As soon as I exit Aidan's building I stop and brace myself against the wall and try and regain some composure. I'm too hot and I can't breathe properly and it's not just from the heat in this stupid furnace of a city. It's him. This is about him.

I take a few deep breaths... in through the nose out through the mouth... repeat. Once my breathing and body temperature returns to some semblance of normal I deal with the question that the voice inside my head has been screaming at me for the last ten minutes.

What the bloody hell are you doing?

Seriously. Have I lost my mind? How is spending even more time in his bloody company supposed to help this situation? I said yes. I actually said yes. I'll do it, I said. I'll be your subject.

Which means I'd just agreed to stand and have him stare at me for hours and weeks on end. Ironic since I don't seem able to look at him for ten consecutive seconds without having some illicit thought or another. Those eyes and those hands and that stupid (hot) accent.

No, I can't do it.

I'll need to call him tomorrow and tell him I've changed my mind. Tell him to forget the whole thing. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Watching him, watching me. Being around him, just the two of us is not a good idea. I mean just the sight of him wandering barefoot around his loft had almost made me feel physically faint. I'm too attracted to him. It's not a good idea.

Yet... There was more than stupid girlish swooning. More than his good looks and Adam's apple. Being in his company, listening to him speak — talking so passionately and deeply about things he cared about and things he didn't... I like him. Beyond the pathetic crush, I actually like Aidan Foley. He's interesting. Deep and dark and a little broken.

I like that. I don't know anyone like that. Every other man I know would run a mile rather than show any sort of sadness or weakness. My brother, my father, Oliver. For them, any modicum of weakness was something to be ashamed of. But not Aidan. Aidan Foley seemed to embrace his weaknesses. As though they were a part of himself he was rather proud of, a part of him he should look after — like his perfectly rugged beard. He seemed to be perfectly fine with the fact that he didn't quite understand other people. That their actions made him angry or confused. He was defiantly bitter.

I want to know more about him. What sort of books he reads, what sort of films he likes. Does he like sports? Animals? What makes him laugh? What makes him sad? Or sadder. He talked so honestly about misery he could only have experienced it in abundance. And there was his art. Miserable and dark and a little broken too.

Also, I like the idea of having something to do during the day. The idea of spending time with someone else who didn't seem to belong in this loud busy city. So I have a slight crush on the guy. So what? It's not like that hadn't happened to people before. I'm certain the more time I spend with him, the more his manner, habits and even accent will start to get on my nerves. I always found people's faults. It was one of my own faults. I magnify their negatives until they become virtually unbearable. The same would happen with Aidan Foley. I was certain of it.

***

Dr Cohen's office is on the 8th floor of a modern glass building on the upper east side. A few blocks from our own building. It's one of those cosmopolitan, multi-purpose type places which house lawyers offices, massage therapists, PR companies, and Psychiatrists all under one roof. All harmoniously dealing with the average New Yorker's everyday problems.

The lift opens up into a plush carpeted waiting area with lots of soft fabrics and neutral colours I presume are designed to install relaxation and calm thoughts into tense and or mentally unstable people. I'm not entirely sure which bracket I fall into. I've been coming here twice a week for six weeks and I still don't know. I doubt I ever will. I only come to keep Oliver happy.

After my 'accident' (which isn't what I call it in my head), he looked as though he was about to leave me or have me committed if I didn't agree to some sort of help. I had agreed. But that look in his eye — the one that told me he didn't quite trust me anymore like maybe I wasn't the woman he thought I was — has never really gone away. In the end, though, I don't resent him too much for making me come here. I actually like Esther. I like talking to her. Because as it stands she's the only person I can talk to, openly and without burden. Because she's the only person who knows.

The views over Central Park from the floor to ceiling windows are the focal point of the mauve waiting room, every sofa pointed at the green trees of the park which today are drenched in creamy yellow sunlight.

"Ellie?"

I turn to find Esther smiling at me from the door of her office, just as a tall dark-haired woman exits.

Smiling back at her, I stand and follow her into her stylish and comfortable office which has the same floor to ceiling windows out over Central Park. By the door, I slip off my shoes like I always do — a small thing she insists all her patients do — which I have found does relax me. Barefoot, I pad across the soft cream carpet to take a seat on the cosy velvet sofa which looks out onto the park.

"How are you?" I ask as I pull my legs up to my chest and rest my head on them. Esther takes a seat across from me on her modern wing-backed leather armchair and nods.

