Darling: The most shocking psychological thriller you will read this summer

‘I don’t think there’s any call for that.’

A voice as dark as my skin, it flowed with a current to it. It was him. This man beside me, feet fight-distance apart but fists at his sides, a heat in that count-to-ten stare.

All I could think of was the blood spurting on to that pretty suit.

Then the big man inflated his cheeks and chest, became whale-big. Big of body was a thing for him, you could bet on it, but he liked his ideas small and hard.

‘Wotchoo, er fackin’ ’usband?’

‘Yes,’ said the suited man, moving closer to my side.

The eyes swivelled wilder, the disgust too great. A torrent of blood was surely coming – and then the stragglers caught up.

‘Trev!’ They swept him along, shambled away, a colourous bobbling of orange and dark red-pink T-shirts. As they rumbled on, with the man-mound clasped in their loving headlock, one mate rubbed his knuckles into the headstubble, and the smallest man pressed a lager can up to Trev’s lips. The meaty fist punched out, now into only air, into no one.

‘Whoa,’ I said.

‘Indeed,’ he said. The laughter lines, the rivulets of skin that danced at each idea that rose behind the eyes, eyes that shone. Yes, he was appalled to the core and embarrassed, but above all relieved he was not them. To make sure I knew it, he offered his smile; one warm poultice for our wound.

‘That was scary.’ I stopped short of patting my chest. ‘I have never, ever had that said to me. I was born here—’

‘Idiot,’ he said.

‘Big mad angry violent idiot.’

‘So dumb.’

‘As in “referendumb”.’

‘Ha, precisely. Don’t worry, though. He’s just one nutter.’

‘But he’s clearly swallowed at least two others.’

He laughed, shook his head. ‘They feel emboldened, they were always going to. It’ll pass.’

‘Or get worse.’

‘It’ll be fine. We’re all better than that.’

‘Well … Thank you.’

‘Pleasure.’

‘No, seriously.’ It had to be now. ‘How can I ever thank you?’

‘Actually …’ he said.

‘I always buy them and she pretends not to mind, but she does. I’d be so grateful—’

‘I’m not actually going to bake you one, you know!’

We walked on through the aisles and, laughing, stopped.

‘Here we are,’ I said. ‘Look.’

‘Great.’ He reached for the nearest factory sponge.

‘No, listen.’ I surprised myself with that flirty-bossy tone, me trying to take over his senses so soon. Look … listen … ‘You don’t want a big-brand one with loads of E numbers. Think cricket wife. Wonky, homemade.’

‘Oh, but I—’

‘Hang on.’ There I went again. ‘This one, with apricot jam. Ah, organic. Perfect.’

‘Hold your horses,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit … you know.’

‘What?’ I scanned it for flaws.

‘A bit …’ He smiled. ‘Naked.’

‘Forward,’ I said, walking on.

We put the nuddy-cake in his trolley and continued, weighing each step.

‘Look,’ I said, a few steps later. ‘Icing sugar. You—’

‘I ice it myself, slap “Happy Birthday” on it.’

‘You catch on quick.’

‘Insanely good teacher.’

‘Damn right,’ I said.

‘Best home-made money can buy.’

‘Our secret.’

‘Our naked secret.’ He shook his hair out of place. ‘Sorry, way too forward, crass of me …’

‘No problem.’ Then, new in this territory, in this changed world, I dared:

‘We’re married, remember?’

His eyes sparked, looked away:

‘Whatever happened to our honeymoon?’

Cloud to ground flashes, electric potential under the strip lighting. An atmosphere. After such a bad night I must have looked jaundiced, a proper fright, but his eyes were saying no such thing. I lowered my gaze, too.