squabbles that couples have.
You know the ones. They’re usually about who left the top off the shampoo or whose shoes trod mud into the carpet. The important stuff. The stuff that you only ever get worked up about with people you know intimately.
They were talking quietly, seemingly aware enough of their surroundings to want to make sure they weren’t overheard – they had tucked themselves into the entrance to a little cobbled alley, as if standing two feet away from the main street
might render them invisible – but not so aware that they could wait until they were alone to say whatever they had to say. The way you just can’t help yourself, sometimes. You have to get something off your chest, never mind if you’re in the checkout queue at Tesco’s and
your next-door neighbour is behind you earwigging. Hoping to hear some gossip she can pass on. Suddenly it’s crucial that you tell your husband that you’ve always hated the way he picks at the stuff between his toes while he’s watching TV.
The woman was a few inches shorter than Charles, so she was having to look up to get his attention, straining to pull herself up to her full height, almost on tiptoes. She looked young. Compared to him, anyway. Despite the fact that something was
clearly wrong between them, Jen thought he looked concerned for her, anxious to get his point across but without letting things get out of hand. She knew that face so well, she could read his expressions, even from a distance.
She stood there watching, transfixed. An insistent alarm was ringing in her head. Something was wrong. Something was threatening her perfect family life. She knew she should probably turn round and walk back to
the hotel, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away. Poppy had once said that Jen would definitely be the person who caused a pile-up on the motorway because she was craning her neck to look at the rear-ended car on the other side. Twenty people dead
instead of one case of whiplash. Nosy woman causes M1 carnage. It wasn’t that she
was
nosy necessarily – actually, scratch that, she was. She was just interested, she would protest. She liked to know what was going on. She always had to find out what happened next. And in this
instance, if she was being honest, it felt as if she had a right to know. Or, at least, that no one would have expected her to turn a blind eye and ignore it. Whatever
it
was.
As she watched, the woman put a manicured hand on Charles’s arm and he looked down at it, as if startled by the contact. He didn’t shake it off straight away, like Jen expected him to, either. He left it there for a moment longer than
felt right, and then he removed it gently, holding it in his own and massaging the back of it with his fingers. Looking at the woman intently. Looking around to make sure he hadn’t been seen. Looking like a man Jen had never met.
Jen, across the street, stepped back into the doorway of a restaurant. Just missed falling down a hatch in the pavement where kitchen staff were stashing boxes unloaded from the back of a van.
‘Lady!’ one of them shouted, waving his arm at her.
‘Shit, sorry,’ Jen said, as quietly as she could, without actually whispering.
She thought about calling out. Or running across the road to surprise them. Jumping out shouting ‘Gotcha!’,
setting off streamers and blowing a party whistle. Anything that would break the
moment. But first she needed to decide if what she thought she was seeing was really what she thought she was seeing. She had a history of jumping to conclusions. Something else Poppy liked to remind her about.
Really, though, there was no doubt. Jen took a deep breath, felt it catch in the back of her throat. Told herself to calm down. For a minute or so, she just watched the man she had thought was so familiar to her, and the woman she had never seen
before, and then, after she was sure she’d taken in the whole scene – after she’d seen as much as she needed to
You know the ones. They’re usually about who left the top off the shampoo or whose shoes trod mud into the carpet. The important stuff. The stuff that you only ever get worked up about with people you know intimately.
They were talking quietly, seemingly aware enough of their surroundings to want to make sure they weren’t overheard – they had tucked themselves into the entrance to a little cobbled alley, as if standing two feet away from the main street
might render them invisible – but not so aware that they could wait until they were alone to say whatever they had to say. The way you just can’t help yourself, sometimes. You have to get something off your chest, never mind if you’re in the checkout queue at Tesco’s and
your next-door neighbour is behind you earwigging. Hoping to hear some gossip she can pass on. Suddenly it’s crucial that you tell your husband that you’ve always hated the way he picks at the stuff between his toes while he’s watching TV.
The woman was a few inches shorter than Charles, so she was having to look up to get his attention, straining to pull herself up to her full height, almost on tiptoes. She looked young. Compared to him, anyway. Despite the fact that something was
clearly wrong between them, Jen thought he looked concerned for her, anxious to get his point across but without letting things get out of hand. She knew that face so well, she could read his expressions, even from a distance.
She stood there watching, transfixed. An insistent alarm was ringing in her head. Something was wrong. Something was threatening her perfect family life. She knew she should probably turn round and walk back to
the hotel, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away. Poppy had once said that Jen would definitely be the person who caused a pile-up on the motorway because she was craning her neck to look at the rear-ended car on the other side. Twenty people dead
instead of one case of whiplash. Nosy woman causes M1 carnage. It wasn’t that she
was
nosy necessarily – actually, scratch that, she was. She was just interested, she would protest. She liked to know what was going on. She always had to find out what happened next. And in this
instance, if she was being honest, it felt as if she had a right to know. Or, at least, that no one would have expected her to turn a blind eye and ignore it. Whatever
it
was.
As she watched, the woman put a manicured hand on Charles’s arm and he looked down at it, as if startled by the contact. He didn’t shake it off straight away, like Jen expected him to, either. He left it there for a moment longer than
felt right, and then he removed it gently, holding it in his own and massaging the back of it with his fingers. Looking at the woman intently. Looking around to make sure he hadn’t been seen. Looking like a man Jen had never met.
Jen, across the street, stepped back into the doorway of a restaurant. Just missed falling down a hatch in the pavement where kitchen staff were stashing boxes unloaded from the back of a van.
‘Lady!’ one of them shouted, waving his arm at her.
‘Shit, sorry,’ Jen said, as quietly as she could, without actually whispering.
She thought about calling out. Or running across the road to surprise them. Jumping out shouting ‘Gotcha!’,
setting off streamers and blowing a party whistle. Anything that would break the
moment. But first she needed to decide if what she thought she was seeing was really what she thought she was seeing. She had a history of jumping to conclusions. Something else Poppy liked to remind her about.
Really, though, there was no doubt. Jen took a deep breath, felt it catch in the back of her throat. Told herself to calm down. For a minute or so, she just watched the man she had thought was so familiar to her, and the woman she had never seen
before, and then, after she was sure she’d taken in the whole scene – after she’d seen as much as she needed to
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