Chapter Eleven
Juliette
“Why did you ask that?” I demand.
Cam looks down at his dish and spears a piece of pasta. “I just wondered.”
“Of course he’s going. All the guys are going.” Flustered and upset, I drop my fork with a clatter. “Why would you bring him up now, when we’re trying to move on?”
“I’m sorry.” He puts down his own cutlery. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did. I’m jealous of him, I guess. I know you like him.” He massages his head. “I’ve got a headache.” He gets up and takes our dishes out to the kitchen, then opens the Panadol and takes two with a mouthful of water.
He hesitates, then he opens the fridge and extracts two chocolate desserts he must have bought at the supermarket. He brings them back to the table and puts one before me, then sits.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. Just ignore me. I’m being grouchy. Come on, eat your dessert and then we’ll go and watch a movie.”
I stare at the chocolate pot, boiling with resentment, guilt, and shame. But he’s apologized, and I can’t say anything because I don’t want to draw attention to how I’m feeling. I have to move on with this or it’s all pointless. I have to learn not to react to every little thing he says. I need to let things wash over me.
I peel the lid off the pot and begin to eat.
“I wonder how much money they’ve spent on this wedding,” he says. “I bet it’s a small fortune. Paying for all their guests to spend three nights in a hotel. All that food and drink. And they’re hiring a whole set of staff for the event, aren’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“Crazy waste, don’t you think?”
I eat a spoonful of the pudding. “Some might say it was romantic.”
He snorts. “Yeah, the same people who spend three times the going rate on a bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day.”
I put down my spoon. I know his thoughts on it. But this is the kind of thing I need to talk to him about. How’s he expected to put it right if I don’t tell him how I feel?
“You’re right,” I say slowly. “They do charge more for flowers and chocolates and in restaurants in the middle of February. It is highly commercialized. But the thing is that most people still buy their loved one a gift because it makes them feel good.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “Are you saying that’s how you feel?”
“Maybe. It’s nice when your partner buys you gifts.” I try not to think about the earrings in the box in my bedside table.
“I do buy you gifts,” he says, a tad hurt. “I’ve got you something nice for Christmas.”
“I’m sure you have, and that’s really nice, thank you. But sometimes it would be cool if you got me something when it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas to show me you were thinking of me.”
“I think of you all the time,” he says.
I swallow and pick up my spoon, then carry on eating. I remind myself he bought these puddings because he knew I liked them. He does buy me things. He does think about me. It’s me who’s at fault because I’m judging what he does and expecting him to change to suit me. My expectations are too high, and I’m being unfair.
When we’re done, we go and sit on the sofa. He puts on Love Actually, which we’ve seen half a dozen times, but it feels like a silent acknowledgement that we need some Christmas spirit, and so I don’t complain.
We sit side by side, Cam with his arm stretched out along the back, almost, but not quite, around me. I curl up next to him, and we watch the movie from beginning to end.
The only time we speak is when Cam asks me if I want another glass of wine, and I decline.
When it’s over, I tell him I’m tired and he says he is too, so we go into the bedroom and get ready for bed. While he’s in the bathroom, I put on my pajamas, then go into the bathroom when he comes out.
I let down my hair and braid it, take off my makeup, and go back out into the bedroom. He’s already in bed, reading on his phone. I slide in beside him and lie back.
He puts down his phone and rolls onto his side to look at me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I look up at him. “For what?”
“Everything.” He looks sad. “I… I do love you, you know,” he says falteringly.
It’s a big admission for him to make. He doesn’t say it often, so I should feel thrilled. But I don’t. He says it, but I don’t feel it.
Then he leans forward and kisses me.
I freeze. We haven’t made love since my birthday on the tenth. We tried a few nights ago, but it ended in disaster.
He cups my face and turns it toward him, pressing soft kisses across my lips. Then he moves his hand under the duvet to the bottom of my pajama top and slides his fingers beneath the hem, onto my belly, and moves them up.
Henry. Oh God, Henry, Henry, Henry.
