‘How?’
‘You’re a bestselling author. Not just some little primary school teacher.’
Somehow he managed to misread the shock on my face for something altogether different and squeezed my hand with encouragement. It was a miracle he was still standing.
‘You don’t have to look like that, silly, it’s not a trick,’ he said happily. ‘I’m prepared to give you a second chance.’
‘You’re prepared to give me a second chance.’
I had to repeat the words to make sure I was hearing him correctly. Of all the unpredictable things that had happened to me since leaving home on Thursday morning, this was, without a doubt, the most nightmarish. Not even Margaret Atwood could’ve come up with such a dystopic plot twist. I would volunteer for the Hunger Games before I got back together with CJ.
Disentangling my hand from his, I straightened his tie and patted him briskly on the shoulder.
‘CJ, I don’t know how to put this kindly but even if I received a solid gold telegram from a flying pig saying hell had frozen over and the only other two humans left alive were you and Boris Johnson, you would find me in the phone book under Mrs BoJo in less than two minutes flat.’
‘I think, when people look back on the early twenty-first century—’ he began but I was in no mood to hear the rest of it.
‘You’re a shitbag,’ I said, filling my voice with conviction and forcing him to hear me. ‘You’re a user and an opportunist, you’re beyond selfish, and I would never, ever even consider getting back together but I should thank you for inspiring me because if you had even an ounce of talent in the bedroom, I might never have put pen to paper.’
Of course, that was the only bit he really heard.
‘As I recall, you weren’t complaining at the time,’ he said, nostrils flaring beneath his glasses.
‘As I recall I wasn’t providing much feedback at all,’ I replied. ‘I was usually too busy thinking about what we needed from the supermarket or wondering if I’d remembered to pay the gas bill. Thank god they inventedrechargeable vibrators because I could not afford to keep giving Duracell half my salary. You know teachers are wildly underpaid.’
His beneficent expression twisted into something ugly and bitter and I felt myself tensing up. He never had been one to take rejection well. I thought back to all those torn-up letters I’d found on the living room floor until he finally found an agent who took pity on him.
‘God, you’re such a cliché,’ he spat. ‘That’s how I knew you wrote the book, such lazy, predictable writing. It’s not good, Sophie. I’m not surprised you wanted to keep your name off it. I’d be mortified if people thought that was the sum total of my talent.’
But his words rolled off me like lazy, predictable water off a duck’s back.
‘Of all the opinions I give a shit about, yours is at the very bottom of the list,’ I said, pleasantly surprised by my own lack of reaction. ‘I’ll pass on the reconciliation but give me a shout when you’ve written your second book. If it’s not shit and I’ve got time between counting all my money and writing the second and third books I already have contracted, I might blurb you.’
He scoffed, enraged. ‘As if I’d want your endorsement. I’ve no interest in being a housewives’ favourite.’
‘At least then you’d be someone’s favourite.’
‘I’m going to tell everyone,’ CJ cried, high on the bitter sting of a knockback. ‘I’m going to tell your parents, I’m going to tell my debut author Facebook group—’
I looked away as he carried on with his rant, wondering how long I would have to endure his tantrum. It was strangely reminiscent of our sex life.
‘—All those things people were saying earlier, to Joe,they didn’t mean it. Everyone was laughing at you behind your back. If your mother knew the truth, she’d never speak to you again.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joe excuse himself from his conversation and make a beeline over to us but CJ didn’t notice, too busy conjuring up insults.
‘You’re not even a real writer,’ he went on, tears in his eyes now. ‘It’s not even a real book, just a load of tropes and clichés strung together. You’re not serious, you’re not an artist like me. You don’t even live in London!’
‘Last time I checked that wasn’t in a writer’s job requirement,’ Joe said, appearing by my side and making CJ jump out of his skin. ‘Believe it or not, there are other places in the country.’
‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,’ CJ sniped. ‘To quote the genius wordsmith Oscar Wilde.’
‘Been a minute since I was in a pub quiz but I’m pretty sure that was Samuel Johnson,’ I replied. ‘Not Oscar Wilde.’
‘And to quote another genius wordsmith, Taylor Swift,’ Joe added. ‘Haters gonna hate.’
‘As if you two know anything about literature.’ CJ pulled out his phone to prove himself wrong. ‘Here it is, when a man is … oh.’
‘YOU!’ Charlotte boomed, racing across the lawn when she saw my ex’s Android and his crestfallen face. ‘CJ, you chunt, give that to me.’
