LITMIR.BIZ

       PROLOGUE

      ‘Angela?’

      I looked up from a swamp of unfinished magazine pages to see my assistant loitering in the doorway.

      ‘Cici?’

      ‘You told me to let you know when it was seven,’ she replied, tossing her icy long blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘Because you can’t use a clock like normal people.’

      ‘It’s seven already?’ I said with a groan, sweeping all the pages up into a messy pile in front of my computer screen. I ran a hot hand over my forehead, into my own hair. My dirty blonde, very messy, and past-the-help-of-dry-shampoo hair.

      ‘See how the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the seven?’ Cici replied slowly, pointing to the massive clock on my office wall. ‘That means seven o’clock. Ninety minutes after you stopped paying me, for anyone who might be taking notice of that kind of thing. Not HR, obviously, since they went home hours ago.’

      ‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘I’m going to be late.’

      Turning off my computer, I grabbed my Marc Jacobs satchel from the new coat stand I’d bought for my office. All that was missing now was a fold-out bed and a potted plant then I’d never need to go home. I paused for a second, wondering whether or not I could fit one in the corner. Maybe if I moved the coat stand …

      Cici shrugged, her face perfectly even. I couldn’t decide whether she looked so expressionless because she’d had really great Botox, or because she genuinely didn’t give a shit. In my heart, I hoped for the former, but after years of working together, my head assured me it was the latter.

      ‘You should go home,’ I told her as I stuffed myself into my jacket, the sleeves of the cropped cashmere jumper I’d nicked from the fashion cupboard bunching up around my armpits. ‘Thanks for staying late, I really appreciate it.’

      ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Cici didn’t do ‘grateful’ unless it came with a hashtag. ‘I’m leaving now, I have a date.’

      ‘Me too,’ I muttered. Casting a quick look in the mirror on top of my filing cabinet, I grimaced at my wayward eyeliner and sad, sallow skin. Had I been outside at all today? ‘And we’re totally going to miss our reservation.’

      ‘But – you’re married?’ she replied, looking confused.

      ‘You can still go on dates when you’re married,’ I explained, licking my ring finger and swiping at my undereyes while Cici gagged in the corner. ‘It’s not forbidden.’

      She looked at me, completely scandalized. ‘Does Alex know?’

      ‘The date is with Alex,’ I sighed as I gave up on my face. I’d fix it on the subway. ‘He’s leaving tomorrow.’

      ‘Oh.’ She frowned, clearly disappointed at the loss of potential drama. ‘Whatever.’

      ‘OK, great, see you in the morning,’ I said, flying out the door as fast as my high heels would carry me. Which wasn’t really all that fast, if I was being entirely honest.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I shouted, the front door hitting the hallway wall with a bang. ‘We had to pull a feature and I had to write a replacement and I lost track of time. Just let me get changed and we can leave and—’

      ‘Or we could stay in?’

      All the lights were out and my living room glowed with the light of a hundred tiny candles. He must have used an entire bag of the little Ikea tealights. I made a mental note to tell Jenny that yes, one human could need all those candles in one lifetime. The curtains were drawn, music played softly, and in the middle of the room was my husband, Alex, in all his worn jeans, faded Cramps T-shirt and barefoot glory. This was not a man who was dressed for the Chef’s Table at Brooklyn Fare.

      ‘But it’s your last night,’ I said, dropping my coat and bag to the floor and stepping cautiously across the room towards him. Do not set yourself on fire, do not set yourself on fire, do not set yourself on fire … ‘We’ve waited months for this reservation.’

      ‘That’s true,’ Alex took me in his arms and brushed my messy hair away from my face. ‘So, I guess I could go put on a suit, get on the subway, pay four hundred bucks for some fancy dinner – and come home still hungry – or I could just stay here with you?’

      He rested his forehead against mine and smiled. I smiled back. Even now, he still gave me butterflies.

      ‘Not a tough choice, babe.’

      ‘But what are we going to eat?’ I whispered, the rumbles in my stomach threatening to eat the butterflies. ‘We haven’t got anything in.’

      ‘It’s all taken care of,’ he said, nodding across the room. ‘I am a man of many talents.’

      Taking my hands in his, he led me over to our little dining table. It had been laid with more care than I thought possible, white linen tablecloth, proper napkins, single red rose in a miniature glass vase I was almost certain he’d borrowed from upstairs, and the classiest touch of all, two chilled bottles of Brooklyn Brewery’s finest lager with the tops already popped. The doorbell rang and I immediately started for the door. It was an old habit I just couldn’t seem to kill – what if it was post? Exciting post?!

      ‘I got it,’ Alex said, leaping nimbly through the candles and answering the front door.

      I vaguely heard a muffled exchange while I stood by the table, unfastening the little buckles on my shoes and taking it all in. Ten weeks. He would be gone for ten weeks. No more kisses or romantic dinners à deux until November. Not that I was mad or sad or anything, other than extremely happy for my beloved husband. Honest. Only, I couldn’t remember the last time things had been so easy. All my friends were happy, my parents were off on a cruise somewhere mobile phones didn’t work, my job was going well, and things between Alex and I were perfect. Well, he was leaving me for months on end to go travelling around South East Asia but hey, what married couple didn’t go through that on your average Wednesday? No siree, no problems here.

      ‘Dinner is served.’ He opened the door with his foot and then kicked it closed behind him, two huge flat boxes in his arms, still steaming from the cool evening air. ‘Get your ass sat down.’

      ‘Pizza!’ I clapped, delighted, all my worries about how much I was going to miss him devoured by the growling in my belly. If he wasn’t the best bloody husband of all time.

      ‘One porkypineapple for me,’ he confirmed, moving the rose from the table to the kitchen top to protect it from the massive pizza boxes. ‘And one disgusting tuna sweetcorn, specially made for m’lady.’

      ‘You got them to make me a tuna pizza?’ I gasped as I pulled back the lid and inhaled. ‘Alex!’

      Truly, this was a tremendous gesture of love. There were approximately fourteen thousand pizza restaurants in New York City and not one of them offered a tuna pizza on their menu. Even the places that sold tuna sandwiches as well, flat out refused to put canned fish on a plain cheese and tomato pizza. I’d been living in this country for six years and I still couldn’t understand why it was the biggest possible transgression a human could make. Buy a rifle in the supermarket? Oh, OK. Empty a can of tuna onto a margarita pizza? No bloody way.

      ‘I still don’t understand why America refuses to embrace it,’ I said. Who needed a seat at the chef’s table when you had an entire tuna pizza in front of you?

      ‘Because it’s gross?’ Alex suggested, settling down in front of his own enormous pie. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself?’

      I shook my head, peeling one

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