"I'm great, thanks. You?" Esther has the most sincere smile I've ever seen. It makes me wonder if all therapists have that quality and whether it was something they were taught. Hers is soft and reassuring and makes me feel like she's just a friend I'm meeting for a catch-up visiting. Well, she would if I had any friends in New York. And if she wasn't my doctor who Oliver was paying $300 an hour to convince himself he's looking after me the best he can. Oliver often threw money at things to make himself feel better.

"Not bad, actually," I nod. "Kind of yellow today."

Her eyes widen, clearly surprised. I think yellow is the lightest colour I've been since we started this. I'd been black, grey, navy, bottle green, aubergine. All perfectly fine colours, except when they were used to describe your mood. I'd been all of those colours at least once, some twice. But I'd never been yellow.

At first, it felt odd talking about my mood in terms of colour, but as soon as I realised how much harder, how far more exposing adjectives were, it became very easy very quickly.

"Yellow is good. Great actually. Do you think it's the weather? Or something else?" She cocks her head to the side, curious, studying me.

An image of large grey-blue eyes hovers at the forefront of my mind. "The sun definitely helps. Though winter is still my favourite season."

She nods, scribbling something on her pad.

"But yes, I just... I don't know. I just feel kind of yellow. I finally decided what to get Oliver for his birthday which was stressing me out a little, so maybe it's connected with that?" I need to be careful here. I'm not quite ready to discuss Aidan Foley with my head doctor yet. Not quite sure I should be using my husband's money to be counselled on dealing with my attraction to a man who wasn't him.

"Ooh! Can you share?" She asks, eyes wide again.

"Sure as long as you don't tell him?" I jest. Esther shakes her head and puts her forefinger to her mouth. I take a deep breath.

"Well, I'm commissioning a piece of art for him. From an artist whose exhibition we went to last night. I met with him just before I came here and he said yes."

I don't tell her that he suggested it. That he asked me to be his subject. That I agreed because I'm attracted to him. That last night when my husband made love to me I thought of him.

"Really? Goodness, that's an amazing gift. I'm sure he'll love it. What kind of art does he make?" Esther has several arty prints dotted around her office and so I imagine she would get more from Aidan's art than I was able to.

"I honestly have no idea,' I laugh. 'Sort of mixed media modern-ish? Is that even a kind of art?"

She laughs too then. "Probably?"

"Then it's probably that. He won the Morley Prize last year. He does photos, paintings, videos. He's very talented." I can feel my face getting hot.

"He must be; the Morley is very prestigious. I'm aware of it." She looks genuinely impressed.

"Well, his exhibition is running for the next few weeks at the Weston Gallery in Williamsburg. You should definitely go see it if you get a chance," I tell her. When exactly did I become Aidan's PR?

"I will definitely try and do that," Esther says as she scribbles else in her pad. I wonder if it's 'obviously wants to fuck artist' or just the name of the gallery.

We're both silent a moment or two with only the sound of Esther's peacock table clock ticking back and forward filling the room.

"Oliver and I made love last night," I tell her as I turn to gaze out the window. I hear her write something down again.

"Who instigated it?"

I give her a look and she nods. "But you didn't resist him this time?"

"No. I wanted it." I wanted it more with a man with large grey-blue eyes.

"Do you think that could be what's contributing to your yellow mood today? The fact that you and Oliver made love? And that you wanted it to happen?"

"Maybe," I answer truthfully. I normally did feel better after having sex. Oliver and I hadn't had sex for almost six weeks.

"You were turquoise the last time you and Oliver made love," She reminds me. "Yellow is definitely better."

"It is," I agree. Though Esther has no idea my favourite colour is white. White.

The colour Aidan wants me to wear tomorrow. What the bloody hell did that mean? Did it mean anything? The irony is that Esther would probably know the answer. It was probably the kind of thing therapists were taught and paid to know.

"And how about everything else?" she asks, smoothly. "Have you been thinking about it, about him, with less guilt?"

A cut of pain slices across my chest. Esther's smiling at me now, her soft sincere smile tinged with sadness, soft brown waves tumbling about her shoulders. Shoulders I imagine must carry the weight of a thousand guilt-ridden women just like me.

"I can't disassociate it from the guilt. I've tried. I really have," I breathe out as I talk, expelling it from me as she taught me to do. "I do think about it though. In the morning, when I wake up. When it's quiet. I lie there and imagine myself as It would have been had it not happened. How I would have been... How I would have coped. If I'd have.. evolved."

"You know you would have, Ellie. You're a strong woman."

