‘Married affection,’ she corrects herself, ‘married love, is often undervalued just because it’s reliable. That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’ I nod. ‘It’s a tragedy that we don’t value reliability. If our fridge breaks, we throw it out; we don’t try to fix it and we don’t care what becomes of that fridge, if it’s left to rot, if it makes the earth bulge. Landfill.’ She’s warming to her metaphor. ‘People treat their marriages like that a lot of the time. I think I’m an old fridge. He’s got himself a new model, the sort that dispenses ice and has a fancy drawer to keep vegetables fresh.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ I murmur.
‘Yeah, I’m dragging out the comparison, but you see my point. I’m on the scrap heap.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s true. It was Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you that?’ I gasp and shake my head. Ouch, that’s cruel. ‘He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening, which was unusual. Normally we make quite a thing of Valentine’s night, a celebration, you know?’
‘Mmm,’ I mumble, not committing. To be honest, Ben and I are not big celebrators of Valentine’s Day. We might remember to pass one another a card across the breakfast table, or we might not. Valentine’s Day often falls in the half-term holiday, and we’re usually more wrapped up in balancing childcare. The most romantic thing Ben can do for me around then is work from home.
‘Last year, we went to Hawaii. It seems like five minutes ago. I can still smell the flora and fauna. I can still feel the warm, tranquil waters. It really is a breathtaking place. We had a candlelit dinner on the beach, prepared by the islands’ top chef and served to us by a butler.’
‘Wow.’ I know she’s telling me about the romantic gestures of a man she found with his pants around his ankles, but wow. It’s hard not to be a tiny bit impressed.
‘One year, he flew me to New York and we went ice-skating in Central Park, then drank hot chocolates in a cutesy log cabin café. Another year we had a helicopter tour of LA at night. He always sent me two dozen red roses. We always did something. This year he hadn’t mentioned what we’d be doing. I just thought he’d planned something extra special. I wanted to be prepared, so as soon as I finished at the studio I dashed to the beautician. Had the usual: a manicure, pedicure, a Brazilian. You know?’
I do not know. I mean, of course I know in theory that this is what women do to prepare for a special night but I can’t remember the last time I went to a beautician. I can paint my own nails and, as for the other business, well let’s just say Ben has learnt to love the retro look. He’s lucky if I pluck my eyebrows. I just find life busy and tricky enough without having to inflict extra pain on myself for an aesthetic that precisely one person is going to benefit from. I mean, I’d never ask him to put hot wax on his best bits. Ben has never complained about my lack of grooming in that area; it’s not as though he needs help finding his target. I don’t interrupt Abigail to tell her as much. I know she’d be shocked and think I’m slovenly.
‘I popped to the salon for a blow dry and it was just chance that my stylist was running ahead of schedule. What were the odds, on Valentine’s Day? Normally there’s a backlog. I was just going home to get changed, and then my plan was to return to the studio so that he could meet me there. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous but without admitting to making the effort. When I saw his car on the driveway I was excited. That’s the worst of it, Mel, I was actually excited to think he was home. I thought maybe we’d have a little afternoon delight, sod the blow dry.’
I realise that she means the sex she was planning would be the sort to mess up her hair. It’s a bit more detail than I need.
‘I knew there was something wrong the moment I went into the house. I could smell her.’
I glance nervously at the girls. Ostensibly they are playing with their Aquabeads, making coasters or something, caught up in their own worlds, but I’m never certain – they both have big flappy ears and love eavesdropping on my conversations. I throw a significant nod in their direction to give Abi a warning to be careful of what she says in front of them, but I don’t think she catches my drift.
‘I could smell her perfume. And there was music playing. Unfamiliar music. Rob usually listens to Oasis or Blur, stuck in the 1990s, hasn’t bought a track since, but I could hear this heavy pounding beat. Hip hop or something. I didn’t call out, I carefully closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs. Knowing what I was going to see but praying that I was wrong.’
‘But you weren’t wrong,’ I murmur gently. I reach for the cake plate and offer her a chocolate brownie. I hope that’s enough for today – she can tell me more later. I’m dying to hear more, I’m so flattered that she’s being open with me, but I’m also terrified that she doesn’t have a filter and the girls are going to hear too much.
‘I sneaked up the stairs, like a criminal in my own house. The bedroom door was open, and I could see clothes on the floor. They were at it like animals.’ I glance at the girls again. It’s unlikely they understood that. ‘He was taking her from behind.’ Or that. ‘Her breasts were swinging, practically in my face.’ But that I think they got. ‘He didn’t even notice me until after he climaxed.’
‘How about another glass of wine?’ I say, jumping to my feet. Abi’s eyes follow me. Dejected. Distraught.
Hearing about Rob’s infidelity isn’t pleasant but it isn’t a surprise to me, as it is to her. I’ve long since thought that he’s an arrogant, untrustworthy creep. One of the reasons Abi and I haven’t stayed in touch is that I really didn’t like being around Rob. I get no pleasure in being proven right.
The girls have abandoned the coaster making and migrated towards Abi and me. I can’t decide if it was the lure of the brownies or if they did hear enough of her conversation and feel curious. It’s awkward. Obviously, Abi isn’t used to being around kids and self-censoring. They stare at her, transfixed, somehow able to sense – even at their young ages – that they are in the presence of something, someone, truly exciting. Abi watches them as they cram cake into their little pink and pouty mouths. She can’t help but be enchanted, too. Even in their little sweatshirts, grubby from a day at school, they are adorable.
‘I should have brought gifts,’ she says with a sigh.
‘No, no,’ I insist. I didn’t expect gifts. Although the girls might. They shouldn’t. It’s not something I approve of or encourage. However, we are pretty lucky. On the whole, when people turn up for dinner or lunch, they invariably arrive with a bottle of wine for me and Ben, and chocolates or sweets for the kids. It doesn’t matter that Abi hasn’t thought to bring a little something. Yes, she’s staying with us for – well actually I’m not sure how long she is staying for, it hasn’t been discussed – some time at least, but that doesn’t mean we should expect gifts. All that said, the girls hover, none too discreetly, over her handbag. They are clearly hoping she’s bluffing and that she might produce something any moment now, like a magician produces a rabbit from a hat. She does seem rather magical. Abi sees them loiter with intent and takes the hint, but it’s obvious to me that she really hasn’t brought anything. She roots around her handbag, pulls out a half-eaten packet of nicotine chewing gum.
‘I was trying to quit. Until all this happened,’ she explains. For a moment, she seems to consider gifting the gum to them but then thinks better of it. ‘Ah, here we go!’ She pulls out a duty-free plastic bag and then passes Lily a Clinique lipstick and hands Imogen a bottle of Chanel No. 5. The girls look stunned, not because of the brands, which mean nothing to them, but because someone has just handed them make-up.
‘Oh no, they couldn’t accept those,’ I say hastily.
‘Why not?’
I don’t know how to reply. I can’t explain that the gifts are inappropriate and clearly unintended for the recipients; those objections