Page 30 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘I thought you were getting the car?’ she says, her voice high.

‘I got it. I came to see if you needed some help.’

‘I don’t need help. I’m FINE,’ she says, in a voice which sounds very not fine.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You carry on.’

She’s bright red under the tan.

‘Have you told him our flight number? I’ve got it written down here if you want?’

‘Can you just go and stand over there? On the other side of the baggage reclaim?’ she asks.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m asking you to,’ she says, through gritted teeth.

The man comes back to the counter and says something in very fast Spanish.

‘Mi baggos es dans Londres,’ Jessica says slowly. ‘Los siento, mi baggos esta en Londres porque?’

I’m trying very, very hard not to laugh.

‘Me encanta los baggos, por favore,’ she tries again.

I give in. Then the lost baggage man starts laughing too.

‘That’s just so many languages,’ I manage to say eventually.

She storms away from the counter, and I scoop up her tote bag and water bottle and run after her.

‘I shouldn’t have laughed,’ I say, still laughing. ‘I’m sorry!’ She’s teetering between annoyed and amused, her bottom lip wobbling and her eyes creasing with giggles.

‘Jack, I have to tell you something.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t actually speak Spanish.’

‘What?’ I adopt a tone of shock. ‘This is completely new information, I had no idea.’

She gives in to the laughter and then gently kicks me in the shin with her white Conversed foot. ‘I don’t even know why I lied. I barely even remember doing it. We were just like, newly sleeping together, and you said how sexy you found it when women could speak other languages, and I was like, fuck it, I’m never going abroad with this guy, I’ll tell him I’m an eighth Spanish.’

‘Hang on, you’re not actually an eighth Spanish? You said you called your dad’s mum your “abuela”?!’

‘I didn’t say that!’

‘You bloody did!’

She shakes her head mournfully. ‘She was from Hounslow.’

I lose it. I laugh so hard that I’m rasping for breath. Eventually, I pull myself together. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

The baggage man is coming to the end of his shift. He swaps with a colleague who speaks English and we’re given an envelope of euros for compensation, and reassurance that our suitcases will arrive before we go back to London. We drive into the old town and park on a shaded avenue which smells like trees. Jessica takes her half of the money, which should have been enough for several outfits, and buys one coral-coloured bikini made of three scraps of fabric, which costs so much I wince at the label. Then she picks out a strappy linen sundress at a similarly mad cost, and beams all the way home clutching her bounty.

‘What are you going to wear when they’re in the wash?’ I ask. I had bought a variety of sensibly priced garments.

‘I’ll be naked.’ She beams.

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