‘Yes, he’s supposed to be with me,’ I’d shout, in my best soap opera voice.
I sigh, looking at Willow.
‘After all, I had him first, didn’t I?’
Willow doesn’t move, but I like to imagine her intense stillness is her way of listening.
‘Why did I have to say no?’ I ask her, the room, myself.
My phone buzzes, and I reach for it. But it’s only a reminder of my therapy session later this evening.
‘What shall we do instead of going to the wedding, Willow?’ As if moving to my voice, she trails down on her web, twirling. ‘Well, that’s very pretty. You want to go dancing?’
She pulls herself up, her legs moving inwards as if she’s gathering her thoughts.
Honestly, how can anyone hate spiders?
Chapter Six
WILL
‘Have you ever been to Greece?’
‘I have,’ my therapist, Lucy, says.
‘Athens?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
‘Just never got around to it.’
There are lilies in a Tiffany vase on her coffee table, and I’ve stared at them instead of meeting her eye. By now she knows all about Ollie. He comes up in every therapy session. As does my family, my brother in particular. I’ve told her all about my tendency to compare myself to others, my low self-esteem, and my general unhappiness in life. I’m sat opposite her in the middle of the room, one foot resting on a spotless white rug, faux fur. The other is curled underneath me, going numb, but I like the buzz of pins and needles.
‘I was invited, but I’m not going,’ I say, filling the silence. She likes her silences. Lucy crosses her legs, my eyes drawn to her camel-coloured Birkenstocks. She adjusts the black linentrousers she’s wearing. ‘I cost it up today and the flights aren’t the problem. The accommodation is.’
‘How much?’
‘Well, I was checking a few flashy hotels, but they were coming in close to one thousand five hundred for the weekend.’
‘Did you look at cheaper accommodation?’
‘No, and a lot is booked already,’ I say.
Lucy’s hands rest on the arms of her pale green chair. Her office is painted a steel grey. You’d think she might want to encourage happier tones in here, but it’s not her priority. Or her style. There’s only one splash of colour in the form of canvas artwork that hangs behind her desk, colours of red and orange, depicting what I think is a man on fire, but who can tell with all those brushstrokes. Maybe it’s one of those things I’m supposed to interpret so she can use it as a personality study.
‘I can’t believe they’re getting married,’ I say, sure that I’ve said this already. To her. To anyone who will listen. Because it’s the truth. I move my deadening leg, wincing as I do so. I cross my ankles, tucking them underneath the chair. My hands slip between my knees. ‘I mean, I’m glad he’s happy, but like, do you think he’s marrying him simply because he wants to get married? Do you think he’s genuinely happy?’
‘What do you think?’
I peer over her shoulder, at the artwork. ‘Well, he’s just trying to do what he thinks he should be doing. His parents, they’re pushy. You know, I think they’re saying to him he should be married by now and all that crap.’
‘Do you think he’s rushing it?’
I heave a sigh. ‘No, I suppose he isn’t.’
‘Do you want him to be happy?’