I roll away from him and sit up. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“This, Cam. Not now. Not tonight.” I get to my feet, panicking. “I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
He stands too, and for once his eyes flicker with emotion. “You need to make an effort as well,” he snaps.
I hunch my shoulders and wrap my arms around my middle. I feel angry and defensive and guilty and so, so lonely, all rolled into one. “I know.”
“This isn’t all about me,” he says.
I don’t say anything.
“How long are you going to punish me for?” he asks.
“Why, are you enjoying it?” I bite my lip, but it’s too late to stop the words. Shit, shit, shit. You fucking idiot, Juliette.
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”
I brush a hand over my face. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No you shouldn’t,” he says angrily. “Not everyone likes their sex vanilla.”
My eyebrows rise. “I’m not vanilla.”
“Yes, Juliette, you are. And that’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with that, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting to experiment either. Lots of people enjoy power play—it’s really common.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Oh, and the gloves are off. Yes, she did say that I was wrong to feel bad about wanting to experiment and try different things.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m just saying that I’m not a freak, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one. I do have… problems, but, as I tried to explain before, seeing Vanessa was my attempt to try and work out what to do about them.”
I go stiff as a board.
He sees my face and rolls his eyes. “Don’t go ballistic just because I said her name.”
“You’ve never said it before.”
“It’s just a name.”
It is, but for some reason it makes her horribly, alarmingly real. Before, she was just a nameless, faceless symbol of his problems. When he came home after seeing her and we talked about it, he was very careful not to say anything about her—he only talked about himself. I did my best to block her out of my mind, trying to see her as a therapist who was trying to help him.
But suddenly I see her as what she was—a living, breathing woman who talked to him about our personal life, who took off her clothes with him, and who did the most intimate things to him, and let him do them to her.
“The things you want me to do,” I whisper, “I don’t think I can do them.”
Frustration flickers on his face. “Jesus, it’s not like I’m asking you to torture me or anything. Lots of people tie the other person up and use vibrators on each other, and—”
“You’re not just asking me to lovingly arouse you, Cam. You’re asking me to…” I press my lips together. “It’s not the what, it’s the how. It’s… it’s so clinical and cold.”
“It’s not! It’s sexy!”
“Not to me. I’m sorry, but I can’t be the person you want me to be.”
“You’re still talking as if I’m a fucking freak! It’s such a small thing. You’re overreacting big time.”
“I’m not overreacting.”
“You just need to loosen up a bit.”
I don’t say anything. He’s spiraling past the point of no return, and I know where this is going.
“You’re fucking frigid,” he yells. “And I’m sick and tired of having to live with someone who makes me feel like a freak because I don’t just want to have sex in missionary with the lights out.”
I don’t respond. Anything I say will only make this worse.
He waits for me to speak, his jaw working with fury and resentment. When he realizes I’m not going to take the bait, he picks up his phone. “I’ll sleep in the spare room,” he states. “I guess it’s what you think I deserve.” He walks out, closing the door a little too loudly.
I sink onto the bed and let out a big breath. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. The rich dessert has mixed with the wine, and I feel a bit sick. I take deep breaths, fighting against the despair that threatens to overwhelm me.
When the sickness subsides, I turn to sit back against the headboard and pull the duvet up close around me. My eyes prick with tears, and it’s hard to swallow.
I think about Cam in the spare bedroom. This has happened often enough that I know this won’t end until I instigate it. Usually, after a while, I get up, go into his room, slide beneath the duvet, and cuddle up to him. He’d be stiff and resentful for a while, but if I were to say I’m sorry and nuzzle up to him, eventually he’d let himself be talked around. Normally I do it because I hate atmospheres, and I want things to be better.
Tonight, I stay where I am. Fuck him.
It’s an easy thing to think, but I’m shaking. We’ve had arguments a lot worse than this, but for some reason I feel more upset than angry, like I normally do.
I know that arguments are necessary in relationships. They rebalance the power dynamic when one person is taking advantage of the other, and they usually clear the air, even if they’re horrible at the time. But tonight it doesn’t feel like that. It feels as if what we had is fragmenting, tearing apart at the seams.
