There is some debate, among some of our colleagues and kind-of-friends, as to how I managed to bag a man like Chris. I had overheard a couple at our wedding reception:

“She’s pretty, you know. But he’s…” the woman had said. I think she worked with Chris.

“Even I probably would,” said her husband. “I’m not sure why he settled.”

Chris is already at the table when I wobble into the restaurant keeping an unnatural focus on the space between us. He’s tucked away toward the back, where the huge pizza oven dominates the open-plan kitchen and smartly dressed staff in crisp chef whites scurry behind a long gleaming steel workbench, churning out order after order of Italian favorites for the diners crammed into the cavernous space. The restaurant is heaving with Friday-night punters enjoying themselves: couples sharing spaghetti dishes, groups of friends, families with kids old enough for the later sitting. It is loud and raucous and God, it is boiling. I can feel a drop of sweat chasing down my chest as I make the marathon trek to the table.

“You’re drunk.” His voice is light, a simple observation not a criticism, although I can see the spot on his cheek that suggests his jaw is tightly clenched.

“I had one glass.”

“I thought we were going to have a nice evening.” He offers me a sad smile. The perpetually understanding husband who just wants to play nicely and placate his disaster of a wife. I pick up the menu to avoid his plaintive stare. The words melt a little on the page. Perhaps I had two glasses with Hannah. All right, it was two large glasses and a Scotch, but we’re all friends here and no one should be counting. I put the menu down and smile at him.

“So… good week?” It sounds warm and friendly in my ears, not the voice of a woman who caught him cheating and dispatched his mistress, forthwith. Damn, I am drunk.

“Busy,” he replies and tries to flag down the harried-looking waitress as she rushes past. She gives him a signal that she’ll be back in a minute and we wait for her in silence. He doesn’t ask me about my week and I’m not inclined to proffer the information.

“A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a large tap water,” he tells the waitress.

“Yes, red is fine,” I say curtly after she has gone.

He sighs and sits back in his chair a little. “I didn’t ask because I think you have probably already had more than enough. The water is for you. Then maybe we will see about the wine.”

Supercilious, self-righteous bastard. Although I should keep my wits about me. Getting pissed is probably not conducive to getting away with murder. “I just need to eat,” I say in the end, not wanting an argument. “I didn’t have time for lunch.”

“You need to take care of yourself, Meggie,” he says with a semblance of concern. “You need to be better.” Be better. He sounds like Leah’s manager. He’s watching me, waiting for my reply. I nod. “Good girl,” he says, and orders a basket of bread and olives to tide us over until the main course arrives.