Free What Women Want by Fanny Blake

just because of Bea’s irrational jealousy.
    She picked up the newspaper that Paul had left spread across the kitchen table and took it outside to the patio. She sat down and began to leaf through the pages while working out which jobs to do the next day. She knew that if she didn’t take the secateurs to the garden soon, the whole place would be a jungle. The white wisteria, while beautiful in flower, grew so vigorously that it was threatening to overwhelm the pergola and the apple tree beside it. The summer storms during the week meant that the weeds were pushing their way through her carefully planted borders and the shrubs seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they sprouted towards the sun, spreading sideways, fighting for space.
    As she considered what to tackle first, she was interrupted by a sudden shout from inside where Paul, in khaki shorts, T-shirt and sandals – he’d got the message about not wearing socks with them at long last – was jumping up and down, sucking the index finger of his right hand.
    ‘What’s happened?’ She got up. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘I cut my finger on a bloody tin,’ he muttered. ‘Where are the plasters?’
    As he moved across to the sink, Kate could see the large chrome Brabantia bin on its side, rubbish spilling across a sheet of newspaper on the floor with a green plastic bucket nearby. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, as she opened a cupboard to get out the first-aid box, then passed him a small box of plasters.
    ‘I’m going through the rubbish – obviously.’ Paul was running his finger under the tap, the water streaming scarlet. ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this. Stitches or septicaemia – I don’t know which would be worse.’
    Years of experience of being married to one of the world’s great hypochondriacs had taught Kate to ignore all remarks relating to his well-being. They were invariably exaggerated. It had always struck her as odd that a man with such an impressive City profile should be such a wuss behind his front door.
    ‘Have you lost something?’
    ‘No! Don’t put that there.’ Paul’s attention turned from his injury as he grabbed the handful of orange peel she was about to return to the bin and tossed it into the bucket instead. ‘The fruit and veg go in the bucket, the paper in the plastic box and everything that can’t be recycled goes in the bin. How many times do I have to remind everyone?’
    She stared, astonished, as he continued to rummage through the mess picking out potato peelings, teabags and leftovers from supper the night before.
    ‘I’m the only one in this house who takes recycling seriously,’ he added.
    ‘I hope you’re not saying I don’t? Sometimes I forget, that’s all. It’s going to get mixed up once it’s in the rubbish van anyway.’
    ‘Kate, you haven’t a clue what happens in the van – or at the recycling centre, come to that. I’m just trying to do my bit – well, our bit.’ He separated out some pieces of egg shell.
    ‘Isn’t this a bit extreme? The odd bit of potato or orange peel in the wrong place isn’t going to bring the world grinding to a halt.’
    ‘If everybody talked like that . . .’
    ‘Pinch me, please.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Pinch me. I want to be absolutely certain that we’re really having this conversation.’
    She knelt down and began to help him sort out the rubbish, unable to stop a snort that turned into a stifled giggle. ‘Look at us!’ Within seconds, they were sitting side by side on the floor, laughing together like old times.
    ‘Are you going into the surgery today?’ Paul recovered himself enough to ask, satisfied that everything was in the right place.
    ‘I haven’t decided. It’s such a lovely day but I suppose I ought to get on top of my referrals. Why?’
    ‘In that case, I’ll go down to the fishmonger’s and get the stuff for that bouillabaisse I’ve wanted to try for ages. I’ve started making some panna cotta too.’
    Kate