menu already open on his laptop, waiting for me to come home so he could place his order with me, and I could place it with the noodle place. That lot would set me back almost thirty quid, I calculated, tapping it all into the app. But it was churlish to point that out – churlish and mean. It wasn’t fair to take my worry over Dani out on Jude, when he was doing nothing he didn’t normally do.
‘It’ll be about thirty minutes,’ I said.
‘Great.’ Jude got up off the bed and stretched. ‘I’ll have a shower while I wait, then. And do you know where my jeans are? I couldn’t find any clean ones this morning.’
‘I should imagine they’re in the washing machine,’ I said, ‘with the rest of your stuff that I put in this morning.’
‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to hang them out now, and they probably won’t be dry by the morning.’
‘They probably won’t. There’s a twenty-four-hour launderette down the road; I expect they have dryers, if you’re desperate.’
Finally, Jude looked sheepish. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve had a total fucker of a day and I’m tired and cranky and work’s just like a bloody pressure cooker at the moment with all these factions squabbling with one another, and I know I’m going to have to take a side but I don’t know which one to take. But that’s no excuse to be a bastard to you. Believe me, I appreciate everything you do for me, because ultimately that helps me to fight for what’s right. Okay?’
There was so much to unpick there I didn’t know where to start. And I suddenly felt desperately weary. Wasn’t this the kind of conversation you were meant to have in a ten-year marriage that had begun to go sour, not in a relationship that was still brand new, still meant to be in its honeymoon period? I needed someone to confide in, someone to comfort me, someone who had my back and right now – actually, always – Jude wasn’t that person. Frazzle gave me more emotional support than Jude did and just about as much practical help.
But I was too tired to think about it, too tired to argue about it, and definitely, categorically too tired to get myself into a row that might need make-up sex to resolve itself.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Just sort out your own clothes tonight, okay? I’m going to sleep.’
And so I found myself, a few minutes later, lying rigid in my bed, with all the lights still on and Jude next to me, scrolling on his phone while he waited for his food, a half-smile on his face. Glancing at the screen over his shoulder, I could see he was on Indigo’s Instagram feed; I’d have recognised those abstract canvasses and that messy apartment anywhere. She was his friend, I reminded myself. There was no reason for him not to engage with her social media. But still, I felt like the four walls of the flat were closing in on me, the space getting smaller and smaller. I knew that if I managed to drift into sleep, I’d be woken immediately by the buzz of the entry phone and Jude crashing around finding plates and cutlery, probably asking me where the salt and hot sauce were, and possibly opening the washing machine to try and dry his jeans with my hairdryer.
I was furious, exhausted and desperately sad, but I had no idea what to do. I could tell him to pack his stuff and leave, but I wasn’t capable of that. It felt too cruel, too final. I could leave myself, just for the night, to get some head space, but I had nowhere to go. Or, of course, I could just lie here, seething with resentment, and hope that eventually I’d fall asleep and maybe in the morning a solution would magically present itself.
But I didn’t fall asleep, because after just a few minutes the door buzzer sounded, jerking me out of my thoughts. It wasn’t just one buzz, either – it was three or four, strung rapidly together.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Jude said, ‘take it easy, mate. You’re a fucking pizza delivery monkey not an air raid warden.’
I sat up and looked at him, and he added hastily, ‘The pressure these guys work under on zero-hours contracts is a bloody disgrace. Got any change?’
I hadn’t, but I got up and handed him a fiver out of my purse, and he hurried