"It'll be good for you, Jilly silly billy."

Ruben is sitting on a wheelie chair, behind the cash desk in his shop. He's rolling across the narrow room, pushing himself off the walls, back and forth, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I know you've only just got back from merry old England, but it's an opportunity not to be missed. Just think of it..."

I listen to him as I sit on the edge of the cash desk, drinking a coffee that Paola brought over, on a slow Tuesday morning in August. Tourists never seem to be up and about before ten o'clock and the local trade is dead as the italian's have all headed to the sea. The return to the heat of the summer has knocked me for six and Paola's coffee is a necessity throughout the working day.

Rolling past my eyeline, as I blow to cool the drink, my boss continues with his persuasion.

"Think of it, Jilly billy, you, me, the well and truly sexy Andre' and your hunk of a husband all together and child free for one whole week."

He winks at me theatrically as he reaches the right side wall and pushes himself back again. "All you need to do is get Alberto to take the mutt, and arrange for the in-laws to come and watch the kids. They're off school till the 8th of January, right?"

I give him a nod of agreement. A prickle of excitement tickles in my belly. I begin to think of ways to persuade Jack to agree.

"So if you fly out on New Year's day - that way you won't mess up the big New Year's Eve surprise I've got planned for Andre' - then you and Giacomo can have from the Wednesday to the Tuesday living the highlife in Paris, the city of love!"

I finish my coffee and leaning over, slam dunk the cardboard cup into the bin underneath the till, narrowly missing Ruben as he rolls towards it.

"Good shot." He remarks.

"It does sound wonderful Ruby, but would you really want your style cramped by us hanging around your little love nest? Don't you think that Andre' might prefer to have you all to himself in gay old Parreee?"

Bringing his chair to a squeaky stop, he points his finger at me.

"Ouch. Less of the 'old' thank you very much. If you must know it was his idea to invite you in the first place. Heaven knows why, but he wants to put faces to the weirdos I've been telling him about for years." He starts turning his chair round and round in circles, using the counter to keep up the momentum. "Come on Jilly willy, say yes? Then we can book the two bed apartment instead of the pokey little one bed."

"Ah, so that's what this is all about. Now we're getting to the truth Ruben, you sly old dog. You want an excuse to get that luxury one with the view of the Eiffel Tower right?"

Holding up his hands he surrenders.

"Okay, you got me. But would it be so bad?"

*****

Using all of my feminine charms – i.e. frequently initiating sex - I get Jack to agree. On New Year's Eve 2020, Rosanna and Matteo make the journey up to stay and spoil their grandchildren for the week and Sissy is taken away to be equally well treated by her adoptive parent, Alberto.

During that long night and all through the next day, Ruben keeps me up to date by sending photos of all the action he had prepared for the mysterious New Year's Eve with Andre' - this being a show with champagne at the Moulin Rouge - constantly barraging the memory capability of my phone. It warms my heart to see my dear friend so happy.

The plane circles in for landing in the early evening of January 1st. Resting my head against Jack's shoulder, I look past him out the window. The lights of the city are spectacular, I can make out mini streets and the grid layout of the buildings as the view peeks in and out from behind the clouds. I even catch a glimpse of car headlights, buzzing along like a tiny caterpillar of many sparkling eyes. Sighing deeply, my imagination runs wild at the romantic experience I'm hoping to have. Falling in love again with Jack has snuck up on me and it's fully taken a hold of me now. There's nowhere else and nobody else I would rather be with at this moment.

Jack's sleep is disturbed with a grunt when the pilot's announcement bursts over the intercom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will now be beginning our descent into Paris Charles de Gaulle, the weather is currently a cool four degrees centigrade with some cloud cover. Can I please bring your attention to..."

A shiver of excitement flutters up my back and I squeeze Jack's arm, fully waking him. He mumbles sleepily.

"Are we there yet?"

Once off the plane, Ruben sends me a message that the bus we need is arriving in thirty minutes outside the terminal. Coming out into arrivals, we pass directly through with no passport check or any kind of delay. I stop for Jack to go to the bathroom and I'm left waiting, my back to the tall, glass windows, facing a large information screen which is currently showing a French news update.

More images from China, people dressed in protective suits, looking like radioactivity investigators from some B-list Scifi movie. The ticker tape crossing the bottom of the picture is awash with messages of numbers and unfamiliar words. The odd international one stands out, such as 'virus' 'sars' and 'epidemic'. It's not the first time I've seen this kind of event on the news. Bird flu, sars, and some distant memory from when I was really little don't leave me with any particular sensation of worry.

