Page 10 of The Whole Package

I watched him move towards the ensuite; nausea pressed on my stomach as I realised he was washing her off.

I turned over and pulled the soft cotton sheets around me. I closed my eyes.

Chapter Four

I woke the next morning with a strange, frantic energy buzzing underneath my skin. I pulled back the bed sheets and saw my slimy underwear still on, and a cold wave of shame rolled through me. What the fuck had I done? One pathetic revenge shag in a freezing, manky field and suddenly I was risking my entire life? My gorgeous house, my career, my marriage.

I stared at the ceiling.

Maybe Rupert and I had just drifted apart. Maybe social media had swallowed us whole somewhere along the way. In the early days, he’d been the confident one – the stockbroker in sharp suits while I filmed myself baking, balancing my phone on my ironing board. Now people recognised me more than him, and I hated myself for even thinking it, but sometimes I wondered if he resented that. I mean, I enjoyed the endless praise and attention my channel brought, but maybe I’d been neglecting my role as a real-life traditional wife. I pushed back my shoulders, feeling lucky and grateful for the life I had created. One that I wasn’t going to let a smug flat-chested home-wrecker ruin. I was all in. I knew I could sort this shit show out.

So, I showered, stripped the bedding, dressed and headed downstairs. Today I’d do some early content, then head to the hairdresser’s, before spending the evening cooking Rupert’s favourite meal – lobster and asparagus.

Rupert had left early for a meeting with Penelope – a new brand had offered to sponsor my YouTube channel, and they were finalising the contract today. With any luck, he’d be too busy to get a quick shag between the paperwork. When he got back, I planned to have already created today’s content by myself so Penelope could fuck off home.

I set up the tripod, placed my phone in position, set it to Do Not Disturb, then pressed Live.

‘Oh, good morning, my gorgeous angels!’ I beamed at the camera, my voice sounding so fake it could’ve been generated by AI. ‘Today I’ve decided to give you all a treat – instead of showing you all my gorgeous Christmas baubles as planned, I’m going to make the best Christmas-inspired cinnamon-spiced cookies in existence, because it’s officially Tree Week in the Hope household!’ I grinned widely to the camera, as if I was curing world hunger, while truthfully I was three working days away from a nervous breakdown. ‘Now, Rupey is out working at the moment, but these are his ultimate favourite snacks in the winter, so I wanted to surprise him! Christmas is just the most magical time of the year, and Rupert and I, as you know, go wayyy out!’

I lied so easily. Christmas was, without a doubt, my worst time of the year.

The comments flooded the screen so quickly that I could barely read them.

I love you, Harriette!

You are sooooo pretty.

OMG, perfect queen!

Harriette, drop the sweater link gal.

Your tree is legit the best thing on my feed all year.

Can’t wait for this recipe.

I smiled automatically at the flood of love, even though it was slightly horrifying how much I needed complete strangers to tell me I was doing OK. I began chatting about the cookie recipe my grandma used to make on snow days. Baking was something I was naturally good at – my mind went into autopilot mode and I never had to think about what I was doing. It felt almost like meditation as I whipped up the mixture, rolled the cookie dough into small, perfectly shaped balls, then set them on the baking tray. I did learn most of my skills from my gran too; she would somehow manage to turn a few ingredients into a meal for her entire street in Glasgow.

‘OK, I’ll pop these into the oven, and then I’ll wash my hands.’ I laughed at the camera as the dough flaked off my fingers.

I did as I said, sliding the cookies into the oven and heading to the utility room to wash my hands. I ran warm water through my fingers and enjoyed the scent of Jo Malone’s pomegranate handwash, managing to get in a few Kegel exercises before heading back to the kitchen. As I walked in, Rupert and Penelope were standing there. I jumped in surprise.

‘Harriette!’ Rupert sounded just as startled to see me.

‘Agh! There he is – typical that I’m making you a special treat and you caught me.’ I embraced my husband on camera and headed back to the breakfast bar. ‘I’ll upload these gorgeous cookies when they’re finished, and I hope you all have a magical winter’s day! I love you all, my gorgeous guys and gals!’ Again, I blew my signature kiss at the lens and switched off the live feed.

‘Darn, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were filming, sweetheart.’ Rupert’s face reddened, while Penelope seemed more mute than usual.

‘Yes,’ I giggled, feeling that surge of anger at being the third wheel in my own home once more. ‘I made my perfect husband a winter treat! Your favourite!’

He glanced up, smiled and attempted a laugh, but he was half a second too late, like he had to remind himself to do it.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were at the hair salon this morning?’

I felt my face edge to the side. What was with the interrogation? Were these two planning to have the house to themselves for a couple of hours, and now they were devastated I was here? My stomach churned.

‘Later, darling. I have to leave in ten minutes! But I thought I’d pop on and do some unscheduled content to pass the time, is all.’

Rupert’s head swayed at the change of plan, then he nodded.