A Spot Of Bother

59

Katie posted the invitations, left a message for Jamie, then sat back down at the table.

She wanted to break something. But she wasn’t allowed to break things. Not after the roasting she’d given Jacob for kicking the video player.

She picked up the big knife and stabbed the breadboard seven times. When she stabbed it for the eighth time the blade broke and she cut the edge of her hand on the snapped-off end sticking up from the breadboard. There was blood everywhere.

She wrapped her hand in a kitchen towel, got out the first-aid tin, stuck a couple of large plasters over the cut, then cleaned up and threw the broken knife away.

She was obviously not going to get any sleep. The bed meant lying next to Ray. And the sofa meant admitting defeat.

Did she love Ray?

Did she not love him?

She hadn’t eaten since four. She put the kettle on. She took down a packet of Maryland Chocolate Chip Cookies, ate six standing up, felt slightly sick and put the remainder back into the cupboard.

How could Ray sleep at times like this?

Had she ever loved him? Or was it just gratitude? Because he got on so well with Jacob. Because he had money. Because he could fix every machine under the sun. Because he needed her.

But, shit, those were real things. Even the money. Christ, you could love someone who was poor and incompetent and share a life that staggered from one disaster to the next. But that wasn’t love, that was masochism. Like Trish. Go down that road and you ended up living in a shed in Snowdonia while Mr. Vibrational Healing carved dragons out of logs.

She didn’t give a damn about the books and the films. She didn’t care what her family thought.

So why did she find it so hard to say she loved him?

Maybe because he’d marched into that café like Clint Eastwood and hurled a wastebin down the street.

In fact, now that she came to think about it, he had a bloody nerve. He disappeared for three days. Didn’t even let her know he was alive. Then he pitched up, said sorry a few times, told her the wedding was off and expected her to say that she loved him.

Three days. Jesus.

You wanted to be a father, you had to show a damn sight more responsibility than that.

Maybe they shouldn’t get married. Maybe it was a ridiculous idea, but if he was going to try and blame it on her…

God. That felt better. That felt a lot better.

She put down her mug and marched upstairs to wake him up and read him the riot act.