I’ve tried so hard to make it work. And I know he’s right—he’s not a freak, and lots of people experiment in their sex lives. Why can’t I do what he wants?
You shouldn’t have to change yourself to please him, or do things you don’t want to do.
Oh, Henry…
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I glance at it, and my heart skips a beat as I see a green banner that tells me I have a text waiting. From Henry.
Heart racing, I open it. It says just two words, You okay?
I press the fingers of my left hand to my lips as I reply with my right. Not really. Why did you message me?
Henry: I’m worried about you. Has something happened?
Me: We’ve just had an argument. He’s gone into the spare room.
I hope he doesn’t gloat or sound smug. I couldn’t bear that right now.
Henry: Ah, I’m so sorry.
Tears blur my eyes, then tip over my lashes. I brush them away as I reply.
Me: It was horrible.
Henry: Arguments always are.
Me: He knows right where to slide the knife.
Me: Not literally btw.
Henry: I should hope not. And of course he does. That’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time.
Me: Do you think it always has to be like that?
Henry: No. I think if you truly love someone, even in an argument, you choose not to breach their defenses.
I lean back tiredly, sliding down the pillows a little. I shouldn’t be texting him. Communicating with Henry is cheating on Cam, no matter what form the communication takes. But right now I don’t care. I’m hurting, and he makes me feel better.
Henry: Do you want to talk about it?
Me: It was the usual stuff. He accused me of being vanilla. He said I make him feel like a freak because I only want to have sex in missionary with the lights out.
Henry: I literally LOL then.
Me: Don’t laugh at me.
Henry: Honey, I’m not laughing at you. The point is that I wouldn’t care if you did only want it in missionary with the lights out. It would be amazing, every time.
I swallow hard, trying not to cry.
Me: He said I was frigid because I don’t want to experiment, but it’s not that.
Henry: I know.
Me: I can’t seem to explain to him what I want.
Henry: You explained it to me very well. To be worshiped.
Me: It sounds so pathetic and needy. But is it so terrible?
Henry: It’s what you deserve.
Me: I miss you.
Henry: I miss you too, sweetheart. More than you could ever know.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
Me: I’m sorry.
Henry: You’ve nothing to be sorry about.
Me: I’m stringing you along and it’s unfair.
Henry: No it’s not. You can talk to me whenever you want. Your relationship is in its death throes, and I want to help, but unfortunately you have to deal with it yourself.
I read the words several times, then lie back and look at the ceiling. Is he right? Is my relationship with Cam over?
Henry has skin in the game—he’s going to say that because he wants it to be true. But he’s been through it. He knows how it feels.
It might seem obvious to him, but it’s not to me. I feel so muddled, caught up in duty and obligation and what I should and ought to do. It’s never just the two of you in a relationship, is it? My dad likes Cam a lot, and he would be devastated if we broke up. Mum is ambivalent and she likes Henry, but she’d still be upset. I’m not keen on either of Cam’s brothers and I doubt they’re that bothered about me either, but his parents both like me, and I get on very well with his mum, which I know is rare. And there are our friends and colleagues, who are all used to our relationship. Cam is a solid partner, with a good job—even if he hates it—and a decent income. He has lots of friends, he’s good at sports, and he’s well liked. Everyone would think I was crazy for letting him go, even if it was for Henry.
But in the end, I’m the one who has to live with him. I’m not happy. And I don’t know that I can put it right.
I look back at my phone. Henry’s texted again.
Henry: I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said your relationship was over. And I shouldn’t have told you not to sleep with him. I speak before I think. I have no right to ask you for anything.
Me: Ah, it’s okay.
Henry: I want you so badly. But I keep forgetting that I can’t give you children. And I know you want them.
Tears trickle down my cheeks. He’s right. I would like children. I’d like to be able to experience being pregnant and going through childbirth.
Henry: I don’t want to go through what I went through with Shaz again.
Me: I understand.
He doesn’t reply. After a while, I text again.
Me: Why didn’t you try IVF?
Henry: Things were already going wrong between us by the time it was brought up as an option.
