Page 66 of Short Stack 3

The dates are somewhat off-field when Joe gets to pick. So far this month, I’ve been axe throwing, which was fun, and kayaking, which was less so as Joe has the kayaking ability of a dead squirrel.

He sets his mug of tea down, his face full of mischief. “Well, I’ve picked somethingreallyfun this week.”

“It’s not horse riding, is it?” I ask warily.

He studies me. “Why would that be a problem? You’re the same as Raff. He’s got aterriblephobia about horses.”

“I’m not scared of horses. I just don’t get on well with them.”

“I’m not asking you to buy them a drink and keep them entertained for the day.”

“They don’t like me and make it their life’s ambition to buck me off.”

“Surely not?”

“It happens every single time. It’s like they have some telepathic warning signal because they all act like I’m Damian as soon as I come near one.”

“You do have that prince of darkness thing going on. Hmm.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “Even donkeys hate me.”

“Good job you were never tasked with getting Mary to Bethlehem.”

“I’d have booked an Uber.”

He starts to laugh, his eyes lit up with fun, and I’m seized with such utter love for him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone and consider myself immensely lucky that this merry, warm-hearted man who could have anyone returns my feelings. Getting here might have taken a while, but I’m determined we’ll never stray off course again.

“Well, it’s not horses, donkeys, or lions. It’s somethingmuchbetter.”

His eyes shine with enthusiasm, and I mentally gird my loins because that look always and without fail presages trouble.

An hour later, I stand outside an old building on a busy high street in North London. “Life drawing class,” I say, reading the poster on the door. “What the hell, Joe?”

He chuckles. “Such a tone of nihilistic despair. I’d think you’d be celebrating that you have a husband who takes you to draw naked men.”

“I’m cartwheeling inside. You just can’t see it.” He snorts, and I glare at him. “I’m terrible at art.”

“You don’t have to be good at something to have fun doing it.”

“Thank you, oh wise one. Our sex life would disagree.”

He smirks. “We’re not just good at that. We’re fuckingamazing.”

I eye the poster morosely. “I think I preferred the kayaking.”

“We can’t do that again because I could not stand more of the joy that came from having my husband call me a moron. I might burst with happiness.”

“I did fish you out of the Thames,” I remind him.

“My hero.” He takes my arm and guides me into the building. “It’ll be fun. We’ll learn something new and ogle a man’s private parts.”

“You’re very seedy under that shiny exterior.”

“And you’ve only just realised that?”

We come into a big room with a wooden floor that shows the scratches of the years. It smells faintly of bleach, like every village hall I’ve ever been in. Easels are set in a circle surrounding a raised dais on which is a mattress with a sheet draped artistically across it.

A lady with grey hair and round glasses comes rushing over to us. “Hello,” she flutes. “And you would be?”

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