Page 105 of Short Stack 3

His lip twitches. “My father believes that the internet interferes with his creative muse. You have to go to the bottom of the garden to pick up their neighbour’s signal. My father’s muse is apparently okay with piggybacking on other people’s Wi-Fi signals.”

“What the hell?”

“I believe you are more stunned about that than the fact that my stepmother has just been critiquing the size of my father’s manhood.”

I settle back into the sheets and cuddle close to him, loving how his arms come around me. “I shall sing to you.”

“And that will help me, how?”

“It’ll certainly take your mind off things.”

We hear thundering footsteps, the bang of the window going up in the room next door, and then a tinkle of glass followed by more shouting.

“What shall I sing?” I say quickly. “Oh, decisions, decisions. Ooh, I know.” I sing a few words, and he stares at me.

“Is that “Gloria” by Laura Branigan?”

I glare at him. “I can’t help it. It was on the radio earlier, and it’s stuck in my head.”

“And now it is in mine. You must love me very much.”

“It’s getting less by the second.”

That makes my contrary man laugh like I’m a stage comedian. “Well, it’s certainly taking my mind off things. Sing some more, Laurie.”

So, I do. I sing loudly as his father and stepmother continue their very noisy argument. Occasionally, I raise my voice to compete with the sound of breaking crockery, and at one point, I break off to say, “Surely there can’t be any more furniture to smash?”

He makes a superior moue, his eyes twinkling. “Laurie, we are very rich. There isalwaysmore furniture.”

Finally, after two rounds of “Gloria” and a rather inspired rendition of “Rosanna” by Toto, if I do say so myself, I fall silent and stare at him.

He shifts uneasily. “What?” he asks.

“I’m waiting for the praise about my voice.”

“I think you may be waiting a very long time, yes?”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“In the case of your voice, that is a very true sentiment.”

The shouting stops so suddenly that it makes my ears ring.

“Goodness, your voice has created a time-space vacuum,” my beloved remarks.

I roll my eyes. “The closest you’ve ever come to a vacuum is Mrs Sinclair wielding the hoover.”

We both blink as a loud moan sounds suddenly from the other side of the wall, followed by the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings.

“Goodgod,” Mags says in a revolted voice.

I snort, lying next to him and pulling the covers over us. “We’ll hide here together,” I inform him.

“My hero.”

“Well, it’s not the Battle of Waterloo, but it’ll have to suffice.”

“Have you been watchingSharpeagain?”

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