It was cold out. Not as bad as it would be in New York, where a thousand fervent literature students were just coming to terms with the fact that their greatest idol had missed annihilation by the skin of his delayed airport limo, but still bloody miserable all the same.

He hadn’t wanted Italy, or Switzerland, or Hong Kong, though he would have been quite free of a loud and drunken retelling of how Jimbo had shagged Karen in the playground last night in any of the three alternative locales.

He’d wanted to be home. Home home. Even if he’d just found a new damp patch on his bedroom ceiling. Even if he couldn’t check out that new film he’d been eyeing up because the police had cordoned the entire cinema off for a drug raid. Even if he couldn’t watch a few minutes of nice soothing porn because the bloody internet was down again even though he bloody paid seventy bloody quid a bloody month for the bloody privilege of seeing that bloody error message a-bloody-gain.

Even if it was shit.

It was still home, wasn’t it? Hey, it had parmos.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Anything else we can do for you?” Barry asked anxiously from his seat at the table. Hell, it appeared, took thrown-out cases extremely seriously. It didn’t want to lose its five-star reputation for customer service.

“You say the Bentley will be here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Barry said all too eagerly.

The Author sighed with satisfaction. “Well, there’s just the obvious now. One last thing.”

“Yes, yes, anything!” Barry choked out over wringing hands.

“The Wife, goddammit!” The Author exploded, and his spectacular moustache wibbled with glee at the sight of the officer falling from his perch in terror. “What’s a man without his wife? Get her back NOW!”

“Are you sure?” Barry gasped, cringing from beneath the tablecloth. “I mean, she and the other victims are already in their heavens, as agreed before-”

“The Wife,” The Author said simply. His tone was soft, controlled, and brooked no argument .

“Of course,” said Barry, rising, hands spread placatingly before him. “Two moments, sir.”

The Author thought he was glad to be gone.

And that was when the dread came.

It grew from nothing. It grew as he stared out the window trying to decide if the thumping noise he could make out above the rain was a robbery or just a mugging. Grew until it engulfed the pure joyous relief at having the love of his life returned to him.

Those brownies had looked absolutely delicious.

The Wife was going to be pissed.

Quickly, almost dropping the phone in his desperation, he swiped through his options. He really couldn’t face the couch after an air disaster.

Chinese? Pizza? Curry? Fish and chips?

Fuck it. He’d order them all.