THE FRENCH CONNECTION
Have you met our new neighbour yet?’ Paul asked, walking into the kitchen and idly popping a grape into his mouth. ‘Just moved in, two doors down. She’s French and a real looker.’
‘In what way?’ Laura stopped emptying the dishwasher to glance at her husband, noting that Paul’s tone was admiring.
Ever since she’d been promoted up the corporate ladder, relations had been strained between them, almost as if Paul was sulking at not getting enough attention – which was silly, as it’d been him who’d encouraged her to go for it.
Paul gave an offhand shrug. ‘About your height, nicely dressed, long dark hair, friendly. And I love her accent! She was asking if I knew of any handymen in the area as there were some odd jobs that needed doing. I offered to give her a hand sometime.’
‘ARE YOU HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH MY HUSBAND?’
Laura harrumphed. ‘You haven’t even fixed that leaky tap of ours yet. Or decorated the back bedroom.’
‘I will,’ said Paul, going on