Jack joins me and glances up at the news.

"They should stop eating all those weird animals." He comments dryly. "Then they wouldn't get all these diseases."

Sometimes his blatent racist comments really grate on my nerves. It's not as if he is actually a racist – far from it – rather that he doesn't think about what he's saying before he let's it loose on the world. I'm the one usually left to clear up the mess and straighten out misunderstandings. Grinding my teeth, I check to see if anyone was within hearing distance of this latest verbal piece of diarrhoea. Thankfully the coast is clear.

The bus brings us round the ring road of Paris and turns into the city, dropping us off at a metro station in the seventh arrondissement - or quarter, and we are met by a very happy, rosy faced Ruben, sitting on a bench.

He's wrapped up warmly, in a nicely tailored tweed coat, with a burgundy scarf and matching leather gloves.

"Jilly! Giacomo. Bienvenue."

The evening is cold and I rub my hands together, cursing myself again for not considering the drop in temperature while I was packing the day before. Looking around, from where we're standing at a junction of streets, surrounded by typically Parisian houses, I can hear faint music and smell roasting peppers. Paris takes a quiet hold of my senses with her warm, seductive hand.

Ruben links his arm in mine and pats Jack on the back.

"Andre' has got dinner waiting for us and I'm sorry, but, you're going to have to put up with pasta tonight. He's been dying to impress you with a recipe from his home town in Puglia. So you will have to wait till tomorrow night to eat alla Francaise. Besides that it's soo expensive to eat out on New Year's day. Shall we go?"

The apartment isn't far from the metro station. It's on the top floor of a modern building with a magnificent view over the rooftops of older buildings, attic windows like giant octopus eyes blinking across the city. In the distance the iron spike of the Eiffel Tower is lit up for the holiday celebrations.

Andre' is the exact opposite of Ruben. He is reserved, quiet and tall, with very dark hair, eyes and skin. He is also quite young and gives the impression of a calm studious nature.

We share dinner in the ultra-modern, open-plan dining/kitchen area. Candles in sleek glass holders muffle the harsh modern lines of the furniture with a soft, kinder glow. The glass-topped dining table sparkles with reflections.

Andre' and Jack are laughing about something Ruben has said in a put-on southern Italian accent. I'm obliged to please our host - the comedian - with a small, fake laugh. A lot of comedy is still lost on me because I can't keep up with the subtleties of humour while I'm trying to translate the actual words. Andre' can probably tell that I'm feeling like a fish out of water. He nods my way, waving his glass at me.

"Do you have to put up with this all day in the shop, Jilly?"

I smile at his sympathy and return the complement by admiring his cooking.

"Yes, it really is good Andre'." Jack reaffirms my comments, a spot of tomato sauce shining on his chin. "Fantastic stuff, but then you Pugliese are known for the best food, hey? Ruben, you agree?"

Ruben snorts a nose full of red wine, grabbing a linen napkin to hide his laughter.

"I don't think so Giacomo! Think about it. Bergamo has casoncelli, taleggio cheese, stracciatella ice-cream."

Refilling his apple juice, Jack replies without too much enthusiasm and I realise he's trying not to offend Andre'. I loosen the knot in my shoulders.

"Okay, it's true, but come on Ruben, I mean compare Puglia's food to, say.. American. Hamburgers don't stand a chance!"

Ruben opens the second bottle of wine this evening, pouring a generous glass for himself and Andre'. I squeeze Jack's knee under the table. I know how hard it is for him to be around drink when there's such a happy, relaxed atmosphere. My husband is the bravest man I know.

"Alright, if we're going that way let's compare everything Italian to the rest of the world. Starting with America. What about films?"

We all shake our heads at this suggestion.

"There's no competition!" Andre' finally speaks up. "American is always the best."

Jack waves his hand, brushing the idea away.

"No way! Classics like Roberto Benigni, horror film directors, even the old spaghetti westerns were Italian. Not flippin' American. Why do you think they were called 'spaghetti'?"

Ruben is fully fuelled by yet more wine and his voice is getting louder. He's never been one to hold his drink well. It worries me how far he might take this competitive discussion.

"Oh really, Giacomo? How can you say that? The Americans are better at everything except food!"

"No, no, I don't agree with you. Americans are never as good as Italians. Not in cooking, not in movies and most likely not even in bed!"

Ruben is roaring with laughter.

