Page 69 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘Out of interest,’ she asks, ‘why are you so averse to letting him do his own thing? To doing this influencer thing on your own?’

I don‘t like the question, but we’re having a go at this honesty thing, so I tell her the truth. ‘We’re a brand. A team. A package deal.’

‘Do you have to be?’ she asks, cocking her head to one side.

‘I tried to make a success of things on my own for years. Literally years. I applied for more jobs than he’ll ever know. I tried blogging, I wrote short stories, I went to evening classes to learn how to write for TV, I even tried stand-up.’ Grace laughs at this. ‘And the only time I managed tosucceed at anything,’ I go on, ‘was when he was doing it with me.’

Grace gives me a look, which I think is supposed to tell me that I am being insane. ‘Look,’ she tells me, getting up to wash the cups, which we’ve barely finished drinking from. Tom used to laugh about what a neat freak she is. I wonder how much of a journey it is from laughing to sneering. ‘I don’t know shit about fuck when it comes to being an influencer. But the market is predominantly women, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And most of your audience is women?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re doing most of the work for this joint account?’

‘I don’t know if “most” is fair ...’ I trail off as she waves a hand at me.

‘So you’re smart, and funny, and attractive. You’ve got good clothes and good ideas. Have you never stopped to think that this huge, mostly female following is actually there because they like you? Like, specifically you?’ she says, hands on hips.

I lay my head down on her dining table and moan dramatically. ‘But if that’s true then Jack and I have been having the worst fights of our life for no bloody reason.’

Grace laughs. ‘Look, I know you guys have had a rough time, but I really don’t think it’s terminal. A decent therapist and a couple of rounds of IVF and you’re golden.’

I know it’s not that simple. It’s the kind of flippant throwaway comment which means Grace gets sent to HR intermittently for being mean to the Gen-Zs at work. ButI like it. She makes it sound so straightforward; I almost believe her.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m going to call him and say that.’

Only I can’t find my phone. I had it last night, but when I woke up this morning, I was so distracted by the kids that I didn’t look for it. And now it’s totally disappeared. We hunt high and low, tipping out my handbag, my overnight bag, looking down the sides of the bed, and then suddenly Grace realises what might have happened. Flushed, we go back downstairs, and Grace summons the children into the kitchen.

‘Did one of you take Jessica’s phone?’

They both shake their heads.

‘Are you sure?’

They both nod.

‘If you can find Jessica’s phone, I’ll let you watch Peppa on the iPad.’

It transpires that Ada and Raffy do know where my phone is, and it appears within seconds. They’re then given the iPad, which is a bit like a winning lottery ticket as far as they’re concerned.

I take my phone off airplane mode and notifications start rolling in. Just like before when the Verity story came out.

‘Fuck,’ I say, opening it. ‘Something’s happened.’

Grace leaps into crisis management mode. ‘What? Another article? Where are you seeing it?’ She opens her phone and her work laptop and starts frantically googling. ‘I can’t see anything on any of the tabloids? Just the same article from before.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say quietly, looking up from my phone. ‘Jack has posted something. On our account.’

Grace takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh God. What now?’

Slowly, trying to keep myself composed, I open our profile. And there, in the top left-hand square, is a photograph. It’s a different resolution from the ones I take, and it’s not in the colour story my grid is currently adhering to. Have we been hacked?

It’s a picture of a notebook, and in his handwriting, writing I’ve been looking at for nearly half my life, he’s written: ‘RULES’.

‘I can’t do it,’ I say, looking away from my phone. ‘You read it.’

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