Free Prime Time by Jane Wenham-Jones

that.’
    â€˜And he eats much more than I do.’
    â€˜Well, there you are, then.’
    â€˜Do you think I have too many pizzas?’
    I turned the light back on. ‘Has Emily said something to you?’
    Stanley turned away from me and faced the wall.
    â€˜Not really.’
    â€˜Stanley, has she?’
    â€˜I just feel worried about everything.’
    â€˜Oh darling.’ I sat down on the edge of his bed and stroked his hair. ‘Everything will be OK, I promise,’ I said softly. ‘There’s nothing to be anxious about.’ I patted his shoulder, trying to be reassuring, hoping he couldn’t sense what I was really feeling. I was worried too …

Chapter Six
    It felt very strange having a problem I couldn’t tell Charlotte about. Charlotte knew everything. She’d been through every step of Daniel’s treachery with me. It was to Charlotte I’d given a blow-by-blow of each new depth he’d sunk to, and to her I’d turned to during every stage of the inevitable, unremitting disintegration of my marriage. Up until now, there was nothing I wouldn’t have shared.
    And up until now, I’d always envied Charlotte’s marriage to Roger. Not because he was particularly good-looking or sexy but he was always the same.
    Charlotte might complain that he was unromantic and quite capable of sitting on his backside watching football for a nine-hour stretch while she ran herself ragged and how she had to prime the kids to remind him a) when her birthday and their anniversary was and b) that it would be a nice idea to buy flowers, but when it came down to the important things he was kind and dependable.
    And he clearly loved Charlotte and would listen to what she had to say about things and she could tell him anything. He wasn’t sarcastic or defensive, like Daniel. He didn’t try to make everything her fault. He drove her mad by leaving his teabags in a little wet puddle on the side instead of putting them in the compost pot and she was always complaining that he took more looking after than both kids put together. But still –
    â€˜Pain in the arse at times,’ as she once succinctly put it, ‘but my best friend. Best male friend,’ she’d corrected herself, grinning at me. ‘Not much good to go shopping with, though.’
    Now it looked as though he might not be too hot at keeping his marriage vows either and the very thought made me feel sick to my boots.
    Obviously I would have to tell him about the call I’d taken and I wondered how best to go about it. I could drive to his offices in Canterbury – where he was a senior partner in a highly-respected firm of solicitors – and accost him on his way home, insisting that he tell me what the hell was going on and who the hell he thought he was, to be shagging a mad-sounding woman with adenoids, but I didn’t even know he was shagging her.
    She could have called the wrong number. Though somehow, much as I wanted to, I couldn’t believe that. After all, she had called to say Roger had just seen her shortly after Roger had been late home with the pizza. That was too much of a coincidence even for me.
    Or I could call Roger, except somehow, despite knowing him for decades, I had never needed to have his mobile number and if I called the house Charlotte might answer. If I called him at work, I might put him in an awkward spot, especially if he had clients or colleagues with him. So I’d have to say, ‘Let’s meet for a drink – I have something important to say to you.’
    But then he would think I was mad too, and he might just say to Charlotte, ‘Hey, I had a weird call from Laura – do you think she’s all right?’ Or he might think I was menopausal (as I have been horribly suspecting myself – please God, no) and feel a frisson of fear the way men do when faced with a tidal wave of uncontrollable hormones and bring