“You just don’t want to take responsibility is your problem,” Andrea sneers. “Dominic bloody Graves, one woman after another in your bed, always a new wife to show off, it’s pathetic. And then you wonder why Archie is the way he is. He’sexactlylike you!”
“And it couldn’t possibly be that you always told him nothing was ever his fault and that apologising was - how did you put it? - wet?”
Andrea’s rage is almost a bubbling sound on the line. It feels ridiculous to be arguing this point with her, but this was our marriage all over. Finger-pointing, blame, spite, endlessarguments because both of us were determined to be right. Never led to anything good.
“This is pointless,” I say before she can fire another barb down the phone. “We both made mistakes, but this is Archie’s decision, Archie’s bad choice, and it has nothing to do with us.”
“So says the guilty party.”
“Is this what you called me for? To unload your rage? Do you feel better now?”
Andrea huffs an angry breath into the phone. “If there’s any news, any at all, I want to hear it. And tell that cheap slag I’ll be recommending my son a divorce lawyer when he’s back!”
It used to be more dramatic, being hung up on, back when we had phones that you could slam. Now, instead of an almighty crash that left me wondering if the bakelite had cracked, there’s just… silence.
Boring.
I go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and stretch out on the couch. I click on the fireplace - another oddity of this apartment that fills me with almost childish delight - and watch the flames dance for a while before my stomach protests. I haven’t eaten all day, too busy and caught up in the drama. I can hear my mother reprimanding me from wherever she is now.
I decide today is most certainly a cheat day, and order myself a curry.
Just as the little icon pops up to tell me the driver has picked up my food, a message from my father appears on my phone.
I expect you to do your duty and look after Mia. No good blaming me for your faults when you won’t man up and do the same for your son.
I throw the phone onto the side table and take another large gulp of wine.
The last thing Mia wants is her decrepit old father-in-law looking after her. Sounds like a fast way to get my eyes clawed out.
3
MIA
“Over here,Mia! Keep that look! Yes, amazing! Oh my god, you look like you want to kill me! I love it! Yes, queen!”
Kai is bursting with joy from behind her camera, and while she’s always enthusiastic about working with me, today she’s extra pleased with my look.
Resting Bitch Face is a lot easier when you imagine everyone in the room is your stupid husband and you’re getting ready to lop his balls off with a pair of kitchen shears.
At least Archie being a wanker helps my brand.
I toss my hair over my left shoulder, putting a hand on my right hip, glaring down the camera, and I wonder how many more pictures they need of me wearing these jeans. We’ve been at it for what feels like hours.
Finally, Kai calls it a wrap, and I slump with relief, stretching my back.
“Amazing work, Mia!” Kai exclaims, wrapping me in a hug. “You look fucking stunning, darling.”
“Thank you.” I look at the screen on her camera as she swipes through a few of the pictures. My dark hair is so impossibly shiny that I’m sure someone could see their reflection in it, andmy eyes look greener than usual. “Good job, I look half decent for once.”
“Oh, stop it, you,” Kai says with a laugh, and taps my shoulder. “You’re fit and you know it.”
“Hey, that was a comment on your camerawork, not my face.”
Kai throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, you bitch. I love it.” She gives me a soft smile, and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Good to see you’re not losing your sense of humour amongst all this shit going on.”
And suddenly everyone in the room is Archie again, and I want to cut off his balls.
I give Kai a tight smile, and nod. “Yeah, hasn’t been fun.”
