised Liam had chosen me, it was the fact that he’d stayed. Even as he moved into his late forties, Liam was still a catch. He and Abby were comparable to a fine and expensive Château Lafite, whereas Nate and I, while perfectly okay really, were more of a reasonably priced Montepulciano.
I realized Liam hadn’t answered, and I knew that was his way of signaling he had nothing more to say on the subject. It infuriated me sometimes, the way he decided—via his silence—when our conversations were over. Then again he’d told me a million times how he found me attractive. It really wasn’t his fault I never accepted it.
“It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“Only if you’ll inaugurate our new bedroom with me.” I smiled as I cocked my head to one side and raised my eyebrows, images of our naked bodies pressed together flashing through my mind. “What do you say?”
Liam shook his head. “Not tonight, love. I’m knackered.”
“I’ll be up later then.” I tried to keep the clipped tone out of my voice, the one he’d accused me of using when he last refused me. He didn’t say no often, but whenever he did, it felt like a rejection—which it was, of course—but I always thought his reasons of being too tired or having to get up early were an excuse, and that in reality there was something wrong with me. I was getting fat, unattractive, or he was bored of me. Sex meant my husband still wanted me, desired me, loved me. Why did he have trouble understanding that?
“Good night, then.” Liam turned away without kissing me.
And as I stood there for a few seconds, watching him leave the kitchen, I suddenly had an awful sinking feeling that maybe this time, his refusal had nothing to do with me at all.
BY THE TIME Sarah and I got home from Liam and Nancy’s, Abby was in bed, curled up like a cat, snoring gently. I backed out of the bedroom and plonked myself in front of the TV downstairs.
“Night, Dad.” Sarah gave me a hug before vanishing upstairs, clutching her phone. Claire was probably on Snapchat standby, waiting to hear all about next door’s additions. I gave a laissez-faire shrug. My daughter would be lucky to get to sleep before dawn and would spend most of Sunday lounging around like I used to when I was her age.
She’d seemed pretty comfortable after Abby left us at Liam and Nancy’s. She’d even told them about a school project she was working on—the most efficient way to recycle used tires, of all things. While I chatted with Nancy about the neighborhood, I heard Liam ask Sarah tons of questions about her project. Not only was he a good-looking bloke, even I had to admit that, but an intelligent and articulate one, too.
I’d kind of wanted to dislike him. Actually I’d pegged him as a prat when I first saw him in the back of the van. Make that a pretentious prat. The way he’d taken off his jacket and flexed his muscles—he might as well have whipped out his bratwurst to mark his territory. But actually, he was okay. From what I’d seen, he had the makings of a good neighbor. I could even picture having a beer with him, kicking back and playing some pool. And I’d been the reigning champion at university, so at least I’d beat Muscle Man at something.
I stretched out on the sofa, extended my arms and legs as far as I could, then yawned loudly. I had two episodes of my favorite zombie show to catch up on, something best done alone. Sarah had said it was lame, and the undead always freaked Abby out.
Years ago, when we saw 28 Days Later (my pick, her nightmare), Abby had spent the entire time hiding behind a pillow. It surprised me all the more when she’d announced she was going to be tough and suggested World War Z for one of our anniversaries. Not as surprised as she’d been when those zombies looked like they were on speed. I swear she had an entire escape route planned from then on. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d survive providing I could keep up with Abby. Fat chance. My brains would be their first snack.
After making sure the hero lived to fight another day, I had a brief shower and slipped between the cool sheets. I thought about making love to Abby but remembered her headache, so instead I gently kissed the nape of her neck. When she didn’t stir, sleep came quickly and soundly for me, too.
Early light spilled into our room when I woke up Sunday morning. I groaned, realizing Abby was kneeling between my legs, her bare nipples softly brushing against the inside of my thighs. And I was harder than a cricket bat.
“Shhh,” she whispered when I groaned again. “I want you.”
“Uhhh,” was about all I could manage, and when I thought I was at the point of no return, she stopped, climbed on top and slid me inside her.
“It’s my turn now.” She grabbed my hands and pulled them onto her breasts. I felt her fingers between her legs, rubbing and touching. It drove me crazy. I had no idea if she still had a sore head, and frankly right then I didn’t care.
But she whispered, “Fuck me. Come on, baby, fuck me. Hard.”
God knows how, but some of the blood got diverted from my dick to my face to the point where I felt my cheeks glow like a beacon. Now, I’m no prude, but Abby, well, I didn’t like fucking her. Yes, having sex with my wife was awesome. Better than beer, pool and England winning three World Cups in a row (I imagined). I’d heard some guys got tired of being with the same woman, but Abby still drove me crazy every single time. I’d taken care of her ever since I’d laid eyes on her, and fucking