Sandra laughs. “She should have known better than to take us British on. We have to put up with rain all year round, so it makes us quite moody and miserable.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not moody or miserable. Anyway, I have a feeling I haven’t seen the end of Vanessa. She had the ‘I haven’t given up’ look on her face when she slinked away.”
Sandra bites into a chocolate chip cookie. “But other than that, you’re having a swell time.”
“Oh yes.”
“And the sex? How is that going?”
I start walking towards the fridge. “How do you know we’re having sex?”
She grins. “Because you’re glowing.”
“Yeah, the sex is good,” I say, flushing to the roots of my hair.
Sandra cackles with delight. “Oh my God! The sex is amazing, isn’t it?”
I pull out a carton of orange juice as I giggle like a teenager. “Yup, it is.”
“Much better than with George?” she wheedles.
I inhale sharply. I don’t like to acknowledge it, but I have to admit the truth. “Much better.”
Sandra takes her phone with her as she does a little happy jig. “I am so happy. I can’t believe that I chose him for you.”
I pour a glass of juice and take a sip. “Ok, I’ll give you this one. You did choose him, but … um … George sent me a text.”
She groans and stops dancing abruptly. “You’re not going to answer him.”
“Well, he says he can’t stop thinking about me.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t trust any of his stupid declarations anymore. He dropped you and went off with that Claudia woman, and he’s only back because he can see that your new guy is a catch and a half. And what does Rhett say about this?”
“He says I should make George suffer a bit more.”
“I totally agree,” Sandra says firmly. “You should make him suffer. For what he put you through … he should suffer a lot.”
The sound of the doorbell startles me.
“I’ve got to go. Call you later, ok,” I tell Sandra hurriedly.
“See you later, alligator,” Sandra sings before the line goes dead.
Rhett is upstairs on a work call, and I practically trip over myself getting to the door, expecting maybe a gardener or a delivery gone wrong. Rhett would have said if one of his friends was coming over. But when I pull the door open, there’s a suited courier standing outside holding a small, sleek, black velvet box.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s got to be the ring Rhett ordered. I forgot it was meant to be coming today.
The box the courier is holding is small, but it somehow already radiates importance. It looks like the kind of thing you only ever see in the movie during the grand gesture scene where the heroine starts crying with happiness, and it is all filmed in slow motion. The courier hands it over with the kind of neutral efficiency of someone who has no idea he’s just delivered the most significant prop in a very tangled performance.
I thank him, shut the door, and stare down at the box in my hand. My pulse hammers so loudly in my ears I can hear it. When I turn around, Rhett has come back down the stairs and is leaning at the doorway, his arms folded, watching me with that infuriating smile of his.
“Well?” he drawls. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how my palms are sweating. “I … uh … didn’t expect it to arrive today.”
“Open it, Pippa.”
My fingers fumble a little with the hinge. The lid gives way with an efficient whisper. Inside, nestled against a pillow of black velvet, is my fake engagement ring. I don’t even breathe for a moment when I see it.