"Ha ha! That's got to be true! Jilly- you know the truth about that one, what's the verdict? What's better? Italian dick or American?"

Jack's mouth which was happy with laughter is slowly turning down at the edges. There have never been any secrets between Jack and I regarding lovers previous to our marriage.

"How would she know?"

Everything moves in slow motion. My breath stops.

Andre' blushes and shakes his head at his partner, pulling away the half empty bottle of wine.

Ruben is obviously trying to think of a way to backtrack the last few seconds. Gasping for ideas as his mouh gapes open like a fish gasping for breath. The time lapse and effort he needs will only give Jack more reason for concern.

In what seems to me to be a period of minutes but is in reality a few seconds, my husband turns to face me with a shocked expression, which gradually shades red with fury, his whole body becoming rigid as his muscles tighten in anger.

I open my mouth to try and force out some kind of lie. Anything to make it go away. My heart is banging away at my chest.

Say something. Anything.

Jack throws back his chair, bashing into the table leg as he does so, knocking over bottles and sending cutlery crashing to the floor. He rips off the napkin that I had tucked in a cute way into his shirt while I ruffled his hair like a little boy an hour ago, and launches it at Ruben across the table. He says nothing, grabs his coat and thunders through the door out of the apartment.

Oh my God!

Forcing my body to take action, I jump up with shaky legs. I race out the door to stop him, forgetting my coat and even my shoes, desperate to make him stop. To make this whole, horrible moment stop.

"Jack!" I yell, chasing him out into the street.

He's about to cross the road on his way to the metro when he has what I so wish is a sudden change of mind and belts back up the road towards me. Shouting with rage and hurt. His face is frightening. I gasp at the contortion of fury in his handsome features. Mr Hyde has found his way back.

"You fucked an American? What fucking American? When did that happen? How could you do that, Jill? How could you tell fucking Ruben about it and let me sit there like a fucking dickhead until I have to hear it from him? Not you? Him! Were you ever going to tell me?"

I can't stop my knees from shaking and I've lost the ability to think of anything to say. There's only one thing that continues to mantra in my head.

I love you... I love you.

Standing in front of me. His eyes wide with hate. He waits for some kind of answer that I just can't give.

Giving up he turns to continue his way to the metro.

"Fuck you, Jill."

Sinking to my knees, my heart is physically breaking. I can feel it ripping itself apart. My voice comes out, disembodied from me. Weak and pathetic.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

*****

The night is spent in the company of a nursemaiding Andre' and a very, very humbled Ruben. My phone permanently attached to my finger tips as I finally find my voice and send waves of messages, vocal, written, pictures, anything I can to get a response. I am empty. There's nothing to make me feel like the me I was a few hours ago. I'm a stranger in my own body.

I fall asleep on the sofa, the bed is way too comfortable for my state of mind. I don't deserve it. I wake up late the next morning, hearing the buzz of the apartment door.

Jack?

I leap up. Buzz open the downstairs door lock. Yank open the door and fly down the stairs. The front door is open.

Jack!

He's sitting on the bottom step and he kicks the street door closed softly and pats the marble step next to him. It's dark in the hallway.

Slowly, I step down cautiously. My heart in my mouth. Palms sweaty, shaky legs. Tears gather in my eyes.

Is he still angry? Of course he's still angry. Where has he been all night? Does he still love me?

I pull my long cardigan around my pants as I sit down, knowing that the marble will be cold to my bare legs. Amazed that my brain is concentrating on such a simple fact when my whole world is in turmoil. I try to look round at his face but he turns away.

"Can we move past this, Jill?"

His voice is sad and quiet. I breath easier, there's no danger.

"I hope so."

My voice sounds bizarrely normal, even cheerful.

"Is there anything or anyone else I should know about?"

"No."

"I know we had a bad time of it a few years ago. I'm not going to pretend that it was all your fault. I made mistakes too."

"I know."

"There's somethings you don't know, Jill. Some girls I..."

I put my hand on his knee and grip it tightly.

"I really don't want to know."

He peeks at me and I can see I'm not the only one who's spent the night in tears.

"Honestly, Jack. I don't want to know. Let's move on."

I stand up and hold out my hand to help him up off the step. We look at each other unsmiling, with understanding.

Turning to go back up to the apartment we catch Ruben and Andre' as they duck behind the front door where they have been spying on us.

Jack calls up at them.

"I hope there's some of that pasta left you pair of bastards. I'm starving!"