It takes a good couple of minutes for my mind to start functioning again. All I can hope is Lulu hasn’t seen this photo. And why would she? She’s not the sort of woman who checks the social pages.
Fuck. Why wouldn’t she?
Right below the incriminating photo of Eleanor and me is the piece about her exhibition, with a beautiful photo of her in front of one of her paintings. She’s stunning, but as I blow it up on the monitor, I can see the signs of strain on her face and the slight puffiness under her eyes.
Still no answer when I call, so I leave another voicemail. Mandy must hear me because she’s back in my office door, hands on hips. “You’ll be lucky if she ever speaks to you again. I certainly wouldn’t.”
It dawns on me that somehow Mandy also knows Lulu and I have been seeing one another. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. “How did you know?”
“Oh, please. I’m not blind. Or stupid. Unlike the other person in this conversation.”
I stand up, grabbing my jacket from the chair behind me as the door opens. It’s Lulu. Her face is like thunder, and she’s lugging a parcel and an overnight bag. I don’t need to ask what the parcel is. I know. It’s my heart on a canvas.
“Lulu. I can explain—” I choke out.
“Can you? Is now the best time to explain about your girlfriend? Oh. No. Wait. Your fiancée. Did I get that right?” She fires the words like bullets.
“No. You didn’t. She’s not my fiancée.” I start towards her, but she stops me with a look.
“Well, whatever she is, Nick, we’re done, so she’s welcome to you.” Lulu dumps the painting against the wall, along with the bag.
“She’s my ex-girlfriend. Emphasis on ex. We’ve discussed this.”
“Yes. But what you left out of your carefully crafted narrative is she was here—in your office—only a few weeks ago. I recognise her from the photo. Why was that? And if she was such an ex, why not tell me?” There’s venom in her voice I’ve never heard before.
“Because it didn’t matter. She was here returning some books I’d loaned her. It didn’t occur to me to mention it because it wasn’t important.” I can feel my hands clenching and unclenching, almost as though I’m trying to hold on to her by will alone.
“How very convenient. Even though I asked about her, she slipped your mind.”
“Yes. Because I never gave her a second thought. We broke up before you and I started …” I trail off, knowing what I want to label us, but unable to get the words out in the face of her anger. Now is not the time to tell her how I feel. I don’t want to say those words for the first time in anger or frustration.
“Started fucking?” For the first time, the word sounds obscene on her lips. “Because that’s all this was, Nick. A casual, no-strings arrangement. We said so only a few weeks ago. When I asked you if there was anything going on. Which you never fully denied.”
Her words hit me like that wrecking ball I’m becoming familiar with, but this time, not in a good way. Her use of the past tense hasn’t escaped me, but I’m starting to get angry now too. “Yes. That’s exactly what we both said, isn’t it? And wasn’t it you who tried to end it a few weeks ago? So why are you getting so worked up?” I know the words are a mistake as soon as they leave my lips, but my anger and fear have taken the wheel.
“Because you lied. You lied. How am I supposed to believe anything you said? And now I’m kicking myself. I should have ended it then. Because regardless of whatwewere, whatIam not is a liar or a cheat.” She’s heading for the door, and I’m frozen in place.
“Neither am I.”
“All evidence to the contrary. But at least it all makes sense now. If you’re going to be a successful politician, you need the right kind of wife. One, I’m guessing, with the right pedigree. And the right look. Which is evidently not me. So now seems like as good a time as any to put an end to it. Goodbye, Nick.” Lulu snaps the door sharply shut behind her, leaving me breathing in her wildflower scent for what might be the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lulu
It’sbeenthirty-sixhourssince I woke up in Sydney. Not much less since I broke it off with Nick. I tried to sleep on the plane, but all I did was cry with my eyes closed. My face must look even worse than I think, because Dad takes one look at me and bursts into tears of his own. And there we are, in the middle of Inverness Airport, both of us crying like babies.
“Let’s get you home, hen.” Dad hefts my carry-on bag and takes the handle of my suitcase, leaving me to struggle into my coat before braving the sleety rain falling outside. Bless him, he doesn’t ask a single question on the long drive home, just keeps up a quiet commentary on the state of the roads, the weather and the prospects for the farm and the new distillery. His soft burring voice and the rumble of the car lull me into a half-sleep and before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of the house Dad now calls home. It’s too cold and miserable to stand outside admiring the ancient stonework—Scotland in November is not a place to be outdoors with my thin Australian blood.
Dad takes me and my bags upstairs and runs a deep bath for me.
“You’ll be exhausted,m’eudail.You hop in the bath, then into bed with you. We’ll talk when you’ve rested.”
By the time I drag my sorry arse out of the bath, there’s a steaming hot cup of tea and a scone sitting on the bedside. All I’ve eaten since I left Sydney is a dry bread roll—who wants to be hurling in a plane toilet?—and I inhale both before falling into bed.
It’s well and truly dark by the time I wake up, but then again, it’s winter in the Highlands—it’s dark most of the day. I feel marginally better than when I arrived. Now it feels like I’ve been run over by a herd of sheep—not cattle.
Dad is in the parlour with one of the farming magazines he’s taken to reading since inheriting this pile from my grandfather a couple of years ago. The creaking of the ancient stair treads has given him advanced warning, and he shifts over on the worn old sofa to make room for me.
