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I looked at the ceiling because it was easier than looking at her.
“I fancy Jess,” I said. “That’s it. That’s the whole confession. Nothing’s happened, I haven’t touched her, I haven’t even really looked, except I have, obviously, because she’s in our kitchen in tiny shorts every morning. I can hear her through the wall, Han. I didn’t want it to be a secret.”
The shower kept running. Jess had moved on to something by Abba.
Hannah didn’t move. I waited for the slap or the silence or the packed bag.
Instead she started to smile. Slowly, like a woman who’d been handed a present she’d guessed the contents of.
“Two days,” she said. “I had you down for the end of the week.”
“You knew?”
“Tom, I’ve watched you not-watch her since she walked in. You carry her suitcases like they weigh nothing and you go pink when she hugs you.” Her hand tightened on my cock, properly now, a long slow stroke. “And I’ve seen how she looks at you. Do you think I’m angry?”
“A bit?”
“I’m not angry.” She swung a leg over me, scrubs and all, and ground down. I could feel how warm she was through the cotton. “I’m interested.”
My wife was wet for me and talking about her best friend in the same breath.