For his part, Lucien is in a terrible mood. It's been one of those days where everything has gone wrong, and he is anxious to get home to Jean, enjoy a hot meal, and relax. He hangs his hat on its customary hook as he walks in the door, and heads to the kitchen to find his wife stirring a bubbling pot of gravy on the stovetop.
"I'm sorry dinner's not ready yet," she apologizes as Lucien wraps his arms around her from behind, "The council meeting ran late, and then I had to stop at the grocer's before coming home. The chicken is in the oven and nearly done. Do you mind answering that?" Jean asks, as the phone began to ring, "I don't want the gravy to burn."
Lucien releases her, and answers the phone with a terse, "Blake Residence," He places his hand over the receiver and tells Jean, "It's for you. It's Myrna."
Jean lets out a sigh, and switches off the burner for the stovetop while removing her apron. Lucien notes she is still wearing her "work clothes" from earlier in the day, and her smart suit dress shows off her shapely legs. "I'll take it in the office," she tells Lucien, and then heads to the other room to speak with her secretary at City Hall. "Why don't you fix yourself a drink before dinner?"
When he hears Jean pick up the receiver in the office, Lucien disconnects his end of the line and heads to the sitting room to pour himself a scotch. His foul mood, which had lessened slightly upon arriving home, flairs again at the realization that the bottle atop the bar cart is empty. Jean had said she would restock the cart this week, but it appears she has forgotten. Or been too busy to do it. Lucien sighs and reaches for an alternate bottle.
Tumbler in hand, he sinks into his favorite armchair with a groan. The scent of whatever Jean is cooking in the oven has wafted in behind him, and Lucien's stomach growls with hunger. He'd not eaten lunch today; Jean had had an early morning meeting, and nothing had been laid out for him. He hears the muted sound of Jean's voice through the office door. What the bloody hell is taking so long, he wonders to himself.
He feels like he hasn't seen his wife in days. While Ballarat isn't a massive municipality, the council and the demands associated with it seem to take up a surprising amount of Jean's time. Gone are the evenings spent cuddling quietly together on the sofa before bed; now Jean spends them reviewing meeting minutes and budget proposals. She hasn't brought him lunch at the police station in weeks, and Lucien feels he has taken for granted all the times she used to pop in unannounced, with her basket slung over her arm, pulling him away for an impromptu picnic on a bench outside the station. You have to eat, Lucien! She doesn't listen as he prattles on about his cases. She tries, he knows, but Lucien can see the distracted look in her eyes as her mind wanders away to chase other things.
"I'm sure you'll think of something," she'll say as she kisses his head and wanders off to complete another task, "You always do."
They hadn't been intimate in over two weeks. Jean has never outright refused him, but has made it clear through body language or sheer avoidance that she is not in the mood. Lucien prides himself on being somewhat progressive; he doesn't expect sex as a "marital duty," and Jean is certainly entitled to be tired once in a while, but he rather misses the feel of his wife's body beneath him as they make love. He has taken to drinking before bed again, this past week, needing the alcohol to help him relax into sleep. Jean, he thinks, has not noticed.
As he sits in the chair and sips his drink, Lucien grows more and more morose and irritated. He wonders, again, what is taking so long. He rises from the chair as his stomach growls once more, and strides purposefully towards the office.
"Are we going to eat any time this evening?" He grumbles as he swings open the door, neither bothering to knock nor announce himself in his ill humor.
He draws up short at the sight of his wife, seated behind his desk. Jean is leaning back in the chair, idly chewing on the end of a pencil while simultaneously twirling the phone cord around a finger on her other hand. Her long legs are crossed and propped up on the corner of the desk, with several of Lucien's patient files spread beneath them. She's undone the topmost button of her blouse, and her hair is slightly mussed where Lucien can tell she's run her hand through it.
"…we've been swimming upstream for a long time in regards to a number of these processes'' Jean says into the phone, "I think this proposal could really change that and needs to be pursued."
She looks exhausted, he notes. Jean drops the pen and grinds the heel of her hand against her temple. Lucien wonders if she has eaten lunch today, either. Or breakfast.
"Look," Jean sighs into the phone, "I've got to go get dinner on. We can finish this up tomorrow, Myrna." She sighs again as she sign off, and then stares down at the desk for a moment, cradling her head in her hands.
"Sorry," she says, smiling wanly up at Lucien, wincing slightly as her head changes position. "That took longer than expected."
"Dinner can wait," he says and starts towards her. "We can order take away if you're tired."
"Nonsense," comes Jean's incensed retort as she rises from the desk. "Dinner is nearly done and you've already been so patient." She drags out the word so, making her tone clearly sarcastic.
Lucien has the good grace to look ashamed. "Jeannie, I have been an absolute ass."
"Really?" she responds, "I hadn't noticed." Which means that she has definitely noticed.
"Mmm," Lucien hums and kisses his wife's head. "I've been petty, and petulant, and spoiled." He emphasizes each adjective with another kiss to Jean's head.
"An absolute child," she agrees, leaning back and grinning up at him.
"Hush. I'm apologizing." He admonishes and kisses her again, this time on her forehead. "I have been so spoiled by you for all these years. You take such good care of me and run this household with such efficiency. Not being the primary focus of your attentions these last few months has made me quite jealous."
"You do recall, don't you, that you were the one who encouraged me to run for council in the first place?" Jean points out.
"That's the most frustrating part!" comes Lucien's response. "It's my own bloody fault that I'm so miserable. At any rate, I'm sorry. I should be more understanding of your having a position outside of our home, and I should be a much better partner to you. You're my wife, and not my housekeeper, and I'm afraid I've not been treating you as an equal as of late."
She narrows her eyes at him, considering. "Apology accepted," Jean says. "You can start proving you're sincere by bringing me some paracetamol and then going to pick up takeaway." She sniffs the air and makes a face. "I do believe that's the smell of our dinner burning."
Lucien, for his part, is happy to oblige.