It’s Thursday night. My husband is at work drinks. My daughter is in her bed and I’m in mine, but I’m not asleep.
The door is shut. I’m under the covers in our dark bedroom, lit only by the dim glow of my iPad, its brightness on the lowest possible setting.
The wifi signal is stronger than usual, I think to myself as I open a few tabs so I can switch between my favourite sites. I browse a bit, decide on a category and enter a few key words. How would I like the results arranged? Why, newest to oldest, of course—I was only here last night.
That’s a new one, I mutter to myself as I click at it with an eager index finger. Oh my, it’s huge! I’m waiting for the video to load when suddenly the door handle rattles.
My heart leaps out of my ribcage and hides behind the curtains. I shove the evidence under the sheets and reach for the nearest book on my bedside table, opening it somewhere in the middle.
He turns on the light.
‘Hi!’ I say, going overboard with the enthusiasm. ‘How was your night?’
I needn’t have bothered.
He had already seen the telltale flush in my cheeks. The novel I finished reading last week was upside-down in my hands and there was a strange, blue, luminous rectangle beaming through the doona.
‘Jess, we’ve talked about this.’
‘What?’ I ask, a vain attempt to avoid the subject.
‘Real estate porn,’ he says, soberly. ‘It’s not good for you.’
And I know he’s right.
It started one innocent Saturday morning over toast as a quick check of the market. ‘Babe, you should see this doer-upper!’