Fire by Deborah Challinor

Author:Deborah Challinor [Challinor, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Irene hurled a plate against the wall where it smashed, showering the floor with shards of china. She hated the plate anyway—Martin’s mother had given it to them as a Christmas present the year before and it had a hand-painted picture of a particularly gormless-looking cocker spaniel puppy on it.

Martin finally folded his paper and set it aside. There were shadows of fatigue beneath his intelligent blue eyes, a dent between them where his glasses rested and his black hair stuck up from his habit of absentmindedly running his hand through it. ‘Obviously you’re not very happy, Irene.’

‘No I am not happy, Martin!’ Irene shouted. ‘I’m bored absolutely bloody rigid and I’m sick to death of sitting in this dreary bloody little flat night after night while everyone else is going out and having fun! It’s Saturday night, Martin. Why the hell can’t we ever go out?’

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. This had been going on for nearly an hour now—Irene winding herself up into a state until she finally got his attention. He was always—always—aware of what mood she was in, and more often than not the reason behind it as well, but it just wasn’t in his nature to be as passionate as she was. He much preferred to discuss matters rationally, without the yelling and the histrionics, but he knew that Irene was incapable of that: it was one of the reasons he loved her so much.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was gorgeous with her dark hair all over the place and her eyes flashing and her hands on her wonderful, curvy hips.

‘But darling, you went out last night,’ he said, and immediately regretted it.

‘Yes, by myself!’ Irene shot back. ‘Because you were too bloody tired, as usual!’

‘I’m sorry, I really am. But we’re so busy. It’s just that time of the year, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re always too bloody busy,’ Irene said, adding maliciously, ‘Sometimes I think you just don’t want to take me out. Are you ashamed of me, is that it?’ She knew it wasn’t true, but she knew it would upset him.

‘Oh God, no, of course I’m not ashamed of you, Irene. Why on earth would I be?’

‘Because I’m not posh and well-spoken and educated like the other wives.’

‘What other wives?’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody thick, Martin! You know who I’m talking about—those stuck-up bloody women married to the blokes in your office!’

Martin sighed, though he did it very surreptitiously so Irene wouldn’t pounce on him. The other wives weren’t particularly friendly, but, he suspected, it was because they were jealous—of Irene’s beauty, her marvellous figure, her flair and the way their husbands looked at her when they thought they weren’t being observed. None of the men had ever said anything to Martin, except that he was a very lucky man, but he knew they envied him. He was so proud of her on the rare occasions when he actually did have the energy to go out, even though she could be a little, well, over the top sometimes.

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