We don’t make a habit of money changing hands in the bedroom. But since he’s been abroad, it has been known to happen. Just a couple of times.
We’re standing by the bed, and he’s got that look in his eyes: the one that says he’s just about to pounce.
I glance up, catch his eye, and say ‘I need to get some cash for a cab to the airport.’
His smile turns wicked. He digs in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, flips it open and drops a couple of notes on the bedside table.
I watch, mock aghast.