Layla was immediately upon him, massaging gel into his scalp to bring order to his unruly hair. After a few minutes, she was done and stepped back to ...dmire her handiwork. She stood silent for a moment, and Tom looked back at her, extending the silence. As they made eye contact, a slight blush touched Layla’s cheeks and she smiled as she slowly stepped forward. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as step by step, the distance between them diminished, until finally Layla was no more than inches away. It’s possible that she’s not dumpy at all. Knowing James, she’ll be some trophy wife, beautiful, vapid, an ornament to hang off his arm. I like to fantasise that she’s let herself go, a foolish frump staying at home to raise his perfect children, spending the day in an ugly grey tracksuit, stuffing her face full of ice cream on the sofa. But judging by the credit card bills that I creatively expense for him each month, it sounds like she knows how to take good care of herself. But let’s not. More

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