Page 111 of The Honeymoon Affair

I make myself a coffee. The sky is bright and the rectangle of lawn is lush and green. I step outside with the hot Americano, revelling in the weak warmth of the sun and thinking that although it’s technically winter, the last few days have held the promise of spring. Spring, when the leaves begin to unfurl and the evenings grow lighter, is my favourite time of year. It’s full of promise for the months ahead, and I tell myself that it’s full of promise for the agency too.

I glance up at the main house and Charles’s writing room. I wonder if he’s sitting at his desk working on his edits. He’s still complaining about Sydney’s continuous amendments and suggestions, and I decide to give her another call and ask if she isn’t micromanaging him too much. If some of the changes she wants to make aren’t simply for the sake of it.

Before I get the chance, my mobile buzzes again.

‘Ellis,’ I say in surprise. ‘How are things?’

‘Fine, fine,’ she replies. ‘I’m in town today and thought you might like to meet up.’

I mentally run through my to-do list.

‘Later this afternoon?’ I suggest. ‘Are you planning on seeing Charles? Do you want to come here?’

‘I texted him, but he hasn’t answered.’

‘He’s editing,’ I explain.

‘In that case, yes, I’ll drop by your office after I’ve finished my shopping and call up to him afterwards. He’s not going to be shut away all day, is he?’

‘Who knows,’ I reply. ‘But if he’s been working all morning, he’ll probably be up for a break by the afternoon.’

‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you around four.’

I walk back into the office and put my cup in the slimline dishwasher. Charles freaked out when I said I was buying a dishwasher. He wanted to know why a sink wasn’t good enough for me.

‘Because I can hide cups and plates in a dishwasher,’ I explained, and he shook his head and told me I was ruining him. I gave him a dark look, and he backtracked and said that if I wanted to throw good money away on a dishwasher, that was entirely up to me.

I return to my emails.

A short time later, my phone buzzes with a text message.

Fed up with editing. Syd is a slave driver. I’ve had to completely rewrite Chapter 20 now. I’m going out for a sandwich. Want to join me?

I can’t. Expecting a call. Need to be here

Will bring one back for you if you like

That’d be great, thanks

OK, see you later

Charles hardly ever goes out to get sandwiches. I need to take advantage of it when he does. Meanwhile I get in touch with Sydney and ask about the amount of rewriting Charles is having to do. She concedes that she’s been very demanding, but insists it’s only because she wants the very best for him. We chat about holding off on any more suggestions for the time being, and I end the call pleased with myself for fixing something else for him.

It’s much later by the time he comes back with a rather sad-looking wrap that he tells me he picked up in the petrol station.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Iseult called and I got distracted, and then there was a huge queue at the deli and I couldn’t be bothered to wait, so I popped into the pub and had a quick toastie.’

I briefly think about murdering him, but I take the wrap (chicken Caesar; where would fast-food outlets be without bloody chicken Caesar) and put on the kettle.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask.

‘Coffee,’ says Charles.

‘Make it yourself so,’ I say. ‘The machine is on.’

He busies himself with the machine while I make myself tea and tear open the wrap. It’s actually not as bad as it looks, though the mysterious dressing drips onto my desk and forms an unappetising puddle.

‘How’s things?’ Charles flops into one of the armchairs as I wipe it away.

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