Chapter 2
2
KATE
I jolt awake from a fitful sleep, feeling disgusting. My mouth’s dry, my stomach is roiling, and my head might explode any second now.
I’m completely wrung out. Like if a used tissue were a person.
I roll onto my side and shut my eyes, deliberately slowing my breathing to quell the queasiness and ease the headache. It helps – a little.
Last night was… what? Devastating comes to mind.
My engagement is a lie.
I conjure Jon’s face in my mind, tightness creeping into my chest. I was delighted when I met him through the matchmaking agency. He was everything I was looking for – or thought I was.
He’s attentive when we’re together, yet he also loves how independent I am, that we’re not one of those couples who needs to spend every waking moment at each other’s side – perfect for someone as career-oriented as I am. And he appreciates that I’m my own person, that my identity isn’t dependent on his.
His identity – hah! Whatever that is.
Admittedly, sex with Jon has always been… well, less than mind-blowing, but I’ve never really minded. I fell in love a dozen times in my twenties and early-thirties – passionately, longingly, achingly in love – and each relationship ended in heartbreak. Heartbreak that knocked me sideways and took (what felt like) an eternity to recover from. At thirty-seven, I’m now far more pragmatic. I will happily forgo passion for contentedness, stability, and shared values, for a love built on mutual respect.
Only, all of that was bogus. Everything I thought I had with Jon was a forgery constructed by a crafty, scheming pretender.
For the fiftieth time since Willem buzzed my flat and blew my world apart, I ask myself, Was any of it real?
From my end, it was. I care for Jon – cared , I remind myself. All that’s in the past now. I’ve drawn a proverbial line in the sand, never to be crossed again. Jon can sod off.
Of course, I’ll have to confront him eventually – someday, as far into the future as possible – but the mere thought of it sends another wave of nausea ripping through me. It’s all too fresh to be thinking that far ahead – there’s a gaping wound in my heart. And my ego. How could I have been so stupid?
‘Ugh,’ I groan, throwing an arm over my face.
‘That good, huh?’ asks Margot, startling me.
I flip over and prop myself up, squinting at her. ‘I forgot you were here.’
‘I’ll try not to take that personally,’ she retorts dryly, surrendering to a loud yawn.
‘Sorry. And thanks for staying.’
‘I could hardly leave you alone – not once the crying started.’
‘Right.’ I plop back onto my pillow face-down.
If she were anyone else, I’d feel foolish for the loud and lengthy sobbing session that capped off our evening. Until then, I thought I was handling the situation well – very well.
After we put away the ‘envelope of secrets’ (as I dubbed it), we ordered takeaway. Then Margot insisted we open the bottle of Champagne I’d been saving for a special occasion. In her mind, my ‘emancipation from Jon’s evil clutches’ – her exact words – was a special occasion. I relented, raising my glass to toast the ‘lying bastard’ then downing a third of it in one go.
We drank the rest of the bottle while we waited for our food to arrive, Margot entertaining us by listing all the things she disliked about Jon. Apparently, his caginess was the tip of the iceberg.
But when she said, ‘And he’s so dull ,’ I burst into tears. Because in many ways Jon is dull, but I’ve always looked past it because he’s so thoughtful, always sending me sweet messages and bringing me trinkets from his travels.
Was so thoughtful, I remind myself again – past tense.
Though how thoughtful is it to deliberately deceive your fiancée? Make that fiancées .
By the time our takeaway arrived, I was too distraught to eat and Margot put me to bed. That may explain the queasy stomach – half a bottle of champers and no food.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ says Margot, springing out of bed. She pauses at the door. ‘And then we’re making a plan.’
‘Ugh,’ I groan again. ‘Can’t I at least take the day to get my mind around things?’ I ask, my voice muffled by my pillow.
‘No, you can’t.’ I turn my head and peek at her through my lashes. She has her arms folded over her chest. ‘Do you think Jon’s out there “taking the day”?’
‘That makes no sense,’ I reply. ‘Why would he?—’
‘Of course he isn’t!’ she continues, talking over me. ‘He’s probably somewhere wooing fiancée number three by now! I’m telling you, Kate, we need a plan. We need to take Jon down.’
‘Fine,’ I say, more to shut her up than anything.
It does the trick – for now, anyway – and she leaves. Moments later, she’s banging about in my kitchen. She must open every cupboard before she finds the one with the mugs. Anyone would think she’d never been here before.
