8

Star

When I get back home, Nigel is in the front room slumped on the sofa. The atmosphere is tense and strange, and there is an open bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.

“You switched your phone off,” he says, standing up and coming to me. His hair is ruffled and his face is pale and stressed. I’ve never seen him look so unhappy and depressed. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to speak to anybody.” My voice is wooden. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” I say briefly.

There is a flash of something in his eyes. “Where?”

I want to say, none of your business, but I can’t. This is my Nigel. My hero for so many years. Turns out my idol has feet of clay, but he is still my husband. “I met Rosa for coffee,” I reply, as I brush past him to go upstairs.

“Did you tell her about me?” he asks in a strange tone.

I turn around to look at him, surprised that he’d even ask. “Yes.” “I bet she was delighted,” he says bitter