Good Husband Material

Chapter 23: Love Goes West (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24: Reciprocations (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25: Blood and Roses (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26: Pregnant Pause (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27: Similar Conditions (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28: Bonfire of the Vanities (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29: The Great Castrator (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30: Pupped (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31: The Least Little Thing (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32: Tie-dyed (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33: Christmas Spirit (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34: Twinkle,Twinkle (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35: Uncertain Appetites (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36: Guilt-edged (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37: The Sweet Wine of Love (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38: Unlicensed Behaviour (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39: Dress Optional (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40: Sold a Pup (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41: Green-Eyed Men (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42: Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43: Out of the Dark (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44: Aftershock (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45: Issues (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 46: Alignments (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 47: Photo Finish (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 48: Besieged (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

‘The lyrics of the new Goneril single, ‘Red-Headed Woman’, taken from the album of the same name, show a searing agony of loss and grief. Singer/songwriter Fergal Rocco plumbs new depths of helpless agony and despair in a voice that seems to have been created for that very purpose.’

New Musical Express

Fergal: 1986

My first brief glimpse of Tish seems to have been indelibly imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, for even after almost twelve years and God-knows-how-many women, I only have to close my eyes and there she is: a dryad poised far above me in the shivering green oak leaves, stretching forward with one hand reaching out, her expression intent.

Then the sharp crack as the branch gives way beneath her weight, precipitating her into a long downward swoop towards me, apricot hair flying behind her like a wild Renaissance angel – a mermaid swept by the glassy green waves – a ship’s figurehead forging ahead, one out-thrust hand clasping—

Well, not a trident, at any rate, only some small grey thing. It didn’t just then make the same impression that Tish was about to: a bolt from the green.

While I’d like to say I caught her, truth compels me to admit I merely broke her fall, ending flat on my back with the angel sprawled across me. Enormous smoke-grey eyes stared apprehensively down into mine from an inch away. I decided to give in without a struggle.

Then something scuttled shiftily up my arm on hot, pronged feet and bit me savagely on the ear.

I swore and the creature let go and gave an evil laugh.

I’m not joking.

When Dad came round the corner of the house to see what all the noise was, he found the angel still sprawled over me, incoherently apologising and dabbing at my bleeding ear with a wadded-up bit of filmy skirt.

A small, evil-looking grey parrot stood nearby (too near) regarding us with interested, mad eyes.

‘Always Fergal catches the girls,’ Dad said cheerfully, taking the scene in his stride. Then, with his usual aplomb, he removed his jumper and enveloped the parrot in its folds.

The small assassin gave a dismal squawk, echoed by a screech of outrage from behind us. A tiny, well-preserved blonde, like a piece of shellacked fluff, was advancing up the drive with the martial air of one about to rescue her daughter’s honour or die in the attempt.

‘Leticia – get up at once!’

‘Leticia?’ I questioned incredulously, looking up into the grey eyes so close to mine. (And feeling as I did so as if I’d been sucked into a Black Hole and squeezed out on the other side like toothpaste.)

Her hand stopped its rather painful and ineffectual dabbing and she glared. ‘I don’t see that Fergal is any better!’ she said defensively. ‘And anyway, I’m always Tish.’

‘And I’m always Fergal, Angel, so you’ll just have to get used to it.’