I look at her askance. I feel weak. Every day I feel weak.

"Maybe," I shrug. "But then I think... coping with something isn't the same as being good at something. What of all of those feelings I'd had before just simply carried on after?" She doesn't answer so I nod and look down at my hands. "That's what scares me. So, yes, maybe I'd have coped but I wouldn't have been good at it. Because it wasn't what I wanted. And then I feel guilty for thinking that. Again. It's a cycle."

"And helping you accept and move on from the guilt is what we have to work on. Accepting that you didn't cause it to happen simply by not wanting that for yourself, Ellie. Rationally you know that isn't how it works. Emotionally, well, that's something else we have to work on."

I nod and look out over the park. It looks so nice out there. I may walk around it before going home and drench myself in sunlight, let it seep into my cold dark bones.

"How's the writing going?"

I look round at her. "Still nothing more than the prologue. I know how I want the story to end I just don't know how to get them there, but actually, you know what? I feel inspired today. I'll go for a walk and then go home and write I think." I nod, decisive.

***

And I do.

I get back just before 5 pm, having walked through the park — stopping mid-way to buy a pistachio ice cream cone — before meandering 'home' through the hot New York streets.

When I get there I open the balcony doors wide, fire up my MacBook, and type. I type like I haven't typed in months. When the phone goes around 7 pm, I leave it ringing far too long before dragging myself from the dining table to answer it. Whoever it is clearly isn't about to give up.

"Sweetheart, Hi it's me, Mum," She chirps down the phone.

Mum always greets me by telling me it's her just in case I've forgotten the sound of her voice and mistake her for someone else. Behind her, the dogs bark loudly, no doubt bouncing phone height and dancing around her legs. Pepper and Toby's default position was dancing around mum's legs or yapping somewhere just behind her.

"Hey, Mum, How are you?"

"I'm good you know, just getting on — Pepper stop!" she shouts away from the phone to our black and white sheepdog. "Sorry love, I think they know I'm talking to you. That's what it'll be they want to say Hi. Say hi to Ellie, Pepper," she laughs. I roll my eyes but I can't help but smile. Pepper barks somewhere again and mum laughs louder. "So how are you darling? How are The States?" she asks. She asks me this every time she calls — which was still every second day. 'The States' plural. All of them. Like she thinks they're going to change. Maybe because she knows I won't change.

"Oh, you know... The same. Big, loud."

"You're still not settling in, sweetheart?" She sounds sad.

"Not really, but you know..." She doesn't know. No one does.

She makes a small sad noise. "And Oliver? How is he doing?" As always, mums tone hardens when she mentions him. Mum has her own issues with my husband, most of which I don't understand, some I do. When they first met, my parents were impressed, charmed even, by my smart rich handsome older boyfriend. Mum was anyway. Dad was a little... suspicious perhaps.

But Oliver can be exceptionally charming and women almost always like him — mum and Gabby had been no exception. Then, around the time of our wedding, they seemed to go off him overnight. It had never made any sense to me. Dad had also begun to look at him with even more suspicion and resentment. The way Dad is with Oliver I'd always put down to the fact that they were so different. Dad can't relate or understand the kind of man Oliver is, and vice versa. Dad made a living with his hands, working fields and animals. Oliver made money with money. They were very different men with very different outlooks on the world and that meant there would always be this invisible barrier between them. The only thing they had in common was me. From nowhere (or somewhere) I wonder what my Dad would think of Aidan Foley. Intense angry Irishman with a possible drinking problem and worked with his hands. Christ, I need to stop this.

"Um, Oliver's doing fine, mum — just busy," I explain, shaking my head to clear the insanity of my previous thought.

"He should be looking after you better though. You're all alone out there. He's your husband, Ellie. He took you all the way over there and he should be looking after you. That's what he promised your father and me," she mutters.

I take a deep breath. Here we go again. "He is looking after me, mum. He's doing his best. He's just a lot busier than I am, that's all? His job is demanding, stressful..." Whereas I'm a housewife. The one thing I never wanted to be. I don't want to be my mother. I don't want her life. I love her but hers is not a life I want. Which, unless Oliver decides on a career change I suppose I will still be able to avoid. But still, I want to be more than a housewife. Tomorrow you will be. Tomorrow you'll be more than that.

"You're still not writing darling?"

"I have been actually. Today," I glance over at the open laptop.

"Well that's good, isn't it? I can't wait to read it! You're so talented. Oh, before I forget, your brother and Anna and the kids are coming for dinner on Sunday so we may do the Swipe thing if you're going to be around?"

