Not much has changed. I’m still fuel for his glittering career. I let him help himself, the way he always did, and I am furious all over again.
God, Audrey.Will you ever get over it?
I burst out of the building, gulping the cool, night air.What was I expecting?That I’d catch a glimpse of him and finally prove to myself that I was really through with all of this? That I was over the betrayal? Or did I think he’d take one look at me and show even the tiniest spark of remorse about what he did?
Because there was none of that. Worse, he handed me the full force of everything I’ve lost in exchange for a public demonstration of all he has gained. So now I’m leaning against a tree, gripped by a surge of anger and anxiety and disbelief that I let it turn out like this.
‘Audrey?’
My heart thumps, limbs tingling, head spinning—absurdly alert to the proximity of Miller blood.
‘Please go away,’ I half whisper. My body is spent from exposure to Josh’s success, my voice betraying how much it got to me.
‘Are you sure?’
There’s a quiet warmth in Fraser’s tone, and for one full, alarming second it feels even more dangerous than whatever just happened in that auditorium. I should not allow warmth of that nature near these exposed wounds.
‘Audrey, I am not my brother,’ he adds, his voice low and controlled, a deep edge to the words, as if he’s been forced to debunk this fact for years. I already told him I don’t trust men. Not even the penguin-loving scientist kind. But despite their physical similarities, all of Josh’s brainwashing, and my natural suspicion ofanyonethese days, as I turn and meet his concerned face, a jolt of truth passes between us. He is not Joshua. He’s not anything like him.
I need to get out of here. I take out my phone and call Rach, though I’m not sure I can trust the garbled way I’m about to position tonight’s turn of events with him standing here, listening.
It turns out I don’t have to. Rach, whom I messaged on the way, confessing my imprudent lapse in judgement, dives straight in when she picks up the call, every sentence ratcheting upwards and so shrieky there is no way he’s not hearing it. ‘Audrey!I got your message. I cannotbelieveyou went to that concert!Have you completely lost the plot?’
Yes, quite possibly? I can’t even summon the words to explain myself. Fraser, watching me freeze, clears his throat, takes my phone, and says ‘Catwoman?’ in a way that is so disconcertingly confident and charming and ridiculous, it knocks my anxiety sideways. ‘It’s David Beckham, your fiancé from Zoe’s party.’
There’s an audible gasp from Rach. ‘David Beckham. The younger brother?’
Yes, why not alert the man to the fact that he has been exhaustively discussed since we met, sinking from party hero to brother of nemesis?I snatch the phone back, as if by holding it, I’ll will my best friend to play it cool.
Since the night at Zoe’s, Rach and I have, naturally, over-analysed this situation. She applied her considerable cyber skills to a forensic investigation, initially of Joshua’s last decade or so, sickeningly as good as predicted, but then of Fraser himself.Thatsleuthing not only surfaced nothing remotely scandalous, but led us to a spectacular public lecture series about ocean currents and tipping icebergs and the slow burn of a warming globe, from which we both emerged with a burgeoning infatuation.
Fraser, aware of none of this (thank God!), takes my wrist and moves the phone closer to his mouth as he says in an incredibly civilised and understated manner, ‘Is there any chance you might meet us at the School of Music, Rachael? Audrey had a moment with my brother.’
Amoment?
Next the doors fling open and hundreds of people swarm out, led by a rollicking child who bolts straight over to us and leaps into Fraser’s arms, squealing, ‘Daddy!’
Mayday!I report to Rach via text.There is a child.
She types back, unfazed because, unlike me, she adores kids:Joshua’s or Fraser’s?
The little girl is squeezing her father half to death.
Affirmative on the latter.
The child turns her heart-shaped face towards mine, dark, inquisitive eyes taking in my startled expression as she says, ‘Who are you?’
Now I’m not only having to interact with a small human, but being made to answer unsettling questions about myself, the only available frames of reference being a disastrous connection with this girl’s uncle and whatever it is that I’m inventing here with her dad.
‘Yes, who is your friend, Fraser?’ an older woman asks, not in a good way, when she catches up with our party. She’s trailed by an apologetic-looking gentleman with a kind and handsome face who I can only assume is Josh and Fraser’s father. He smiles at me—it’s Fraser’s smile, not Joshua’s, which means I warm to it instantly, a fact that I add to the growing list of items Rach and I will have to psychoanalyse after this horrendous social experiment is over.
‘You ran out of there so quickly, Fraser, I assumed it was something important—’ the mother says, losing interest the second she spots a glamorous dark-haired woman power walking across the quadrangle. She is all business. Straight hair clipped up. Immaculate everything. Confident gait. The child wriggles free of Fraser, dashes towards her, and screams, ‘Mummy!’
‘Sorry,’ Fraser whispers, ‘in advance.’
Advance of what?
Ex-wife alert, Rach. I repeat: EX-WIFE.
