Page 145 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Disbelief flashed across his features. But it was like lightning, vanishing before you’ve had the chance to really see it, and he quickly composed himself. Adjusting his features to appear neutral, as if a couple of casual acquaintances just walked in.

‘Mags, what are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘Birdy, darling, you’ve got a couple of unexpected visitors.’

Birdy was in the bathroom, under the guise of supposedly getting ready. When in fact she’d been ready for ages and had been sitting on the toilet in her evening gown, filing her nails and waiting for Flick and Maggie to arrive and for the show to begin.

She entered the living room wearing Valentino and a steady expression.

‘They’re actually your visitors; they’re here to see you, honey.’

Looks flashed around the room. For a moment it appeared like he might pretend not to know who Maggie was, but then he seemed to change his mind and decide to brazen it out.

‘So what is this? An ambush?’ he mocked.

‘It’s not an ambush, it’s a get-together,’ corrected Maggie. ‘Think of it sort of like a reunion.’

She’d been worried coming here that she was going to get upset, break down, burst into tears, get all emotional. Isn’t that what he used to accuse her of? If ever she dared to disagree with him, or ask too many questions, or express doubts, he would fly into a mood and she would get tearful and upset. You’re too emotional, he would say. You’re too much.

Why had she never stopped to realize it was him who wasn’t nearly enough?

‘Not a big fan of reunions, I’m afraid.’ He wrinkled his nose, his self-satisfied smile never wavering. ‘Everyone always looks so much older, they’re always quite depressing, don’t you think?’

He was treating this all like an amusing joke. Trying to play tricks with her mind and manipulate her. Maggie stared at him, her gaze unwavering.

Two could play at that game.

‘I owe you an apology.’

‘You do?’

This wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He looked caught off balance.

‘For standing you up at the bar in Palma,’ she continued. ‘So I thought I’d better make it up to you. I don’t like to stand people up. To just disappear out of their lives. It’s kind of rude—’

‘Totally,’ interjected Birdy, perching on the arm of the chair opposite. She was holding a dirty martini, made by Philip, who’d somehow magicked himself out of the room.

‘Look, I can explain everything.’

‘Oh really? How you stole everything from me? Lied to me? Left me with nothing? Or are you going to make up another cock and bull story about how you were being blackmailed and the big bad men were going to kill you?’

He’d never witnessed Maggie’s scorn before and for a brief moment he was taken aback.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He looked towards Birdy. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into all of this, darling. We were engaged and I broke it off . . . I don’t know what she’s doing here or what she’s told you . . . a woman scorned and all that.’

He looked over at Maggie. ‘This is embarrassing. You’re embarrassing. I think you should leave.’

Before she would have crumpled, but now things were different. She was different.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Her voice was calm and determined. ‘You’re the one that runs away, remember?’

Maggie felt a strange detachment as she looked at Him. Theo C. Stratin. The man who walked into her gallery all those moons ago with his sharp suit and charming smile. Who whisked her off her feet and told her he loved her and proposed in her kitchen on a rainy Wednesday night. The man who made her feel safe and loved. Who she’d invested all her hopes and dreams in. And as it turned out, all her life savings.

The man who spun a web of lies so tangled she nearly suffocated in them. Who made her feel like she was in the wrong when she dared to ask too many questions, or punished her by not speaking if she disagreed, or cast doubts. The man who alienated her friends and isolated her, who flew into moods and gaslit her, then brought her fresh juice and eggs for breakfast the next morning like it had never happened.

The man who, one day, cleared out his closets, changed his number and vanished. Who left her, heartbroken and devastated, to deal with the bailiffs knocking on the door, the bank calling in the loan and the flat nearly being repossessed and having to sell it. The man who couldn’t give a flying fuck when she was forced to live in a damp, mouldy caravan because she had nowhere else to go. Who wasn’t there to see her exist on nothing but Pot Noodles and shame and self-loathing, because he was too busy dodging the police, absconding to Europe, and living it up on the French Riviera trying to scam his next victim.