"Skype," I correct, smiling.

"Yes, it will be nice to see your face. We all miss you so much..." She sounds sad again and it pulls at something inside me. Though it occurs to me then that I hadn't felt quite as sad today overall. Because today I was yellow.

"I know, mum. Me too." I missed them so much sometimes it physically hurt. My brother's stupid grin and massive wingspan, my sister's ridiculous dolphin laugh, the smell of mums perfume, the soil under my dad's fingernails. Even those stupid barking dogs. I missed the stupid farm. Something I never thought I'd hear myself say in a million years. Especially since I'd left that quagmire as soon as I was able. "Where's Dad? Is he ok?"

"He's great, love. He's with the boys, he and Joe have been out there since four this morning."

"He works too hard. Tell him he needs to do less not more. He's almost 60."

"I say the same thing every day," she sighs. "Will you be coming home anytime soon? Gabrielle's birthday is in a few weeks. I know she'd love to see you."

"Oliver's is too. I don't think I'll make it back before that mum. Maybe you and Gabby could come here? That would be nice, wouldn't it? God knows we have the room here."

"Oh, I'd love to darling but you know I can't leave your father for more than a few days and it's hardly worth it otherwise. There's so much to do here leading up to summer. You know what it's like." I did know what it was like.

"Of course, I get it," I nod. "I'll try and get home soon then I promise."

"Please don't leave it until Christmas. I can't wait that long to see you, sweetheart."

"I know mum. I'll have a look at the calendar. Look I have to go, I need to start Oliver's tea. He'll be home soon. Talk Sunday okay?"

"Sunday, yes. Love you,"

"Love you too Mum."

I sit staring out the open balcony doors long after finishing the phone call with Mum, picturing the sun streaming through the open back door of the house I grew up in. My heart pinches.

So it was true. You never truly appreciate what you have until it's gone. Or until it's thousands of miles away across an ocean. I close my eyes and take a deep breath — I almost miss the manure scent that hung over the place. The last time I'd been home to mum and dad's was Christmas. The sight of my brother's children running around crazy pretending to be farm animals. Gavin chasing them around pretending to be a wolf as we'd all looked on smiling. Mum had given me the look that said it all. The one that said, 'soon that'll be you.'

Little did she know. Little did I know.

When I've wallowed quite enough I resume my seat back in front of the laptop and lose myself back in the alternate universe I've constructed. The one I am utterly in control of. Except, why aren't the people there happy either?

By 8pm, I've written more than I have in months. My fingers flying over the keyboard laying the foundations of the first act. The obstacles that kept them apart, in the beginning, are gone now but there are different reasons why relationships don't work out. Interesting, or concerning perhaps, is the fact that my hero seems to have morphed from the sort of faceless entity he was before to someone much more real.

I also know it isn't a coincidence that when my heroine sees him again after months apart, he's grown a neat well-kept chestnut brown beard.

"You're writing," he says startling me from my trance.

Oliver is standing at the head of the dining table, his eyes soft and warm, hands behind his back. The top button of his shirt is undone and his tie is missing. He looks tired. He works so bloody hard. He left the house at 6:56 am this morning according to the alarm by the bed.

"I had an attack of inspiration," I smile.

His eyes widen, excited. "Good. You saw Dr Cohen today?"

"I did. Annnnd... I decided on your birthday gift. Finally. You're a hard one to buy for Mr Alford. But I think that's what inspired me. Buying you the perfect gift." A little flare of guilt fires up inside me, burning brightly for a second before fading out immediately after.

He rolls his eyes as he comes toward me. "I told you I was cancelling my birthday this year," he groans. Coming to stand behind me he leans down to touch his mouth to my ear, then the space below, inhaling deeply. "I have absolutely no desire to be a decade older than my beautiful young wife." As he kisses the side of my neck I get the scent of him, male sweat — a smell I've always been partial to —and his expensive body wash. There's something sweet too underneath it all.

"Charmer,' I sigh. 'Anyway, men get better looking with age, you know that. The world knows that. So we are celebrating your birthday - forty is important. A milestone if you like," I joke as he gives me a look of playful warning.

Closing the MacBook from his eyes, I stand and turn to face him. As I do he raises his hand which contains a hand-tied bunch of flowers. Nine long-stemmed assorted Gerbera tied with thin brown string.

"Awww, babe they're beautiful," I smile as I take them from him and press them to my nose. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know, but there was a guy selling them across the street outside and I knew they'd make you smile. And you know making you smile is one of my favourite things."

As I smile he bends to kiss me again. The smell of the flowers is now all I can taste. Sweet, floral fumes that flood my nose. I press myself against him and wrap my arms up and around his neck.

"They're so gorgeous, thank you," I whisper as he pulls me tight into him.

"You're more gorgeous. In fact, they look fucking awful next to you. Poor things." He frowns at the flowers. "I need to shower baby, I fucking stink." He reaches down to kiss the top of my head before heading for the door. "We phoning in?" He calls out.

"Yeah, that, or I can make us something quick? I totally lost track of time sorry." For a housewife, I was terrible at the fundamentals.

"Don't worry about it. I fancy Thai." He shouts from the hall.

"I'll order while you shower."

I look down at the hand-tied bouquet of flowers. They make me feel guilty. How the hell do I have room for any more guilt? I thought I was pretty much full up with that.

But really what do I have to feel guilty about? I haven't done anything besides have a couple of illicit thoughts. I'd gone to see him and I'd agreed to model for him so that he could make an incredible birthday gift for Oliver. That's all. That's all it's ever going to be.

I just about manage to convince myself of this as I place the flowers in a tall vase and set them on the end table by the phone.

On my phone I call up the Thai menu and flop down on the sofa, turning the TV onto one of those topical comedy shows that mocks world politics. As I'm ordering Oliver appears, climbing gracefully over the back of the sofa to settle down next to me. He takes the remote and begins channel flicking.

He looks and smells incredibly appealing, dressed in a dark grey V-neck t-shirt and long loose bottoms. His hair is still damp and the remnants of his shower trickle slowly down the side of his neck somewhat deliciously.

Though not an expert at drying himself, Oliver could shower quicker than anyone I'd ever known. He's in, out, and clean in under five minutes. I'd seen him do it in three before. I'd timed him. He's just efficient like that. An organised, clean, tidy man — something I know is a rarity. When I'm done ordering he reaches across and pulls me into him, lifting one arm so that I can settle under it to rest against his warm solid chest. Our default TV viewing position. Against my ear, his heart beats steady and loud.

"How was today?" I ask.

"Busy. Stressful. You know — same as in London."

"Except with American accents?"

"Actually you'd be surprised at how many non-Americans work at JP."

"I would?" I feign interest.

Sadly, Oliver's job didn't interest me in the slightest. Though I had gotten practised at pretending it did. I knew the basics: he had lots of responsibility and made a lot of money. More of both than he had in London. His job meant that we were more than comfortable, that we never had to worry about money. Yet, it still seemed to be his favourite topic of conversation a lot of the time. Money. How to get it, where it was coming from, where it was going, what to do with it. Everything that happened in the world was about money, Oliver said.

Strange that I don't remember ever being conscious of wealth or money before getting married. I had barely ever given it a second thought. My parents spoke about it, certainly when it was tight and we had less of it, but it was never a something they made us worry about. When I'd gone to university in London I'd struggled like most students had but I'd never spoken about the struggle. Now money seemed to be everywhere. In the places we ate, the rooms we lived in, the clothes we wore, the people we socialised with. I tried hard to ignore it. I had other things to think about. Money doesn't interest me in the slightest.

"Oh, by the way, apparently all but two of Aidan Foley's pieces sold last night," announces Oliver. "So much for getting my hands on an early Foley piece." The sound of him saying Aidan's name has a strange jittery effect on me in the moment.

"Oh really??" I try to sound surprised. "How do you know? You spoke to Nicole?"

"Yeah, I called her to see when we could go look at his stuff alone." Oliver shifts, pulling me tighter to him as he flicks the channel again, from CNN to some sports channel. "She told me almost everything had gone. Though apparently some of the offers to purchase can fall through — so she's put us on a list or something."

I wonder then if Sasha told Nicole about my visit this afternoon for Aidan's details. If Nicole mentioned to Oliver. If he knows. I really hope not for a variety of reasons. I run the flat of my hand over his chest a few times. "I'm sorry, darling. I know you wanted something."

"Ah well. It's New York," he sighs. "There are a million galleries. Two million artists. I'll buy something else." Despite his words, he sounds deflated.

"Well, next time you drag me along to an exhibition I promise not to make you leave before buying something." I settle back down against him.

"Deal." He kisses the top of my head.

"Mum called earlier."

"Mine or yours?" I can hear the smile in his voice. Oliver's relationship with his own mother was only marginally less dysfunctional than his relationship with mine.

"Mine."

"And how is my number one fan?" He chuckles.

I hit him playfully on the chest. "She misses me."

"I know, I know, and she hates me for stealing you away across the sea like some Viking raider."

"She doesn't hate you," I say although I'm only 80% sure of it being the case. Hate was a strong word. No, she didn't hate him.

"Well, at least not as much as Owen does anyway..."

"Oliver. Dad doesn't hate you either."

"You sure? The look of utter disappointment on your parent's faces at our wedding is actually one of the things that makes me ambitious. I'm constantly thinking of ways to top it — stamping on a puppy, pissing on a homeless man, becoming vegetarian."

I look round at him and bite back a grin. "Very funny, but neither of them hates you."

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "Ah, I'll live with it. You like me though right? Tell me I have one member of the Airens family onside?"

I pretend to think about it. "Technically I'm an Alford now... But no, I don't mind you."

"I'm a lucky, lucky man," He sighs as he leans forward to kiss me. When he pulls away his eyes are soft. "You seem good today baby, I'm glad." He strokes his thumb gently over my lip. "Must be a really really good gift you got me," he winks.

I drop my eyes and let him cradle me back against his chest.

"Yes, it is. I think it's perfect..." I whisper against him.

Later, as I'm moisturising my hands and arms, Oliver gets into bed with his laptop, flipping open the screen to look at pictures of squiggly lines and constantly moving numbers. Stocks and shares put him to sleep too.

"Nicole invited us to dinner again on Friday. I told her we'd be there this time." He says it conversationally without looking at me, but there's firmness in his tone.

"Without speaking to me?"

"Yes. You said last night wasn't so bad," he replies. I knew I shouldn't have said that. "You'll survive, El."

"If you say so..." I guess I would if I had to. And it sounded like I had to.

"She's not that bad. I think you'd like her if you gave her a chance."

Now I frown at him. "What makes you think that? What do Nicole and I have in common, Oliver? Name me one thing. Just because you and Jordan are work and gym buddies doesn't mean Nicole and I have to be."

He sighs. "You don't have to be her best friend, Eloise. But would having someone you could spend time with here, go shopping with, have lunch with, talk about woman stuff with be the worst thing that could happen? Aren't you bored sitting around here all day?"

It feels like an insult. "Actually, Oliver, I've always been perfectly comfortable in my own company. Rather that than morph into some sort of New York socialite... like her."

He smiles as he taps something on the laptop. "Farmer's daughter turns New York socialite. Now there's something you could write about. Come on you really don't fancy spending your days getting your hair and nails done and spending my money? Most women would kill to do that." He laughs, amused at his own vision.

"I can't think of anything more repulsive, to be honest."

"Ah, well you can take the girl out of The Cotswolds I guess..." He chuckles, patronisingly. My parent's farm was a perpetual joke to him. Feeling my eyes boring into him he turns to look at me.

"It was a joke, baby, I was joking."

"About which part? My becoming a socialite? Being friends with Nicole? Going for dinner?"

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, tired. "Yes. All of the above. Apart from dinner, dinner is happening whether you like it or not. The people I work with will be there, and you'll be there, by my side like a wife should be. And you'll look beautiful."

"Is that an order?" I ask coldly.

"I'm not going to argue with you tonight, El. Let's do it in the morning." He turns back to the screen. "It's late and I'm tired."

"Then check the bloody share price index in the morning and turn off the computer if you're tired," I snap, turning to switch off the bedside lamp and take off my glasses.

I fluff my pillow huffily before slamming my head down on it. I've no idea why I'm angry at him. Because he wants me not to be bored during the day? Because he thinks I'll like Nicole if I get to know her? Is it because we've been married three years and he doesn't know that Nicole is not the sort of woman I would like if I got to know? She reminds me of Laura, my old boss at Coco. Hard and impenetrable and fake. I'd gotten so much bloody pleasure when I'd told her to shove her shitty job up her arse after I got my publishing deal. Though of course, she thought it was because I was getting married. She gave me a lovely little talk about how giving up work because I'd snared a rich husband wasn't going to look very good on my CV. No, I'd never liked that bitch and I'd known her very well.

"Goodnight baby," Oliver says softly a moment later.

I hate when he does this too. Takes the high ground. Now I can't not respond without feeling like a total bitch. Yet responding makes it look like everything's fine.

"Night," I say, fluffing the pillow again angrily.

I close my eyes and mentally go through every white item of clothing I have in my wardrobe.