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A heavy silence thundered between us. His jaw was clenched. I knew he was trying and failing to think of a way to deny this.

‘This is all fake,’ I said. ‘Our marriage is fake. The way you look at me when the camera’s on – fake. The way I smile back – fucking fake. The way I talk – beyond fucking fake.’

‘That’s not true,’ he said, but his words lacked conviction.

‘I don’t want this life anymore,’ I said. My throat felt constricted, but I knew I had to force the truth out. ‘I don’t want you anymore, Rupert.’

His face changed. For the first time today, he looked unpolished. Not in control.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said, squinting at me like he was trying to make sense of the person in front of him.

‘I fucking do,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to play your stupid games. I don’t want to be managed or positioned or softened or filtered. It’s constant. It’s everything. It’s really fucking exhausting!’

My chest heaved. My hands were shaking. But I didn’t care.

‘You said I made you feel invisible? Well, I feel like I’m fucking disappearing,’ I said, my voice cracking now, the truth of my emotions slicing through everything else. I knew I couldn’t take this back, but it felt so good to finally let it out. ‘Like I’m being edited out of my own life so you can keep whatever this sham is looking perfect. I’ll own it, I made a lot of bad choices, I went along with all this influencing shite for too long, but I’m not going to do it anymore.’

‘Harriette, just wait.’ He tried to grab hold of my wrist, but I was already turning and forcibly shrugged him off. The bracelet he’d bought for me fell to the ground and he immediately bent to pick it up. I pressed the elevator button, hearing it come to our room.

‘Just get on the flight home, Rupert. Take your things and go. I’ll be in contact through a lawyer in the New Year.’

‘Harriette!’ he called out as I walked into the lift, phone dangling pathetically from his hand. ‘You’ve forgotten how much you need me. You are nothing without our marriage!’

I sniggered as I pressed for the ground floor. ‘Do you want a bet? And by the way, my name isn’t Harriette,’ I added, spinning back, anger flaring one last time, bright and brutal, just as the doors were sliding shut on him. ‘It’s fucking HARRI.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I didn’t even wait for the lift doors to open properly. I squeezed through the gap like I was being chased, heels skidding slightly as I stumbled into the lobby. I wanted out of here; I’d already wasted enough time with Rupert on such an important day away from the people who really mattered. I turned the corner of the bright, festive, opulent lobby. Music played, as other guests chatted and sang along like a shitty choir in the background. A massive Christmas tree stood in the corner – gold ribbons, white lights, too perfect – and all I could think was how much I’d rather be at the soup kitchen, with the handmade decorations, lights I’d spent hours untangling and the tatty, threadbare tinsel.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, marching straight to reception. ‘Can you call me a taxi, please?’

The guy behind the desk gawped at me. ‘Er . . . you’re Harriette Hope!’ His jaw dropped so far it was almost touching the bell on the desk. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were . . . dead. Convinced actually. Sorry, I’m a huge fan!’

‘No,’ I puffed, ‘I’m very much alive, but I do need that taxi. I’ve got a Christmas party to get to!’ I said, hoping he’d be keen to help out if he was such a fan and therefore understood how important Christmas was to me.

‘Yes . . . emm . . . OK. Well, it’s Christmas Day,’ he said carefully, typing rapidly into the computer in front of him. ‘And there’s not really anything running right now.’

I stared at him, my eyes pleading. ‘Nothing?’

He was still in a daze. ‘Most services are pre-booked only.’

‘Great,’ I sighed. Clearly, my blue tick meant nothing to the taxi drivers of Glasgow. ‘Right. OK, it’s fine, I can walk. But thank you for checking.’

I turned and suddenly remembered all of my things still in the room, and immediately swivelled back around. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way someone could collect my things from the penthouse and deliver them to the Gorbals later today or even tomorrow?’

The receptionist’s face twisted. ‘The Gorbals?’ he swallowed.

‘Yep.’ I nodded. ‘It’s where I’m from.’ I grinned, pride in those words flooding over me for the first time in my life. I leaned over and scribbled my mum’s address on a piece of paper.

‘Yes. I’d love to do that myself, as a personal favour, when my shift ends.’ He nodded.

I held my chest, feeling my eyes water. ‘Seriously? Thank you! You’re a lifesaver!’

‘I’d be honoured, Mrs Hope. Is there anything else?’

I thought for a second and smiled, a proper beamer. ‘No, Merry Christmas!’ I said with a laugh of excitement, the glee almost falling out of me. I realised it was the first time I had felt excited about Christmas since I was a child.

‘Merry Christmas to you!’ he replied.