“Yeah!” He doesn’t risk a glance over his shoulder as he makes his way to the stairs. “Just a bit of a spillage.”
I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel James suddenly behind me. “Not on the wooden floors?” he asks, voice hopeful but words lost below the thrumming music.
This is so absurd it almost does make me laugh. But then again, James has always liked his Nice Stuff. And not just liked it—needed it. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel like that’s why he needs me, why he chose me: the Cool Wife to make him look like the Cool Guy. Another item for his collection of Nice Things.
I shut the door. We’re close now. Closer than we’ve been so far tonight. His stare, beneath tear-clumped lashes, is intense. One smooth sidestep, and I’m away from him again, safe.
“Pass me my dress.”
He does. As I change, he shifts from foot to foot, casting anxious looks at the door. “Really, should I go downstairs and make sure everything’s okay? We’ve only just finished decorating—” And now he’s a wilting flower under my incredulous look. “It was just a suggestion.”
He sits on the bed, offers me two raised palms in surrender or supplication. I suppose it doesn’t matter which it is. In either case, I don’t accept.
“You’re in the middle of telling me why you’ve done this to us. Why? Why do it?” My voice is a desperate plea and a dismissal, all at once. I’m the one shaking now. I’d finally found a way to live normally, be happy, and then this…I sit beside him, defeated.
He sighs, shuffles closer, and reaches out toward me. His movements are ginger, testing the waters, but when he can see I won’t lash out at him, he takes my hand.
“We’ll get to the money, I promise,” he says, rubbing his brow, jaw tightening momentarily. Then he looks me dead in the eyes. “I know I should have come to you sooner, I know I should have discussed it with you, not Will. But, Natalie, I found your letters.”
Dear George,
I suppose you were the point of no return. With you, there were the beginnings of an escape plan, thoughts about how you might not be good for me. I’m not sure why it was only possible to emotionally divorce from Marc and Luca once they were gone from my life, but with you, I found a way to see the light first.
That’s why how it eventually went down is so ironic. It was a much messier divorce than either of us expected. I was cut so deep by everything you did to me that I wanted to cut back. I snapped, lashed out. What happened was violent and shocking. Ultimately, you could have seen me behind bars. It was a wreck. But my time with you left me in pieces, so I suppose that was fitting.
There was a lot you took from me, George, and I regret being too slow to notice what you were doing. To understand that nice gestures can cover a void of meaningful affection. But the worst thing you took from me was my sister. Like I say, I was sloppy. And this time, she saw the monster in me, and this time, it placed an insurmountable distance between us.
Not having her around anymore is a high price to pay for not having you around. Too high. If you gave me the chance to do it all over again, I’d do everything differently with you. And then maybe I wouldn’t have to live with this unbearable regret.
13
Ex Number Three
George
George is the type who loves an outdoor activity: hiking, climbing, skiing, diving. You name it, he’s into it. I like that he’s into wholesome things and is sure of himself. It makes it easier to feel sure of myself, too.
We’re in a cottage by the New Forest on a short holiday, just him and me. That’s how we tend to like it. The two of us. My relationship with my mother remains strained, and my sister’s too busy chasing her dreams to see much of me. He’s not close to his family, either. I don’t love that the trip is over Emily’s birthday weekend, the same Emily whose parents always had a loosely watched liquor cabinet and who would have gone to war with Marc for me had he not died first. Luca, too, even though she hadn’t really known him. She was that kind of friend. But George had already paid for the holiday before he knew about the birthday. There wasn’t much we could do about it at that point, and the invite to Emily’s was half-hearted in the first place.
Admittedly, I’ve not seen much of her over the past year or two. We’re at different ends of the city now, her parents bribing her close to home by buying her a place in South, although the distance began after her visit for my birthday at uni. I was annoyed that she’d leave town early, on the day itself. She was annoyed for reasons she did not seem keen to divulge, nor I to press her on. I had drawn my own conclusions about what had happened to Marc, to Luca, and I wondered if she had drawn them, too. Either way, I could feel our relationship dying, slowly starved of oxygen. I didn’t expect it to eventually end so dramatically. Didn’t expect a catastrophe so big that it would sever my relationships with Claire and my mother, too.
With George, I know I fell into the trap of falling into a relationship and falling out of touch with everyone else. I’ve tried over the eighteen months or so I’ve been with him to maintain contact, but it’s difficult. George prefers hanging out with me more than anyone else, which is flattering, and he often makes special plans for the two of us that he’s sensitive about us missing. I’m lucky to have him, really.
A walking holiday? So I guess he picked out the activity again.
My sister’s text this morning. The messages started materializing while I was in the cottage hallway, lacing up the walking shoes George bought me.
Don’t you feel like he decides too much of what you get up to? Even mom’s started side-eyeing him and she has terrible taste in men.
Call me soon. Call mom. It’s been too long.
As soon as I’m done with rehearsals, I’ll come see you.
I wanted to tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about; how can she, when she’s so wrapped up in the relentless rehearsals and rapid carousel of romantic relationships that make up her last year of drama school? Where I get easily attached, she never does, her interest in partners only fleeting. But if I’m being honest, she’s not entirely wrong about George. After so much chaos and pain with Marc and Luca, I like having someone with a good head on his shoulders to look after me. And so I left the messages unanswered.
My feet are sore after a long day of walking, boots caked in mud. George sits beside me in a small nook in this idyllic, cozy pub. A friendly waitress sets down two steaming plates in front of us—bangers and mash for me, and a juicy steak for him. We’ve been walking for five hours and I’m ravenous, tearing into the plate. Halfway through, I catch the corner of something tucked away in George’s eyes. He sees me catch it and glances at my plate, only fleetingly. I set my cutlery down.
Don’t get me wrong—George has never said anything negative about my appearance. Ever. But he does like to encourage us both to be healthy, to work out and watch what we eat. He’s always been clear that our health is important to him, and I know the mountain of food on my plate is fat with butter, grease, and cream.
