ruefully. ‘OK, clam chowder it is.’
He picks up the phone and dials, then covers the mouthpiece. ‘Just for the record, this is as painful for me as it is for you.’ Then, turning back to the phone, he asks, ‘You want crackers with that?’
After we’ve eaten two big bowls of the most delicious clam chowder, Nate declares he’s going to call it a night. ‘Do you want to use the bathroom first or shall I?’ he asks politely.
‘It’s fine, go ahead,’ I reply, equally politely.
See, we can do this, I tell myself, as he disappears for five minutes, then re-emerges in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. We’re two mature adults. My eyes flick to his boxers and I get a fright – I got rid of the pineapple ones, but do these have Rudolph on them? Quickly I avert my gaze. Don’t look, Lucy, don’t look. Pretend like it’s not happening.
I keep my eyes fixed determinedly on the TV screen. Only, instead of heading for the sofa, he heads back towards the bed and proceeds to get under the covers. Er, just a minute. Surreptitiously sliding my eyes sideways, I watch him snuggling into a pillow. What the . . .?
Horror and indignation stab, but I remain calm.
OK, so I have two options:
1. Sod the truce, have a huge row and forcibly try to remove him from the bed (which, considering he’s six three and about thirteen stone will not be easy).
2. Sleep on the sofa.
I eye the uncomfortable-looking sofa with annoyance. That is just so unfair. So bloody unfair. Why is it that I have to— In the middle of my cerebral ranting a third option strikes:
3. Take the Strategy one step further and share the bed.
Oh, no.
Oh E€tin Lighƒ€>Oh E€ti, no, oh, no, oh, no.
Just the thought makes me shudder. Whereas only a few weeks ago I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do more than climb into bed with Nate, now I can’t think of anything I want to do less. Like my sister says, it’s always about timing. And my timing sucks, I muse, looking across at Nate.
What about our truce?
He broke the truce when he clambered into bed, argues the other voice in my head.
But—
All’s fair in love and war, it reminds me. Or when you can’t get rid of your soulmate . . .
Right, OK, that’s it. I’m convinced. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Feeling like a soldier preparing for battle, I grab my washbag and my ‘uniform’ and march into the bathroom. I’ve got to make myself look as unattractive as possible, I tell myself, scrubbing my face clean of make-up. Two little piggy eyes stare back at me in the mirror. Hmm, not bad. I tie up my hair in an unflattering top-knot. Not bad indeed. Squeezing out toothpaste, I apply a couple of big dollops – one on my nose and one on my chin – as a make-do spot cream. Revolting! Excellent.
Now for my ‘bedtime attire’. God, what a difference a couple of weeks make. Before, when I was sleeping with Nate, I was applying lip gloss, dabbing perfume on my pulse points and slipping into my special-occasion lingerie. Now I’m pulling on an old greying vest and the big, ugly pair of period knickers that I always carry with me in case of emergencies. And the same goes for Tampax.
Digging out a box, I scatter them freely around the bathroom, like some might scatter rose petals, along with a half-used tube of Canestan (another of my emergency supplies), which I leave in a prominent position next to the washbasin, with the words ‘For fungal infections’ face up. Genius! Then taking one last look in the mirror, and almost frightening myself to death, I go back into the bedroom.
Unknown
Damn, he looks asleep. Spotting Nate spread-eagled in the...
Hitting the volume button, I turn it right up.
‘Huh?’ Nate rolls over and opens his eyes. At the sight of me he visibly recoils. ‘Jesus, what’s that on your face?’
‘Spot cream,’ I say, tugging up my big black period knickers. I see his eyes sweeping over me. ‘I’m really breaking out. I just had a good squeeze in the bathroom.’ I pull a face. ‘Honestly, the stuff that came out!’
He looks like he’s about to gag.
Pulling back the covers, I slide into the other side of the bed, and then, for the briefest of moments, I suddenly feel a tremor of doubt. What if this get-up doesn’t put him off? What