My Husband Is Gay So I Found a Younger Man

In which she needs something fixed

“Sofia?”

I blinked, squinting in the startling light. Jack had flicked all the bedroom lights on and was currently hovering above me, a scowl on his face.

“What time is it?” I croaked as I sat up, although I could already tell that it was an ungodly hour.

“Four a.m.,” was his impatient reply.“Listen, I have to go back into the city. A client of mine needs me urgently.”

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, registering for the first time his charcoal-black suit and briefcase in hand. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmured, kicking the covers off. Jack took a few steps back. “I didn’t even want to come out here but you said this was our little vacation! And now you’re zooming back into work-mode. What the fukk, Jack?” I spat at him, pushing past him and padding to the bathroom.

“Don’t be so infantile, Sofia. You’re thirty-eight, not three, for God’s sake,” he countered calmly. “Besides, I’ll only be a few hours; back by lunch. It’s not like you’re even going to be up, is it?”

I splashed icy water from tap onto my face, savouring the zing that shot through my nerves. Ignoring Jack only made him angry, and right then, I wanted to annoy the s**t out of him. I was hurt beyond relief. Maybe this impromptu getaway was the last chance I had to save our marriage but how could I do that if his work kept getting in the way, vying for hisattention and winning?

“Sof? Look, I’m sorry.” Jack’s voice became softer, apologetic. “Go swimming or something. It’ll be sunny today, guaranteed. You’re looking pale these days. Get a tan.”

I pushed past him and crawled back under the covers. Minutes later, he wrenched them off me.

“I’m talking to you, Sofia. How do you think I can afford this place?” he snarled at me, actually stooping to say it in my ear. “By refusing clients when they need me? By slacking?”

I hated it when he said things like that, made it seem like I was a lazy gold-digger and he was the provider, the one I depended on.

“I could be working, you know,” I said softly, hating how petulant my voice sounded. “A nurse’s salary is better than nothing.”

“Don’t start that nonsense again, Sofia. You’re starting to piss me off.”“Safe trip, then,” I mumbled, keeping my back to him.

The covers were once again draped over me and I heard the soft shuffle of his shoes against the carpet as he walked out.

I didn’t realise that I was crying until I tasted the salt.

Go swimming, huh? I thought, scrubbing down between my legs, rough enough to turn the flesh there a flaming red. Is that your idea of a fúcking ball, Jack?

The shower head flung icy needles of water at me and I turned my face up to face them head-on, eyes squeezed shut. If I was lucky, the cold would kill me and I wouldn’t have to deal with my husband’s absence again.

He’d probably have me cremated. Less hassle.

What was I going to do with myself in this big old house? Holly was out for the day, visiting a niece of hers who just happened to live around here, and now Jack was gone too. Much to Jack’s chagrin, year in, year out, I never bonded with any of the smug, pearl-wearing madams of The Comptons, whose idea of fun was sipping sparkling wine and gossiping about whose-husband-f****d-whose-maid.

They were far too stuffy for my liking, and all older than me by far, most in their late forties or early fifties. I had absolutely nothing in common with them. I couldn’t care less about horse-riding and tennis and society parties. Hell, I still listened to Daft Punk and watched Dawson’s Creek reruns. These old bats probably thought the band was a clothes label.

I reached up and tried to move the shower head about – and it broke apart in my hand, releasing a powerful jet of cold water all over, the pipe falling apart in seconds. Squealing, I jumped back, banging into the glass wall of the shower.I stood there for a minute, shocked into silence until a giggle surged from somewhere in my body. In seconds, I’d destroyed an entire shower system. Stepping out of the shower and towelling myself dry, I headed for the phone at Jack’s bedside. He’d be stark-raving mad if he came home to find that I’d completely destroyed the shower, although the thing was probably centuries old and was bound to fall apart sometime.

Jack made it a point to have a handwritten list of emergency numbers by the phone, especially on holidays. I picked up his personalised notepad, scanning the list for something useful.

Emma Biers – Florist

Lloyd Jackson – Gardener/Landscaper

Imogen Waters – Chef

Tracy Kingston – Cleaner

Archibald Parker – Mr. Fix-It

Sarah Pamsy – Masseuse

Trust Jack to have a masseuse on speed-dial. I rolled my eyes at how superficial that was.

Archibald it would be.

“Parker and Associates, how may I help you?” a gruff voice said on the first ring.

“Hi, this is Mrs. Harrington. Um, I live at one of the houses in The Comptons…and the shower’s broken.”

“Broken? The shower head?”

“Yeah. Among other things. I don’t know… It just sort of fell apart.” I let out a laugh, catching myself. The man would end up thinking I was a loon. “Sorry.”

