what? You said you wanted a blender, I’ve bought you a blender. Tell me what I’ve done wrong now?’
Laura stood up. There was no way he was going to hijack her anger. How dare he play the wounded card. She was the one whose feelings had been hurt.
Actions spoke louder than words. So instead of explaining why his attempt at an anniversary present was woefully inadequate, she fetched her own gift.
There was a sense of trepidation radiating off Martin as he took the gift, as though being handed a grenade with the ring removed. He placed the package on the table, tentatively removing the ribbons and large bow.
Laura watched him, waiting for his expression to register the significance of her gift compared to the insult of being given a kitchen appliance. He unwrapped the scented tissue paper from each item and looked at it without comment before placing it on the table. Other than pausing longer over the playing cards, his expression gave nothing away.
Laura lost patience. ‘Don’t you like them?’
He rubbed his eyes, wearily.
She felt her anger increase. ‘Don’t just pull a face. Tell me what’s wrong?’
He picked up the tube of lube. ‘This is all a bit … juvenile, don’t you think?’
Laura wondered if she’d heard him right. ‘Juvenile?’
‘Yes, juvenile.’ He dropped the tube on the table. ‘It’s tacky. Cheap.’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘Oh, you mean unlike giving a sensible gift, like a blender.’
Martin flinched, but didn’t say anything.
She picked up the satin mask. ‘There was a time when you would’ve loved getting stuff like this. You would’ve relished the opportunity to try them out.’ She shook the mask in his face. ‘You would’ve seen the funny side.’ She threw it on the table. ‘So what’s changed, Martin? Don’t you want a decent sex life?’
He looked stung. His face creased into a frown. ‘Of course I do, but this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t us, Laura. We’ve moved on. Grown up.’
‘Grown up?’ Laura was in danger of throttling her husband. ‘So what, now we’re thirty we can’t play around? Next you’ll be telling me it’s the missionary position or nothing.’
Martin looked annoyed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous.’ She moved towards him. ‘I’m trying to keep our sex life from dying out completely. Is that such a crime?’
He reached for her. ‘And that’s the problem, Laura. You’re trying too hard.’
She shrugged him away. ‘Well, one of us has to. You’re not making any effort.’
‘That’s not true. What you have to appreciate, Laura, is that life moves on, it changes. People change.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘We’re not students any more. We have careers and responsibilities. The mortgage needs paying. My job does that.’ He overrode her attempts to object. ‘And yes, I work long hours. I don’t always want to, but I need to. If we’re going to become financially secure and have kids then that’s the reality.’
Laura threw her hands in the air. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you played the kids card.’
Martin groaned. ‘You know how I feel. I want kids, Laura. I always have. I thought you did too?’
‘One day, yes. But what’s the hurry?’
He had the audacity to look affronted. ‘We’ve been married for five years. It’s time we settled down.’
Laura rounded on him. ‘It seems to me we’ve already settled down. If we were any more settled we’d be dead!’
He backed away. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
She followed him, cornering him by the hot oven. ‘And you’re being a selfish prick.’
‘How am I being selfish?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I love you. I provide for you. I work stupidly long hours to give you the best life possible. How is that selfish?’
The pain in his expression mirrored her own. ‘Because it’s not what I want, Martin.’ His hands dropped from her face. ‘I never see you. We never go out. We never have fun any more. And now you want me to give up my business, the one thing I have left, and be stuck at home all day with screaming babies while you’re off building your precious career.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting that at all. And do you have any idea how ungrateful you sound? Most women would count themselves lucky to be in your position.’
‘Well, why don’t you go and be with one of them then, because I don’t want this. I don’t want—’
‘Me. Yeah, that’s abundantly clear.’ He brushed past her.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
He swiped up his jacket from the chair. ‘I’ll be in the spare bedroom if you need me.’
Why did he always do that? Back away before things had been resolved? ‘Is that it? You’re quitting?’ She followed him to the door. ‘Martin? Martin …’
He didn’t reply.
A few moments later a door slammed upstairs. The shudder rattled a vase of giant yellow roses balancing on the hall table. The words ‘Happy Anniversary, darling’ danced in front of her wet eyes.
Crap.
So much for a romantic night.
Evie pressed her hands against the wall and pushed her heel into the floor, trying to get the maximum stretch in her calf muscle. There wasn’t really enough room inside her tiny hallway for stretching, but running without warming up would only result in a torn muscle and as she hadn’t exercised for a while she needed to take it easy, allowing her body time to adjust.
Satisfied she was fully loosened up, she closed the door behind her and skipped down the steps onto the pavement. Adjusting her headphones, she set off down Folkestone Road, pleased to discover some bounce left in her old trainers.
Running at night wouldn’t usually be her chosen time to exercise. She much preferred the early mornings when the dew still glistened on the ground and the air was fresh and crisp, but early starts at The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop had put an end to any kind of activity before work. She was up at five most days, either visiting the wholesalers or waiting for them to deliver. It wasn’t that she minded getting up early – managing the florist’s was what she wanted – but the upshot of her new regime meant that if she was going to exercise then it needed to be after the shop closed.
Sport had always featured in Evie’s life. To deny herself exercise was like not eating or sleeping; her body just didn’t function as well without it. As a kid she’d been a member of her local athletics club, competing at events and showing promise as a sprinter until she’d developed hips, at which point her times had slowed and she’d had to accept Olympic gold wasn’t within her grasp. But it hadn’t stopped her enjoying running, and she’d switched to middle distance instead. In recent years she’d tried joining a gym, but with nothing to stimulate her mind or senses, other than watching others struggling with the machinery or showing off their bulging muscles, it felt too claustrophobic. She wanted to be outside, feeling the air in her lungs and the road beneath her feet, not constricted by a monotonous treadmill.
She turned into Biddenden Lane, ran past the church