I held the blade to my husband’s throat, watching as his olive-green eyes drifted closed.

‘Hurry up, Ingrid,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be late.’

‘Yes, Richard.’

I scraped the white foam from his square jaw.

‘Where’s my suit?’

‘It’s laid out on the bed,’ I replied, smoothing the razor down his cheek. ‘I finally got that stain out of your white shirt.’

‘What stain?’

‘Lipstick, I think.’

His Adams apple bounced in his throat. ‘It must have been yours.’

‘It was red.’

‘And? What’s your point, Ingrid?’

My hand trembled. One little slip and I could make those crimson stains warranted, like a splatter of paint on a clean canvas. ‘I don’t wear red.’

‘Yes, you do. You were wearing it the day I met you!’

‘That was years ago . . . I can’t believe you remember.’

‘Of course I remember!’ His incredulous eyes found mine in the…