He doesn’t elaborate. Was it something to do with me? I remember what he said last night. That he’s been in love with me since the first time we met. Why else do you think Shaz and I broke up? She knew. She’s always known. I tried to ignore it because you were with Cam, and I’d already proposed to her, and I knew we couldn’t come to anything, but Shaz always knew.
Me: Why is life so complicated?
Henry: I don’t know.
We’re both quiet for a while. Then he messages again.
Henry: What are you going to do?
Me: I’m not sure. But I think you might be right.
I send it and pause, then send another few in quick succession.
Me: I think it’s nearly over.
Me: I didn’t want to admit it. I wanted to fight it. But I think it’s inevitable.
Me: You said when a relationship ends, it’s often a slow erosion.
Me: That’s how it feels.
Me: I think I just need time.
Me: And I don’t know what it means for you and me.
Me: There are lots of factors.
Henry: Like children.
We pause.
Me: Yes. That’s one.
Henry: It’s a big one.
We pause again.
Me: Yes. But it would be different for us, right? We’d know about it going in. You and Shaz didn’t.
Henry: True.
Me: Would you still like children? Or does what’s happened before mean you don’t want them at all?
Henry: It’s not that I don’t want them. But I wouldn’t want to put you through all that waiting and disappointment. It nearly killed me last time. I don’t want to do that to you. Or to myself.
Me: I understand. But you’d consider IVF?
Henry: Yes. Would you?
I lie back, looking up at the ceiling again. My heart bangs against my ribs. It’s a huge thing to ask, and we’re not even in a relationship. Cam wants children, and he’d probably be able to give me them. But is that a reason to stay?
It’s so hard. I know Henry relatively well. We’re good friends, and we’re obviously attracted to one another. He’s hardworking, funny, wealthy, driven, and gorgeous—lots of reasons he’d make a good husband. But are we compatible as a couple? There’s no way of telling yet, and it’s a huge thing to discuss having children and IVF when we’ve only had one night together.
I look back at my phone. He’s waiting for an answer, and I don’t have one. I’m still living with Cam, under the same roof, and I need to finish one relationship before I embark on another. It’s not fair to keep Henry hanging on. But all I can do is be honest.
Me: I think so. I just need time to figure it all out. Is that okay? I’ll understand if it isn’t.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then eventually he replies.
Henry: I’ve waited this long for you. I can wait a few more - what? Days? Weeks? Months?
Me: I don’t know, but not months. It’s just that it’s Christmas, and there’s Damon’s wedding, and it’s just a horrible time to break up.
Henry: There’s no good time.
Me: Yeah, I know. I’m being unfair to you. I realize that.
Henry: It’s all right. I’ve been there. I understand.
I start crying.
Me: I’m so sorry.
Henry: Look, you know where I am if you need me.
Me: Okay.
Henry: Just take care of yourself.
It feels like an ironic thing to say when I feel sick and my head’s banging like a bass drum.
Me: I’ll see you on the 28th?
Henry: Are you bringing Cam?
Me: I don’t know.
I can imagine him gritting his teeth and closing his eyes in frustration. I feel terrible. I should tell him that I’m going into the spare room now and I’m going to tell Cam it’s over. But I can’t, three days from Christmas. I just can’t.
Henry: Okay. I’ll see you then. One last thing.
Henry: I’m in love with you. Remember that.
I shake my head and give a short laugh.
Henry: Meri Kirihimete.
Me: Meri Kirihimete.
I turn off my phone and put it on the bedside table.
Before I lie back, I open the drawer and take out the velvet box.
Bringing the box beneath the duvet, I crack the lid and study the lotus flowers. They’re absolutely beautiful.
After a while, I close the box again, but I don’t put it back in the drawer. I curl up with it still in my hand, turn off the light, and slide down under the duvet.
I’ve forgotten to close the curtains. The moon hangs outside, almost full, like a silver bauble.
I open the box and watch the diamonds glitter like little fragments of moonlight.
I fall asleep holding it, thinking not of the man who’s sleeping twenty feet away, but of the one with the dark hair that falls across his forehead, and a pair of dark-blue eyes blazing into mine.