We need a plan.
What we need – what I need – is to contact the matchmaking agency and ask them how in the hell someone like Jon got on their books. Though, maybe they did everything they could to screen him. If he successfully lied to me – and Adriana – then he probably lied to them as well.
God, I hope there aren’t more of us out there. And it’s not only Margot who’s suggested there might be. Willem said the same thing before we parted ways at the pub.
Something comes to me – or rather, someone . A possible ally to help me untangle this godawful mess.
I kick off the duvet and, ignoring the protestations from my body, get up and go into the kitchen.
‘Hey, Margot, I have an idea…’
* * *
‘You seriously met Jon through a matchmaking agency? You told me you met through friends.’
‘That was a lie – a little white lie,’ I add hurriedly when Margot’s expression sours. ‘Jon was embarrassed about using a matchmaker, so…’ I shrug apologetically as her eyes bore into mine, her mouth taut and downturned. Another black mark against Jon’s name – and possibly mine.
‘Well, it’s moot now anyway.’ She waves her hand and I’m instantly forgiven. ‘So, who’s this other matchmaker then?’
‘She’s called Poppy – Poppy Dean – and she’s with the Ever After Agency.’
Margot snorts. ‘Is it really called that?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter what it’s called. What matters is that I really connected with Poppy. She’s a lovely person – whip-smart and an all-round good egg.’
‘Only not a good matchmaker.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, taking offence on Poppy’s behalf.
‘Because you signed on with two agencies at the same time and she was pipped at the post.’
‘Yes, but Poppy didn’t match me with a two-timing liar, did she? No ,’ I say, answering my own rhetorical question. ‘That was Arabella.’
‘So why not go see Arabella then? She caused this mess – she should clean it up.’
‘Because…’ I say feebly.
How can I make Margot understand when, of the two of us, she’s making the most sense? I should go back to Arabella at Perfect Pairings. But I don’t want to. I never warmed to her, and I’m not convinced she’d be a sympathetic ear. She’ll be one of those ‘we did everything we could’ people, fobbing me off with a non-apology and a shrug.
Oh god. Did I convince myself that Jon was a good match so I’d no longer have to deal with Arabella? Gah, there are so many layers to this. It might be years before I untangle it all.
‘Because…?’ Margot probes, bringing me back to the conversation.
I hedge, picking tiny bobbles off my pilled pyjama bottoms.
‘Look, you’ll need to inform them at some point,’ she continues. ‘They need to know who they’re dealing with. And they should report him.’
‘To whom? It’s not like there’s some sort of policing body for tossers who lie to their fiancées.’
She tilts her head, partly in sympathy and partly to make her point.
‘I know, I know, I need to tell them – and I will – but I still want to talk to Poppy.’
Margot sips her coffee, wearing a far-off look.
‘Hang about…’ she says, her eyes lighting up. She leans forward, her coffee mug now at a precarious angle, and I grimace at the thought of her tipping coffee over my cream-coloured sofa. But she doesn’t seem to notice that she’s about to spill, nor my reaction.
‘Do you think this Poppy gal would help you get revenge on Jon?’ she asks.
I recoil. ‘No! That’s not why I— I’m not asking her to do that.’
She stares at me for a moment, then sits back against the sofa, letting me off the hook – and saving me half a can of upholstery cleaner. ‘Well, in that case,’ she says, her brows raised matter-of-factly, ‘after I finish my coffee, I’m off to the nearest garden centre for a pair of gardening shears.’
‘Gardening sh—’ Her meaning lands and I can’t help but chuckle. Then I remember who I’m talking to – a proud, man-hating divorcée. ‘Margot, no ,’ I say firmly, which makes her laugh.
Clearly, Jon had better watch out. Facing the Wrath of Margot makes lifting the lid on Pandora’s box look like tearing open a bag of crisps. I’m positive her ex-husband would agree.
She continues sipping her coffee, still chuckling to herself, and I’m about to go and put the kettle on again when Bruno Mars’ ‘Just the Way You Are’ blares from my phone. I stare at it in horror. That’s Jon’s ringtone.
‘Is that…?’ asks Margot.
Unable to speak, I meet her eyes and numbly nod. I must look like I’ve seen a ghost, as I suddenly feel faint and clammy.
We wait out several bars of the chipper song, one I will immediately change to Taylor Swift’s ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’, and when the call finally goes to voicemail, I expel a loud sigh.
‘What do you suppose Jon the Con has to say?’ asks Margot.
‘Jon the Con?’ I ask, scrunching my nose in distaste.
‘Do you prefer “Arseface”?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘All right, what do you suppose Arseface has to say?’
My phone chimes with a message notification and even though I was expecting it, I yelp.
‘On edge much?’ asks Margot.
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
She snatches the phone from the table and inputs the passcode. She’s the only person besides me who knows it – a testament to how much I trust her and something I now regret.
‘He didn’t leave a voice message,’ she tells me, ‘but he’s sent a text. Want me to read it to you?’
‘I suppose.’ I flop back onto the sofa and stare out the window at my neighbour’s conker tree.
Margot reads aloud, adopting the unflattering, plum-in-the-mouth voice she uses when mimicking Jon. ‘“Hello darling. Missing you so much. Looks like I’m needed for another week on the Marrakesh/Madrid route. Back in London as soon as poss. Kisses.” Bloody hell – he’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t he? And he’s added far too many emojis for a grown-arse man.’
‘I feel ill.’
Margot sets down the phone and looks at me, her sarcastic expression falling away. ‘I would too, hun. He’s not even a fucking pilot.’
‘I know. From what I can tell, the only truth he’s told me is that he’s British.’
I inhale slowly, bravely examining Jon’s mounting number of lies. I’m positive that ‘I love you’ should be added to the tally.
Then that depressing question raises its hideous head again: Was any of it real?
‘You know what?’ says Margot, leaping up. ‘We are not sitting around here all day moping.’
‘We’re not?’ I ask. ‘Because I could easily make a day of it – moping, wallowing… Maybe I’ll throw in some wailing and intermittent cries of “Why me?” – give my neighbours something to talk about.’
‘The only neighbour who could hear you if she weren’t a hundred and three is Mrs Winterbottom. And you don’t want to scare the poor love. She’d probably drop dead of a heart attack from sheer fright.’
‘First off, she’s ninety, not a hundred and three. Second, don’t say things like that. It’s?—’
‘Bad luck, I know . Only I don’t know because I don’t believe in all that rubbish.’
‘Margot, can you please…?’ I draw both hands across my neck, signalling that I need her to dial it down on the Margot-isms.
‘Sorry,’ she says sincerely. ‘But one more thing and then I’ll be quiet.’
‘Fine. What is it?’
‘Just a little reminder, dear cuz, that you have access to Mayberry’s – for you and a guest. And the best part? The bill goes straight to Jon.’
I sit bolt upright as a tiny bubble of joy rises within me, elbows out and shoving its way through the muck and mire of shock and hurt.
‘Oh my god, you’re right. I’d completely forgotten. I’ve been so busy with work, I’ve only been there that one time – with Jon.’
‘Exactly – that one time when he gave you access to London’s most exclusive private club.’ She waggles her brows conspiratorially.
‘Yes, when he added me to his membership!’ I exclaim excitedly.
‘So, we’re going?’ she asks.
My smile falls away as reality intrudes on the too-brief reprieve. ‘Oh, Margot… This really is proper shit, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, hun, it is. But for today, it can be proper shit with expensive champers and a fit bloke running his hands all over you.’
I cough out a laugh. ‘A fit bloke— Oh, right… But how can you be sure the masseuse will be fit? Or a bloke for that matter?’
‘Because the universe owes you.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in all that rubbish?’
‘Luck – no. But the universe is a powerful force, Kate, and today it owes you a magnum of Bollinger and a fit masseuse.’
Margot’s logic may be flawed, but a day of indulgence – at Jon’s considerable expense – could give me the boost I’ll need to handle what’s to come.
‘You’re right, we’re going,’ I say decisively, and Margot perks up. ‘Spa treatments, lunch… the whole shebang.’
‘And every bit of it on Jon’s bill. It’s the least he can do,’ she says, breaking into an evil laugh. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘I’m going to shower, then raid your wardrobe. You call Mayberry’s and tell them to roll out the red carpet.’
As she closes the bathroom door, she starts singing ‘Good as Hell’ at top volume. I’m pretty sure that’s for my benefit but regardless, cats in heat have better pitch than Margot, and her horrible singing makes me chuckle.
I really am glad she’s here. If it weren’t for Margot, I’d be curled up in bed right now, sobbing over a man who doesn’t deserve even one of my tears.