“I need you to do something for me.”
“Ok honey, what?”
“It’s a very special something.”
An eyebrow-raise.
“Really?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “A very special…intimate…thing…that only you can do.”
A grin, a pair of quizzical folded arms as d leaned back against the kitchen counter, spatula in hand, surveying a stiff peak of frosting that dangled like a question-mark from the silicone paddle.
“Ok,” she said, her eyes flicking between the frosting and her husband.
“Shoot,” she said, taking a deep, quiet breath.
“I need you…”
“Aha?”
“I need you to…”
She licked her lips, coaxing me with her eyes.
“I need you to stop me going to Hammersmith tomorrow!” I blurted.
The breath came out, all at once, in a kind of humphing sound, and she jabbed the spatula back in its bowl.
“Don’t go to Hammersmith tomorrow,” she said, without looking at me.
“Ah. Sweet. I know that should work…and ordinarily of course it would,” I apologised. “But I wonder…erm…could you maybe tell me…why not?”
She paused, moved across the kitchen, flicked on the kettle.
“Cos you don’t do that any more,” she sighed. “Cos you wanna see a 15 on the scales on Tuesday, and if you go to Hammersmith, you won’t, cos you’ll eat all those chocolate covered nuts and things. Cos you don’t get paid for two weeks and you probably can’t afford it, and…” She paused, knowing what I needed. She sighed, this time more to herself than out loud. “Cos I’m asking you not to.”
I beamed.
“Thanks baby, you’re the best,” I said, hugging her. Then I turned to go back upstairs to carry on working.
“Just so's you know, I'm not letting you lick my frosting!" she called, when I had one foot on the stairs.
"Love you!"
There was a mumbling noise, but I didn't hear it properly; I was heading back upstairs.
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