“Legal residence, basically. The point is, if you’re getting a divorce in Scotland, you have to be separated for a year before it will be granted, and separated for two years if only one party wants the divorce.”
Now I sit straight up. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I’m sure in America you can go to the drive-thru and get a divorce with a milkshake and a side of fries, but here in the U.K., we actually have laws. So it’spossible…”
“…that he’s just waiting for a year to be up?”
“Yes. And again, I didn’t want to tell you, because I know how your brain will take this one tiny nugget of information and spin it into somewildfantasy, but come on, what the fuck is the point of having a law degree if you can’t use it to help your mate shag a footballer?”
“Wow. Huh. Okay. Interesting. Very interesting.” I’m spewing words like an anthropomorphic Vesuvius, stalling for time while I shift around this new piece of information.
“Think out loud, babe.” Amina pulls herself off the couch and waddles over to the kitchen, retrieving a jar of pickles and a tub of peanut butter from a cupboard. Such is the state of my mental disarray that I barely even flinch as she begins dipping the former into the latter.
As she indulges her pregnancy cravings, I clutch my rosé and pace around her living room. “Okay, so, on the one hand, this little Scottish law loophole would explain a lot of things. But on the other…why wouldn’t he just tell me that? I mean, set aside the hypothetical feelings we have for each other or whatever.”
Amina raises an eyebrow. “Hypothetical?”
I ignore this look. “Isn’t that something you could tell your friends? At least to have them commiserate about how terrible the year of separation is going to be, give you a shoulder to cry on, et cetera?” I take a swig. “And, just to fully engage with my lunacy, if hedidhave romantic-y feelings for me, wouldn’t it make sense for him to say, ‘Hey, I really like you and I’m separated from my wife, but we can’t get divorced until we’ve been apart for a year, so just letting you know that’s my time frame’?”
Amina twists her lips. “I’ll admit that does seem logical, and it’s a bit worrying he hasn’t said anything like that.”
“You know, at the cabin the other week, I had this thought that maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe we’re not actually friends, because we’re not sharing these things with each other. Like, I haven’t even told him Steven and I were engaged.”
“Shit, really?”
“Yeah. In the beginning it was because I didn’t want him to pity me—I wanted justoneperson in my life who didn’t know and would therefore never give me that stupid little pouty face with the ‘I’m so sorry for you’ eyes and the condescending shoulder pats.” Amina makes exactly the face I’m describing; I chuck a peanut at her. “But then it became almost like a game of chicken, like which one of us would slip up and be vulnerable and talk about our old relationships first.”
“Isn’t that your answer? Maybe he’s not telling you for the same reason you’re not telling him: He doesn’t want you to pity him or think he’s a failure,” Amina says. She has now made a pickle and peanut butter sandwich, which she chews with a thoughtful look on her face.
“Yeah, but my thing is in the past and his thing could very well affect the future.”
“He’s entitled to feeling that way just like you are, no matter what other logic you want to put on top of it. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, my love.”
“Ugh, I hate it when you make sense.”
She takes the wine from the fridge and tops up my glass. “Don’t have a lawyer for a bestie if you don’t want to get decimated in closing arguments.” She screws the top back on the bottle and looks at me, genuine concern in her eyes. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to be less of a pushover, more vocal about what I want, but how do I tell him that without being a homewrecker? If there’s a chance he can save his failing marriage, don’t I owe him some space to figure that out?”
“Counterpoint: If there’s a chance you could make him happier than she can, don’t you owe him the opportunity to findthatout? I mean, I’ve never seen you so happy—that is, when you’re not in abject despair.”
I have to laugh at that. “You’ve got me there. One thing I know for sure is that I’m so sick of thinking about it and talking about it and having it consume my entire life. This roller coaster of emotions is not fun to be on.”
She rubs her belly. “Now you know how I feel. Anyway, let’s get a takeaway. My parasite is craving fried chicken.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next morning I haulmyself off of Amina’s couch, embraced by the gentle crush of a rosé hangover. I toss on the clean gym clothes from my bag, but all I want is to go home and shower. I look at my phone: no texts from Lachlan. Was he too tired from an all-night boinkfest to text me and tell me he’s getting back together with his wife? I choke down a tiny bit of bile (tinged with deeper fruit notes of cherries and delicate hues of melon) and scribble Amina a note before slipping into the still-dark morning to begin my commute back into Liverpool.
It’s cold and rainy today, and I’m in a foul mood by the time I get to my office, which makes what’s waiting for me there even worse: Matthew Fletcher.
I greet him with an appropriate level of enthusiasm (roughly the same as I’d give to an IRS auditor) and plop down behind my desk, steeling myself for whatever drama he’s bringing me this morning.
He pitches himself forward in the chair, legs spread, hands on knees. It makes me feel like I’m about to get coached through some tactics for beating the offside trap. “I just wanted to say thanks again for helping to organize Lockie’s birthday dinner. I know he really appreciated it.”
Oh. That’s not so bad. “My pleasure. I hope the restaurant was good.”
He scratches the back of his head—it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look nervous, or something even approaching it. “Sorry if Claire threw a spanner in the works. Evie basically begged her to come. They got really close when Lockie played here the first time, and I’m sure he was happy to have his wife there for his birthday.”