“For laughing? I find it funny myself. Don’t worry, madam. Just give me the address and someone will be there in twenty minutes. Is that all right?”

“Perfect,” I replied, even though it wasn’t. I took ages to get ready, even for a day of swimming.

After hanging up, I moisturised and threwon a sky-blue Versace dress, a present from Jack. It was a little too much for a day indoors but I loved this dress. Jack said it brought out the colour of my eyes, which were a shade darker than the flimsy material. I pulled my hair into a messy ponytail and skipped downstairs to the kitchen, stomach growling. The only thing I truly loved about this house was the kitchen, which beat my kitchen at home any day.

This kitchen was old and Victorian, like something out of an old movie. Not much had been changed, aside from the stove and the addition of a few modern necessities, like a refrigerator, microwave and coffee-maker. The floor was gorgeous, granite or some other material, and under my bare feet, it felt like cool heaven.

I had just taken a seat in front of my bagel and coffee when a loud knock resounded. Archibald was nothing if he wasn’t prompt. Sighing, I picked up my mug and padded to the front door, wrenching the heavy thing open.

“Archibald?” I asked, even though I knew very well that the man on my doorstep was not Archibald; could not be Archibald.

The man on the phone had sounded old. This man…was young. Yes, very young. From the top of his thick blue-black hair to the soles of his Nike sneakers, he screamed of fun and vitality. A checkered blue-and-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up stretched across a broad chest and shoulders and black jeans hung off lean hips. The greenest eyes I’d ever seen, set off by tanned skin, stared back at me. This was not Archibald.

“Nope, but I am a Parker,” he cheerfully replied, a boyish grin on his face. “Uh, can I come in?”

“Oh, right, yes. Please.” I stepped aside to let him in, enveloped in some sort of cologne that seemed to linger longer than was necessary.

“Did I interrupt your breakfast?” he asked, waiting patiently for me to close the door.

“No,” I lied, taking a sip of my coffee. “Can I make you a cup?”“Sure. But why don’t you show me this crumbling shower first?” he said pleasantly, flashing me another smile.

I nodded, feeling heat stain my cheeks. “Yes. Great.”

I went past him, leading the way up to the bedroom. I thought I could feel his eyes on my butt and, for one crazy nanosecond, considered wiggling it a little. Catching the interest of a younger and very attractive male would make up for a lot of things.

All thoughts of making a fool of myself flew out the window when I realised what a state the bedroom was in. Making the bed hadn’t even occurred to me.

“Sorry about the mess,” I muttered, setting my empty mug on the dresser.

He laughed good-naturedly. “Mess? f**k, you should see my room!” The smile fled from his face. “Christ, sorry. I shouldn’t be cursing in front of clients, especially women.”“No, feel free,” I told him. “f**k etiquette.”

Surprised green eyes drilled into mine, forcing me to look away.

“Well, here’s the bathroom. Obviously,” I mumbled quickly, motioning him inside. I opened the steamed-up shower door, revealing the remains of the shower head on the tiles inside.

“Rust. Definitely rust,” the man said upon a speedy inspection. He turned to look at me with those eyes of his again. “We’ll need a new extension pipe as well. The thing’s been silently crumbling away inside the wall.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. Mrs. Harrington, I’ll do the shopping and give you the bill. Our policy is that you don’t pay until the job is done, and not just done – but done properly,” he said, his eyes back on the shower.

I felt the strangest pull in my abdomen, a pull I dimly recognised. His words hadonly been moderately suggestive and yet, my body was responding to them as if they were an actual pick-up line.

“Sofia,” I said on impulse.

His head jerked in my direction. “Excuse me?”

“I’m Sofia.”

“Are you Spanish?”

It was ridiculous to assume but in this case… “Half,” I told him. My father had never even been to Spain, despite his roots and, aside from watching the occasional interactive travel show, neither had I.

Now, this man was reaching out and pushing a lock of hair out of my face. “Which half?” he asked slowly. “This half?” His hand moved down one cheek, down one exposed shoulder, and down my side. My breath caught in my throat. “Or this half?” He moved in, his other hand tracing my other side. For a handyman, his hands were surprisingly soft and delicate. I shivered, puzzled bythroat. “Or this half?” He moved in, his other hand tracing my other side. For a handyman, his hands were surprisingly soft and delicate. I shivered, puzzled by what he was doing.

“I… Pipe. Are you…going to buy the pipe?” My words came out in a jumble.

He smiled, retracting his hands. It was as if he hadn’t just touched me, hadn’t just set my hair aflame. “Yeah. Right after that coffee. Remember?”

Oh f**k, I thought, because I didn’t know how long I could take this unwelcome torture of staring at him.

“Then we should go to the kitchen,” I mumbled, wringing my hands.

“After you,” he said, “Sofia.”