Page 127 of The Honeymoon Affair

Ellis gently unclenches my fist. The burnt strip across my palm is red and angry. She turns on the tap and holds my hand under the cold water. I whimper.

‘Any tea bags?’ she asks Charles.

He goes to the cupboard and takes out a tin.

‘Used tea bags, you idiot,’ she says.

He takes the lid off a ceramic pot on the low shelf behind the sink and wrinkles his nose.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘I’m never convinced about your home remedies.’

‘The tannic acid in the tea is an analgesic,’ says Ellis as she dries my hand then puts a cold tea bag on the burn. It does help a little, but I tell her there might be some Savlon in the first-aid box in the cupboard. Charles takes it down, and it’s pretty much as it was the day I left, with neatly rolled bandages, a selection of plasters and a few ointments.

‘Check the best-before date,’ I tell him as he takes out a tube of cream.

‘Three days to go,’ he says. ‘You should be safe.’

I remove the tea bag and apply the cream. My hand is throbbing.

‘The things I do for you,’ I say to Charles.

‘You didn’t have to,’ says Ellis. ‘He could’ve cooked that meal himself.’

‘I couldn’t,’ says Charles. ‘My relationship with the oven is casual at best.’

‘Like all your relationships,’ she retorts.

‘Whoa!’ He looks at her. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I don’t know,’ admits Ellis. ‘And it’s not true either. Your relationships aren’t casual. They’re . . . they’re . . .’

‘What?’ he demands.

‘You’re the feckin’ writer!’ she exclaims. ‘What exactly do you call a relationship when your wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner for your fiancée?’

‘That’s not entirely accurate,’ says Charles.

‘I think you’ll find that Ariel, who’s still your wife, has just spent an hour slaving over a hot stove while we’re entertaining Izzy, who’s your new fiancée. So it’s exactly accurate and you’re an absolute pig, Chas. It’s not respectful to Iseult to have Ariel here, and it’s not respectful to Ariel to treat her like the hired help either.’

‘But she does work for me,’ he protests.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and I realise it’s from me.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant we have a working relationship.’

‘I think you’ve made it very clear what you mean.’

‘Ariel, for God’s sake. I was provoked. Ellis always bloody provokes me. And I didn’t mean . . . I’d never . . .’ He puts his arm around me. ‘I love you, you know that.’

Which is when Iseult walks into the kitchen.

Iseult

Pamela and I have run out of conversation. We sit opposite each other without anything to say. I check my phone again, but there are no more messages from Steve. I rearrange the cutlery in front of me – a spoon and a cake fork, which makes me wonder what dessert is. Then I fold my linen napkin and tell Pamela that I’m going to check that everything’s OK downstairs.

‘The chef dropped something, that’s all,’ she says.

‘He might have injured himself,’ I say. ‘I’m trained in first aid.’