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‘Rupert,’ I said, warning him.
He sighed. ‘It’ll take two seconds! Come on, people want to see us together again, the whole perfect package! I’ve already had so much interaction from you unboxing your gifts . . . c’mon now, darling!’
I watched the red dot at the top of the screen. Recording.
‘Merry Christmas, our gorgeous friends!’ He said my signature phrase like he had been practising it for days in front of a mirror, his easy charm sliding into place as if it had never left. Like he hadn’t only a matter of weeks ago admitted shagging my PA and inadvertently declared his love for her on a live stream.
‘We’re just heading off after a—’
He glanced at me, quick, assessing. ‘Stand up straight, sweetie,’ he murmured.
And I did. But something in my stomach turned.
‘—yes, after a scrum-diddly-umptious few days—’
‘Other side, darling,’ he added under his breath, fingers brushing my elbow to reposition me. So, I moved again like I was a piece of furniture, nothing more than part of a set.
‘—and someone’s had a jolly good haircut—’
Shit, my cue.
‘Eh . . . Aye, I have, yeah,’ I said, sounding completely flat, possibly dead.
His smile twitched. Just for a second. Then it turned tight, huffing as he paused the video. ‘Darling,’ he said softly, ‘let’s go again, from the top. And maybe not quite so . . . Scottish?’ He rolled his eyes as if I were ridiculous.
‘No.’ It came out low at first. I felt dangerously calm.
Rupert blinked. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘No,’ I said again, louder now, a surge of something rising fast and hot and unstoppable in my chest. ‘I’m not doing this anymore. Any of this . . . shite!’ I gestured at him, the phone, the room, the whole polished, suffocating performance. ‘I’m done.’
His bright fake-toothed smile dropped; his mask slipping as he gave me a warning glare. ‘Harriette.’
‘No, I can’t do this anymore,’ I said, the words tumbling out now, tripping over each other, years of swallowed thoughts finally finding oxygen. ‘I can’t keep pretending like this life is normal or fine – or like our marriage isn’t completely broken!’
‘You’re overreacting,’ he said. ‘It was just a little Christmas check-in with our fans!’
‘Overreacting?’ I laughed. ‘You want to talk about overreacting? You had me standing there like a fucking mannequin five seconds ago because I didn’t sound polished enough for your audience. Sorry, my audience! They are not our fans, Rupert. They are fucking mine, remember?’
‘That’s not what I—’
My face was burning with enough heat to evaporate the entire snowfall from overnight. ‘You told me not to sound Scottish!’ I snapped. ‘Do you even hear yourself? I am Scottish!’
He shook his head, and his hand popped onto his hip. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
I managed a laugh, realising just how fucked up my life had been. ‘It is exactly what you meant.’
His jaw tightened. ‘I was trying to help, Harriette.’
‘Help who? Me? Or your brand? Your reputation? Because you were the one who fucked that up!’
His eyes widened in panic and anger. He knew I was right, and that only spurred me on.
‘Everything is about how it looks with you,’ I said, my voice shaking now but louder, stronger, more articulate. ‘Every moment, every word, every breath has to fit this perfect, shiny version of us that doesn’t even exist!’
Rupert rubbed his forehead, subdued and a little confused. ‘That’s unfair.’
‘Is it?’ I stepped closer, my heart hammering. ‘Because from where I’m standing, this—’ I jabbed a finger between us ‘—isn’t a marriage. It’s a fucking performance.’
