Free The Other Half by Sarah Rayner Page A

Alex.
    “Remember that row about M&S food?” he’d reminded Maggie. “How I sent you the container and highlighted the ingredients to prove their meals weren’t full of additives?”
    “I do. But I seem to recall what really got me riled was the way you were prepared to spend half your grant on preprepared food—”
    “—when half the world was starving,” William had finished for her. “You were quite the activist in those days.”
    The real hit, however, had been Alex and Georgie, who had bonded noticeably over a mutual loathing of Martin Amis’s writing, and finally Alex had offered to give Georgie a lift home.
    Maggie knew it was churlish, yet she couldn’t help feeling upset when she recalled their chemistry. She’d done a marvelous job of disguising her own feelings and acted the charming host all evening, but underneath she was smarting from Jamie’s remarks. Watching her old boyfriend flirt with another woman had only made her feel worse.
    Not that Alex hadn’t been nice to her—he’d taken several opportunities to check she was okay, jumping up from the table before anyone else had the chance to carry out the dirty dishes to grab a moment alone with her in the kitchen. But Maggie was too keen to ensure everyone had a good time to be drawn into discussion, so had deflected his inquiries with a repeated “I’m fine.” Instead she’d numbed the hurt with a couple of extra brandies, which doubtless now had deepened her post-party blues.
    Seeking solace from the person who had caused her pain, she reached over to touch Jamie’s hair.
    It’s beginning to curl around the nape of his neck, she noticed, and could do with a trim.
    He was still asleep, tucked under the crisp white cotton sheets, his back to her, a familiar pose. They both found sleeping too close stifling and claustrophobic; he’d always said it made him hot.
    Last night she’d believed that making love might make her feel better, but taking the initiative was not something Maggie felt confident in doing. So she’d said nothing, and now the new basque lay neatly draped over the dressing-table chair—a sad contrast to the way it had been flung on the floor so passionately ten days previously. Over it lay her stockings, still showing traces of the three-dimensional shape they’d borne the night before.
    Maybe erotic underwear isn’t my scene after all, she thought.
    Eventually, Jamie rolled over and opened his eyes. For a moment he looked mystified, then he seemed to realize she was crying. “I’m sorry,” he said, stroking away her tears. It sounded heartfelt—as if he was upset to have made her so miserable.
    “Shall I make us a cup of tea?” he asked, clearly uncertain how to repair things. This was hardly the closeness Maggie craved, but it was a start.
    *   *   *
    Later that morning Jamie took Nathan to play soccer.
    Perhaps a run might make me feel better, thought Maggie. I fancy a change, and if I run around the edge of the field, I can watch them play.
    So she followed Nathan and Jamie to the recreation ground.
    “Mum!” shouted Nathan, on seeing her. “Look at me!” He focused on the space between the two jumpers that had been laid out as the goal and kicked with all his might. Jamie obviously sensed it was important for Nathan to score in front of his mother so he dived dramatically the wrong way. The ball rolled past his feet—not fast, but it was a goal all the same.
    “Hurray!” whooped Nathan. “Silly billy, Daddy.”
    “Ouch,” said Jamie, getting up and rubbing his knees. These days he wasn’t really fit enough to land with the aplomb with which he’d dived.
    “Well done!” called Maggie, stopping to jog on the spot and clap. “Silly Daddy.”
    Jamie threw the ball down to the far end of the field. Nathan ran after it, and began dribbling back to the goal. “Lampard … neatly picks the ball up from defense,” roused Jamie.
    Maggie recognized his mockney as an impression of a passionate