Free The Queen's Margarine by Wendy Perriam

tardiness in doing household jobs; insist he got a move on, nag him till he snapped.
    Reaching up for the tin, she prised off the lid and removed the padded gold-foil roundel lying on the top. How snug the biscuits looked, nestling close together in their matching gold-foil bed. She and Simon had been like that, snuggling up to one another beneath their padded duvet. Now she was a broken biscuit, a mass of useless crumbs.
    â€˜Take several,’ she urged, proffering Jack the tin.
    â€˜Mind if I hog the chocolate ones? I’m mad for chocolate – any kind.’
    Of course. She already knew that. ‘Well, have them all. Go down to the second layer.’
    â€˜Are you trying to fatten me up?’
    He sounded suspicious rather than amused. Perhaps he feared she was chatting him up, and might actually pounce, given any encouragement. She was tempted, in fact, just to pay Simon back. Instead, she edged away a little, busied herself with the coffee pot. When it came to coffee, Simon was a connoisseur; insisted that they buy it from the Italian delicatessen, whose proudly plump proprietor ground the beans to order. As she unscrewed the jar, the rich, deep-roasted, mocha smell brought memories of Sunday mornings: coffee in bed; papers jumbled on the floor; his kisses hot and pungent, tasting of Continental Blend.
    She jumped as Jack’s mobile rang. He answered through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘You got one? Great! I’ll call by this evening and fetch it.’
    As the kettle erupted in a shuddering boil, she experienced the same turmoil in her chest. So he’d be here again, this evening. Maybe spending hours with her, if the part proved hard to fit. She could make him supper – knew the kind of food he’d like: a chocolate pudding, obviously, with something male and meaty first: carbonnade of beef, perhaps, or steak in ale, or oxtail. Simon detested salads; jibbed even at a piece of fish, unless it was fried in batter.
    Her hand was shaking as she poured the boiling water into the pot. ‘That’s fine,’ she said, once he’d rung off. ‘I’m not going out or anything.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I mean, if you’re coming back this evening, no problem – I’ll be here.’
    â€˜Oh, it won’t be this evening. I’m up to my ears till God knows when tonight. And the next few days. With it being so close to Christmas, everybody’s on my tail. And some of them calls are urgent – women with half-a-dozen kids and loads of nappies to wash.’
    Simon hadn’t wanted children. She’d hoped he might come round to it, eventually, although she had never forced the issue; remained content with what they had: fantastic sex; shared tastes in books and music; the same sense of humour, political beliefs.
    She tried to control the tremor in her voice; adopt a businessliketone. ‘Look, nappies or no nappies, this job is just as urgent as theirs. I need you to come back, OK? I’m the client, so I call the tune.’
    With a gesture of annoyance, he reached for his phone again. ‘I’ll give the office a bell, see if another engineer is free to—’
    â€˜No,’ she interrupted. ‘It must be you. Someone new to the job will only mess things up.’
    â€˜We all have the same training,’ he explained, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Everyone in the company knows these machines like the back of their hand.’
    â€˜Maybe so, but you took on the job, so I expect you to finish it.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s impossible.’
    â€˜Don’t call me ma’am, OK? I’m not ma’am, I’m Angela.’
    He stared at her a moment, then spoke in almost a pitying tone, still avoiding the use of her name. ‘I’m going to put in a request for Gordon to come out. He’s had thirty years’ experience, and he’s totally reliable.’
    An image of her dog