Page 230 of Double or Nothing

My stomach lurches at his determination. He’s off like a shot through the door.

“Wow, he’s committed.” Alice’s giggle is weak. Fake.

“He’s frightened,” I say, before I can stop myself. “He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he is.”

The laughter leaves her voice. She reaches for my hand and squeezes.

“So am I,” she says.

I want to tell her not to go. Tell her to fuck it all off with the simple vehemency that Jack does on a daily basis. The words have been waiting, constantly. Building up in the back of my throat. They sit behind every sensible internal argument I’ve had with myself about her attending the dinner, and avoiding an unnecessary confrontation with everyone involved. Assuring myself it’ll be ok. There are options. Plenty of options. It’s just a dinner. Just a faraway plan we don’t have to face the consequences of.

It’s all so carefully reasoned. Logic overriding the truth.

All cowardly.

Jack appears back in the doorway with his trademark ta da!

“The kitchen is no longer aware of time,” he says.

Alice lifts the covers.

“Get in here.”

He does.

No hesitation.

He returns to bed and allows her to pull him close and hold him tight.

When we finally get up it’s because Alice needs coffee.

Nobody dresses properly. Alice just grabs another of Jack’s shirts from the top of the laundry basket, and I put on a pair of boxers under a bathrobe. Jack keeps his dressing gown on.

I look at myself in the mirror. Tired, drawn and pale with messy hair. So unlike my usual self, it’s like staring at a stranger.

Jack makes the coffees. We sit at the island, each at our usual stools. Jack says he doesn’t think he’s ever been so caffeine deprived in his life, and Alice says that’s bullshit. He can ditch coffee for champagne with a click of his fingers.

He actually agrees with her.

Their eyes glow in connection. Her smile at him says it all.

“Sofa day,” he says, and I know what he means. Big cushions and a cosy space to accommodate all three of us.

Alice curls in the corner of the sofa with her coffee. She holds out a hand and I take it and sit beside her. Jack sits on my other side, close enough that his thigh presses against mine.

I look at the remote control, and Jack sighs with a go on then. I grin as I put on an episode of my upcycling show.

There are no objections, which concerns me far more than Jack’s usual complaints. He usually fake moans like a stroppy bitch through every episode.

Onscreen, a battered writing desk gets carried into the workshop. The wooden top is scarred, one leg has been poorly nailed back together and several drawers are wedged tight closed.

Jack watches in complete silence.

“You aren’t going to criticise it?” Alice asks.

“I’m giving the desk a chance.”

“You hate this programme.”