Page 108 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘Oh,’ I say, understanding immediately, ‘I’m on the pill.’

‘Oh, good. I mean, I have something, but…’ Hehassomething? Does he regularly bring women up here? Oh god.I attempt to withdraw, tugging against the confines of his embrace.

‘Hey, not like that… Sorry, I feel like I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No! It’s me. My mind plays these tricks where it imagines the worst or thinks I don’t belong…’

‘You do belong. You belong here with me.’

I look away, deflating. ‘I’ve ruined the mood now, haven’t I?’

He jostles me gently and I peer up at him through my lashes. He drops a soft kiss on my lips – a perfect, beautiful, romantic kiss.

‘Before…’ he says, lifting his lips to my cheek and gently kissing it. ‘When I stopped us…’ His lips lightly trail across to one eyelid then the other, where he presses two more kisses. ‘I just wanted us to take our time…’

My eyes now closed, I bask in the timber of his voice, the feel of his hands against the small of my back, his woody, masculine scent. The next kiss lands on my forehead, inducing a soft mewl of a sigh.

He cups my cheek, and my eyelids flutter open. He’s watching me.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispers. And then his mouth is on mine again, and we clasp each other tightly. Holding me, kissing me, he lowers me onto the sofa. I’m consumed by longing and knowing and mystery all at once, the pleasure of familiarity and the excitement of the new converging.

A thousand moments pass as we kiss and caress each other, locking eyes, then squeezing them tightly as the pleasure takes hold. We share a chuckle at his particularly stubborn jeans, which refuse to lower over his hips. And then it’s just the two of us, our bodies entwined, skin to skin, and it’s almost enough just like this. Almost.

‘Leo,’ I say, my voice infused with want. He slips inside me and a moan escapes – his, mine, I couldn’t say – but it expresses everything – the past month together, a decade apart, four years of loving each other, and very possibly our future.

Poppy

I arrive home before Tristan, and our automated system has already turned on the lights and set the temperature to 23°C. I dump my handbag on the hallstand, toe off my shoes, and call for Saffron.

She wanders into the main room, a combined living–dining–kitchen, blinking and stopping for a downward-dog-style stretch. She’s obviously been sleeping on the bed in the guest bedroom – something we gave up trying to train her not to do by day four. We’re fairly certain she thinks she’s a person and that it’sherbedroom.

I scoop her up, which she barely tolerates.

‘Sometimes, it’s not about you, Saffy,’ I coo at her when she starts wriggling in my arms. ‘Mama’s had a shit day and needs a furry cuddle.’

She responds by contorting herself into a pretzel, and I set her down. It’s time to feed her anyway.

‘You are the most spoilt cat in the world,’ I say affectionately as I prepare her dinner of high-end kitty kibble and raw rabbit. If we were living in Australia, this would be kangaroo.

Of course, now that I’m about to feed her, she’s doing figure eights around my legs – the suck-up.

The key turns in the lock – my darling is home! Saffron must think the same thing, because as soon as Tristan appears, she trots over to him, the tip of her tail flicking. He lifts her up one-handed while setting his keys and wallet on the hallstand. I can hear her purring from here.

‘She is such a little flirt,’ I say. ‘Barely tolerates my affections, but leaps into your arms the moment you get home.’

Tristan chuckles and, still holding a smug-looking Saffron, comes to kiss me hello. And even though he’s got an armful of cat, and my hands are covered in rabbit goo, it’s hot. Tristan’s kisses are always hot. He must have gone to kissing school or something.

Saffron tires of our spousal affection and leaps to the floor. I set down her dinner, wash my hands, then give my entire attention to my husband, who snakes his arms around me and squeezes my bum with both hands.

‘You’re very sexy when you’re in the kitchen,’ he says, his voice low and gravelly.

This is a long-running joke between us because, at best, Iassemblefood – salads, sandwiches, putting the cat food in the bowl. Tristan is the one who cooks. Apparently, pre-me, he rarely bothered making anything more exciting than steamed veggies and a plain chicken breast. But with Jacinda’s encouragement – and a few of her recipes – he’s become quite the home chef.

On that…

‘I, husband, have had a rubbish day,’ I say, peppering my words with kisses, ‘and am absolutely starving.’

He pulls away, clearly concerned.

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