“What do you mean?”
“I love you, Lils. You know that. But you tend to”— she pauses, I guess looking for the right words—“jump to conclusions and assume the worst.”
“You’re saying I overreacted. Why are you taking Ant’s side?”
Mei laughs.
“I’m not. I’m on your side. Always. What I’m saying is, instead of allowing Ant to explain and asking questions about his explanation, you took what Warren said at face value and shut down. And now you’re working overtime to convince yourself of the validity of your position. But there’s a lot of daylight between not telling you about the inner workings of his business finance and being a money-hungry opportunist.”
She’s right, of course. She’s also on a roll.
“This is what you do. It’s how you protect yourself. But it’s not productive. And honestly? I don’t know Ant, but if it came to a choice between trusting Warren and trusting just about anyone else in the world, up to and possibly even including the devil himself …”
“It wouldn’t be Warren you trusted,” I finish for her.
“Correct. I also have to say, you need to let go of this idea that nobody could love you. I love you. And okay, when it comes to men, you could say I’m not always the most discerning. But when it comes to friends, I am. You’re the whole package, Lil. Any man who can’t see that doesn’t deserve you. And it sounds to me like Ant saw that from the get-go.”
“So what do I do?”
“I think you know what to do, Lils.”
I cry a whole lot more before the alarm I set to remind me to get ready for the wedding goes off. I stagger off the sunbed and into the apartment.
My phone rings, and I leap for it. Maybe it’s him. Apologising. Telling me it’s all a big misunderstanding. But it’s my mother. I send it to voicemail. There’s nothing she could possibly have to say to me that I want to hear. Now, or maybe even ever.
If Ant was using me, I guess it would’ve come out eventually. When he got what he wanted. But right now, I’d trade living in delulu land for another few days or weeks or months for the pain I’m in.
Dragging myself into the shower, I wash my hair, shave my legs and use my favourite exfoliant to scrub my skin as raw as my heart.
It doesn’t help. I still feel strung tight as a bow. So, I run myself a bath, and pour in enough of the expensive resort bath oil to have the bubbles rising over the top of the tub. The whole apartment starts to smell like frangipani and coconut.
I wet a face washer with ice water and fold it over my eyes in a valiant, but ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to reduce the puffiness, and soak until the water goes cold and my fingers are pale and pruney.
There’s no sign of Ant when I finally get out of the bath. I’m glad. I’m devastated. I’m confused.
I need to get dressed for the wedding. Every movement takes more energy than it should. I can’t be bothered drying my hair, so I twist it into a smooth, sleek roll and call it done.
Still no sign of Ant.
It takes the better part of a tube of concealer to cover the puffy, purple bags under my eyes. They’re still obvious, so I create a distraction with the reddest red lipstick I have. Eye make-up is tricky since my eyes keep leaking without permission, but eventually I get them looking half way presentable.
I choose not to wear the dress my mother picked out for me for the event. Right now, I need armour. So I’m wearing the stunning pantsuit I bought at Wailea with Louise. She said it made my bum look incredible and my legs look twice as long as they really are. Although that might have been the heels the saleslady insisted I try on. Either way, I won’t be giving my mother the satisfaction of following orders. Not today.
My chest is tight, and when I try and take a deep breath, it turns into something between a shuddering sigh and a wail. I wonder if this is what patients with pulmonary oedema feel like. As though no matter how hard they try, they can’t get enough air into their lungs.
I contemplate not going to the wedding. Staying here and waiting for Ant. But I absolutely will not give Warren the satisfaction of seeing me defeated.
Nor will I beg Ant to come back. To get ready and go with me to the wedding. I don’t think I could pull off the act, even if he did.
I check the time. Fuss with my earrings. My shoes. Double-check the contents of my clutch. Touch up my lipstick. Blot the shine that’s already appearing on my forehead. Fix the run in my mascara and eyeliner.
When I can’t put it off another minute, I drop my phone in my bag, add another handful of tissues for safety, square my shoulders, and let myself out of the suite.
Still no sign of Ant.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ant
