My boss holds her summer garden party the last Sunday of July, every year. The last two years I’ve been working for her, I’ve been in charge of gazebos, menus, music, guest list, drink, décor, everything. She gives you no idea what she wants, only tells you when it isn’t right. So it’s a continual guessing game—a stressful one! I’ve been neglecting Michael because of this. We haven’t had sex in two weeks and I’m not happy about it. He deserves better, we both do.

I’m standing on the patio just beyond the kitchen, keeping one eye on proceedings and another on the food prep, when he texts: I’m upstairs. Come find me.

The house is gigantic with lots of rooms. How am I meant to find him? What does he want?

I start typing a reply when a waiter emerges carrying a crate of dessert wine. I’m aghast when he starts to prise it open, after I specifically told him moments ago to bring the wine we’ve paired with the fish.

“That’s for the desserts, later.”

He rolls his eyes. “This is what the chef handed me down in the cellar.”

“Either you’ve pissed someone off or she has.” I shake my head. “I know everyone hates her majesty, but any fool would recognise this as dessert wine.”

My phone buzzes again.

I’m waiting....read more