Free Summer at Tiffany's by Karen Swan

eclairs – and they had gone through the menus and shopping lists for their next job, an all-day affair at the Gold Cup polo at Cowdray Park this weekend.
    She rested her head against the steering wheel for a moment, worn out and wondering how she was going to break the bad news to Henry. She could see the light on in their little flat and wished she could teleport herself into his arms up there, on the top floor; she loved their little flat but sometimes wished it wasn’t nestled in the grey-tiled eaves of the roof. The building itself was a junior version of the grand club she had left only hours before – cream Regency with porticoed windows, four floors and an elaborate balcony that wrapped round all the French doors on the first floor; but whereas the club was palatial inside, the flats within this building – which themselves sold for millions – were furnished in a stealth-wealth style, with antique wooden floors, Moroccan Beni Ourain rugs, oversized linen sofas and crushed-velvet bedspreads.
    Their flat was the shabbiest, as behoved the attic rooms really, but even at that the rent was exorbitant and more than they could afford; Henry had suggested numerous times that they buy somewhere together instead – ‘Rent money is dead money,’ he was fond of saying – but they could never afford to buy somewhere like this, and Cassie so loved the central location and quiet street and, of course, the ancient and bowed crab apple by the rear window.
    She saw the back of Henry’s head first as she let herself in. The rugby was on the telly, and he was sitting with one foot on the coffee table, his other leg bent with one arm lolling on his knee, a beer in his hand, his head resting against the sofa cushions.
    â€˜Hey,’ she said softly, kissing his hair before she walked round the sofa, ready to snuggle into his lap. A bath and a glass of wine and they could—
    â€˜Where have you been?’
    The ice that veined his words brought her up short, stopping her feet and her heart simultaneously.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You heard me.’
    She blinked in astonishment, unable to process the hostility she saw in his eyes. ‘I . . . I was at Zara’s. We had to go over the last bits for the job this weekend.’
    â€˜
All
day?’
    â€˜No. Of course not.’
    â€˜So where were you, then?’
    â€˜Henry, what is this?’ she asked in bafflement, dropping her bag to the floor and sinking onto the edge of the sofa beside him.
    â€˜What is this?’ he repeated with incredulity. ‘Mum’s down, Archie’s half dead, and you’re nowhere to be found and you ask me, “What is this?” Christ, I can’t believe you. You had every opportunity to be there. I needed you there. Suzy needed you.’
    This was because she hadn’t been to the hospital? ‘Henry, look, just calm down. I can explain.’ She took a breath. ‘I wanted to be there, more than anything, but . . .’ She didn’t want to say it. It was like letting the genie out of the bottle.
    â€˜But what?’ he prompted impatiently. Had he slept at all today? He looked rough and worn out.
    â€˜They wouldn’t let me in, OK?’ she said. ‘They said only family could go in. I explained to the nurse that I was your fiancée, but she said it didn’t count.’
    He blinked at her, sliding his lower jaw to the side and nodding in silence as he processed the words, his anger filling the room like smoke in a jar.
    He didn’t reply immediately, instead taking a deep swig from the beer bottle, draining it, and she wondered how many others he’d had. ‘Well, she’s absolutely right, of course. It doesn’t. Engagement isn’t anything. It’s just a nice idea, a promise you can make with your fingers crossed behind your back. It’s only one level up from a suggestion of something you might possibly choose to do someday.