Page 16 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘I’m thinking I might go out for a bit,’ I say to Jack. He looks up from his book.

‘Cool. Where?’

‘There’s an antiques market in West London.’

‘Do we need any more antiques?’

‘I don’t think anyoneneedsantiques to start with.’

There’s a little pause. I wait to see if he might suggest an alternative activity. But he doesn’t. ‘So, I’ll be a couple of hours, and then I’ll be home in good time for Tom and Grace’s dinner thing.’

‘Should be fun,’ he says. To my surprise, because Tom and Grace are our university friends who live in a pristine housewith their two pristine children and like to talk about all of the success that they, their children, and basically everyone they’ve ever met, are enjoying at all times. We usually agree that seeing Tom and Grace is objectively not fun anymore.

‘Yeah. Totally,’ I agree, not wanting to be the one with the bad attitude.

‘Dreading it?’ He gives me a smile and my shoulders sag in relief. He gets up to refill his coffee cup and gestures to me, offering me one, and I shake my head, without explaining that it’s about my pregnancy-forum-induced caffeine anxiety.

‘Yep.’

‘How long do you think it’ll take before they start nagging us to have kids?’

‘An hour?’

‘We could just tell them.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, ‘but I would rather let her patronise me all evening than admit to her that there’s something she can do that I can’t.’

Jack laughs, a proper, hearty laugh. I notice the fine lines around his eyes in the sun from the huge living room window. He’s getting better and better looking as he gets older. I don’t think I’ve told him that.

‘I don’t have to go out,’ I venture. ‘We could just go for a walk round here, or something.’ I want him to say yes. To put down the book and shove his feet into his shoes like he used to when we were younger, when weekends were about having the most fun possible to fill my social battery before another shitty week at my shitty job.

He looks over to his book, to the sofa which is rumpled, all the cushions squashed to fit his body. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I interrupt, sensing his reluctance. He’s spent the last two weeks doing dozens of radio spots and bookshop talks, and he clearly wants to be alone for a bit. That’s fair. We have a whole rule about taking time to be selfish and doing your own thing. It makes sense that he would want some space. Though I’m not sure why I feel so hurt about it. ‘We can walk over to Grace and Tom’s together later.’

I pause at the front door, wondering whether I should tell him who I’m going out with. But he didn’t ask. So maybe I don’t need to announce it. While I doubt he’d say it in so many words, he would be annoyed that I’m seeing Clay as a friend rather than a manager. So it’s easier and simpler for everyone if I just ... don’t. In a perfect world, we’d have spent this weekend enjoying our post-press-tour freedom together. But things haven’t quite snapped back like I’d expected them to, and the last thing I want is to exacerbate that.

Clay’s already at the market when I arrive, standing outside a coffee shop wearing an impeccably tailored coat.

‘Hello darling,’ he says, beaming. He hands me a cup and kisses me on each cheek.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking a long sip of coffee. ‘Did they have sugar?’ I ask, craning to see which café he bought it from.

‘No.’ He smiles.

‘Liar.’

‘It’s coffee, it doesn’t need sugar.’

‘I like it!’

‘Philistine.’

I roll my eyes. ‘What are we looking for?’

This market is apparently one of London’s best-kept secrets. Clay knows about it because an interior designer he had a fling with in the noughties brought him on a date. It lines a long Georgian street in West London, cars and tables overflowing. At first glance it looks like your bog-standard car boot sale. But the people selling here are dressed in moth-eaten cashmere, with scuffed Gucci shoes. ‘It’s where all the aristos come to flog something if they need to raise a bit of cash for school fees or a hole in the stable roof,’ Clay tells me, taking my arm in his.

I can see why no one wants to let the secret about this place out. I pause by a scratched green Volvo, running my hand over a little wooden writing desk. It has turned legs, a leather top and a pretty little key in the lock. ‘This is lovely,’ I say to the man overseeing the stall. Overseeing is probably a strong word. He’s sitting in the car with a door open, reading yesterday’sTelegraph.

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