Chapter Eleven
“…Well,” she’d said, the moment the front-door closed behind them; “you’ve really f****d yourself this time, haven’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he warned her, old habits dying hard; it not having quite sunk in yet that the days of him: ‘Warning’ his wife were now a thing of the past. Stumbling into the kitchen he ran the tap until the water was ice-cold and swallowed back some much-needed hydration to go with the three Neurofen’s he’d retrieved from the kitchen cupboard to ease his still thumping head.
Still at the sink and unaware she had followed him in, he filled another glass and downed it in one; her voice when it came startling him a little:
“You really are a piece of work aren’t you?”
He turned; angry. It was one thing to be insulted by a black b***h
