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I exhaled slowly, the anger still there, sitting heavy in my chest . . . but not as sharp as it had been five minutes ago, because I knew I’d been no saint in any of this. Fuck, I had been filled more times than my mum’s kettle in the past few weeks, but deep down, I knew I’d put up with so much because I was as desperate to keep up the appearance of our life that we’d created just as much as he was.

‘I love our perfect life,’ he murmured. ‘All of it.’

I huffed. ‘So did I,’ I said, thinking of my home. My beautiful kitchen, our holidays in the sun.

His eyes flickered.

‘But . . .’ I added. ‘That version of our life is gone.’

‘No.’ He interrupted, a rise to his voice. ‘Don’t say it, Harriette. Nothing is over until we say it is! We can fight for it,’ he pleaded as he shifted to his knees. ‘We can get it back to how it was when we first met. We can go on holiday to the Maldives! Show everyone that we can get through anything. We can renew our vows . . .’

‘Rupert,’ I sighed.

‘I’m not prepared to let this go. You, the lifestyle we have,’ he stated. ‘How can you walk away from it so easily? People would kill to have the things we have. And we have worked so darn hard for it all, Harriette. Everyone is out there watching, desperately waiting for us to reconcile. We can’t walk away from them . . .’

I stared out the window, glancing at the snow getting thicker. I wasn’t sure how to fix it, to undo all of the lies and drama that had unfolded in our relationship over the years. But I also knew I couldn’t just throw it away either. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my old life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I woke up to the sound of plastic. Then I stretched out, feeling the thickness of the goose-down 13.5-tog duvet beneath me. Wow. My body felt like it was lying on a warm cloud, not a bag of nails, compared to the old spring mattress at my mum’s. The rustling became more intense. It sounded like crinkling. Shifting. Someone was very much awake and fannying around. I pried one eye open, spotting the small alarm clock at the side of the bed – 09.00. Oh. Fuck. My stomach dropped slightly. Mum would already be leaving for the community centre by now. Apron on, hair tied back, Christmas music blaring, probably bossing my dad into chopping the carrots smaller.

Then I saw Rupert, standing at the end of the bed, fully dressed, a crisp white shirt on, phone already up, a light attached to it.

‘Don’t move,’ he said in his posh voice.

Was he seriously recording? On Christmas fucking morning, when I hadn’t even brushed my teeth? I dragged the duvet up, blinking at him.

‘Why are you filming me?’ I asked, my voice rough with sleep.

He smiled. That easy, polished smile. ‘Because it’s Christmas. And I have you back.’

My stomach churned.

‘Come on,’ he added, softer. ‘I think we may just give the nation their Christmas miracle if they see us back together this morning.’

Or people will think I’m the biggest, most self-obsessed dick to ever walk planet earth, I thought. I followed his gaze. Bags. Boxes. More gifts than I could properly take in, all propped perfectly on the bottom of the bed. It was too much, complete overkill, actually. Which, OK, normally would make me scream with excitement, but somehow I felt nothing.

‘Rupert . . .’ I started, sitting up slowly. ‘Can I at least brush my hair, or put on some concealer first if we are filming?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, darling. I added a filter on you,’ he said with a wink, then stuck up his thumb as if he had started the recording. ‘Just open them, come on!’ he said, his voice more upbeat for the camera. ‘Go on, my love,’ he pushed gently but insistently. ‘They’re all for you.’

I hesitated for half a second.

Then I smiled, still feeling like my mouth was stuck together. Seriously, I knew that my breath must smell like a bag of old dicks after all of that champagne last night.

‘OK,’ I said. I reached for the nearest box, carefully peeling back the paper. It was a handbag, wrapped in a soft, branded protective bag. But not just any handbag. The Hermès Birkin Togo Gold I’d been obsessed with for months. The one I’d been stalking online whenever I had the chance. The one I’d half-joked about, half-meant. The one I absolutely could not justify. My breath caught. ‘Oh my,’ I said softly. ‘Rupert . . .’

‘Do you like it?’ he asked, stepping closer. ‘I got the colour right, didn’t I?’

I looked at it properly. It was perfect. Exactly what I’d wanted.

‘I love it,’ I said, because I did. I should. ‘It’s beautiful.’ But the words felt thin in my mouth. Because all I could think, suddenly, was that Mum would be standing in a run-down community centre right now, getting ready to feed people on Christmas Day who couldn’t afford to make hot meals for themselves or their families, and this single luxury item would be able to feed all of them for a year, a decade, more.

‘Tell them why,’ Rupert said gently.

I gasped. Shit, the camera. I let out a small, tinkly laugh. ‘Wow! I’ve wanted this for ages. It’s just . . . really classic, so elevating. I’ll use it all the time.’ My old influencer voice was back without even realising it.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘OK, next box, darling.’