Page 180 of This Woman Forever

“In England I have Cathy to feed me, which is a good job as my wife doesn’t.” I fight to keep my amusement at bay, reeling her in. “In Spain I have my wife, and she’s going to make me something to eat. You did a good job with the chicken.” It was lovely.

Her indignance is brief, and I’m more than surprised when she stands up. “Okay, I’ll fulfil my obligation.”

I’ve challenged her. “Oh good. It’s about time you did what you’re told.” Take the bait, baby. “Get to it, then.” Should I duck?

“Don’t push it, Ward.” She goes to the fridge and opens it, pondering the contents while I watch in amusement, not quite believing she’s taken the challenge. I mean, there are a million restaurants within a few miles that serve spectacular food, but that would mean leaving the villa.

She takes some things out and puts them on the counter, then gets to work while I sit happily at the table, drinking my water, watching my wife cook for me. In our villa. In Spain. Miles away from home. Whatever she’s got planned for the menu, it smells bloody good.

I snap a few pictures of her before I get up, my arse becoming numb, and wander over to see if I can help. I suppose I should. “You’re doing a great job, lady,” I say as she faffs with some bell peppers.

“Don’t patronize me,” she retorts, pointing at me with the knife.

I retreat fast.

She doesn’t plunge the knife deeply enough. She doesn’t lunge and stab, she swipes and drags, and I’m powerless to stop her, completely paralyzed by the pure, unmistakable intent in her eyes. I’ve always thought she was unstable. Always questioned if there were issues that she needed help with. Even before our daughter died.

“Don’t fucking wave knives around, Ava!” I yell, instinctively swiping it from her grasp with little care and even less accuracy. Jesus, I could have taken a finger off, grabbed the blade instead of the handle. Or, worse, slipped and cut Ava.

My stomach turns as she blurts her startled, urgent apology, my hand slowly lowering the knife down to the counter. I’m hot. My heart is racing. “It’s okay,” I breathe. “Forget about it.” I can’t tell myself to control my reactions to knives. It’s instinctive, fueled by fear. And now the atmosphere is excruciating, and I take no pleasure in silencing my wife or making her feel so terrible.

Because she doesn’t fucking know.

“Do you want to lay the table?” she asks meekly.

God damn me. “Sure.” I turn away, my face screwing up, annoyed with myself for putting a dampener on our day. There she is again. Hitting me in my present. She’s dead. I get some cutlery, fresh water, and lower to the chair, checking Ava in the kitchen. Quiet. She and I. Tension so thick and unbearable. She doesn’t look at me either, probably so I don’t see the tears in her eyes. I’m a cunt.

Fuck it.

When she puts my plate down, I quickly take her hand, and she finally looks at me. “I overreacted,” I say, feeling awful.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, shaking her head and waving me off, like it’s nothing. “I shouldn’t be so careless.”

True, but I shouldn’t be so triggered. Not by Ava. But it wasn’t Ava. It was Lauren. I encourage Ava down to the chair, determined to get us back onto... what does she call it? Jesse Cloud Nine? “We’re missing something,” I say, taking myself to the lounge and collecting a candle from the surround by the wood burner and the remote control for the music system from the coffee table.

I set the candle on the table, light it, and put a bit of Simply Red on.

“Mick Hucknall?” Ava says, smiling.

“Or God.” Absolute legend. “Either will do.”

“You’re willing to share your title?”

I sit, happy we seemed to have kicked the awkwardness aside. “He’s worthy. This looks good. Eat up.”

She tucks in, and I discreetly lean over to check the meat situation. How well it’s cooked. Jesus, it’s sacrilege, really. Everyone knows beef and lamb are ruined if they’re overdone. Anything past medium is overdone. But it’s also safe.

Ava pauses, her knife and fork still on the plate, looking up at me, catching me in the act. Then turns her cut of lamb toward me. I hardly conceal my recoil; it looks cremated. How hard will I need to chew to get through it? It would have been insensitive to ask for my meat rare when Ava can’t.

“May I?” Ava asks, her fork at her mouth, a piece of burnt lamb on the prongs.

“You may.” No chance of any blood being in that, really, is there? And now I have to lie through my teeth. I take a piece, chew, and swallow. “You can cook, wife,” I say. Shame on me.

“I’ve never said I can’t,” she says, happily chewing her way through her first bite. We might be awhile. “I just don’t like doing it.”

“Not even for me?” Please say no. Maybe I can fly Cathy in.

“I don’t mind.”