SIX
Mia
Do I wallow in self pity for most of Sunday? Yes. Do I eat all the chocolate I bought and drink the rest of the wine instead of eating a proper breakfast? Also, yes.
The pinot gris does not go with the dark chocolate. Both of them leave a bitter taste in my mouth that matches my mood, though. So why not?
I don’t have to worry about fitting into a designer wedding dress that is far too expensive. I don’t have to worry about looking good in photos that would hang on the wall forever to represent the best single day of my life (no pressure).
The one good thing that happens today is the fact I can email Nancy first thing in the morning before I’ve even gotten out of bed—not hard, since I didn’t get out of bed until almost twelve—to tell her the wedding is off. God, it’s satisfying to type that out. I hit send and, even despite the bitter knot of anger and hurt in my chest, I feel lighter.
I don’t know what hurts worse. That Oliver was cheating and I didn’t even work it out until someone else pointed it out to me; or that Tegan caught them in our apartment!
When I rang her last night, I was pretty flustered. I’m sure she couldn’t understand a word I was saying for the first five minutes. She knew what I needed to hear, though. She told me to sit myself down, boil the kettle, and then she told me the whole sordid story.
She let herself in without ringing the doorbell. Then she called out loudly while storming straight down the hall, making a beeline for our bedroom. I’m still picturing the scene she described. If I know Tegan, she didn’t exaggerate at all when she told me how it went down. She certainly didn’t pull any punches at the time.
According to Tegan, she pushed open the bedroom door to see Oliver balls deep inside some blonde with her legs spread on our bed. As she told it, Oliver leaped off the bed, then she pulled out her phone, snapped a photo, and rolled her eyes at Oliver’s cursing.
The best part—the only good part, really, is what she said to him right before she walked out. “You might at least have cheated with someone hot, Oliver. But I guess you couldn’t attract anything but vermin. Shit has that effect. ”
She offered to send me the photo, but I don’t want to see it. From what she says, it doesn’t show anything explicit, anyway. Besides, I know Tegan. She wouldn’t lie about this.
I replay Tegan’s words in my head over and over while I lay on the sofa and flick listlessly through Netflix not choosing anything. My list is full of home renovation programs and reality wedding shows all of which just make me feel depressed right now.
Finally, I put on Eat, Pray, Love and imagine myself as Julia Roberts running away to Italy to wander through art galleries and museums, eat all the pasta and ice cream, put on twenty kilos, and find a beautiful Italian man to bang. Only, that’s not me. Nope. All I’m doing is slobbing around on the couch in my pyjama shorts and Luke’s jumper, probably about to break out in fifty new pimples from all the shitty food I’m eating. I’ve got the twenty kilos thing sorted, I guess, but I’m not attracting anyone or anything.
If Luke could see me now, I bet he’d run a mile. Kind of like he did last night when he thought I was coming onto him. I catch myself wondering if his reaction was just about the fact he knows I’m engaged—was engaged. Or whether he just doesn’t want to go there again. If I was that bad last time. Probably the latter.
At four in the afternoon, I peel myself off the sofa and trudge upstairs to the main bathroom. The ensuite is out of action because Luke still hasn’t finished the renovation, but we have another shower and I should take one. My hair is a wild bird’s nest, my armpits stink, and I’m pretty sure there are chocolate crumbs between my boobs .
I’m pulling my singlet off when my phone buzzes on the counter. Steam from the shower billows out from behind the shower curtain, filling the bathroom. The screen lights up with the picture of Oliver and me cuddling by the wharf at Manly. He’s got his arm around me, and he’s holding out the camera. I had stretched up on my toes to kiss his cheek, but he’s too tall and I couldn’t quite reach.
My stomach roils. Sweat beads on the back of my neck and I lean over the sink, retching as the contents threaten to come back up. I can’t talk to him right now. I can’t even look at the picture. I swipe down hastily, dismissing the call and the haunting memory of something that was all a lie.
So much for being smart, huh?
What now, Luke?
I’m still flushed. The room feels too hot. I rush to the window and pull it open, gasping in the chill winter air. There’s no chance anyone will see in. The bathroom window faces the backyard and beautiful old gum trees screen us from any neighbours. There’s not even a fly screen on this window. I guess I’ll have to get Luke to install one. If we even bother finishing the renovation. God, the thought of dividing up everything and selling is one I don’t even want to contemplate right now.
Leaving the window open, I pull aside the shower curtain and step into the shower, without bothering to pull it back again. Let the cool air from outside carry away the steam and my disgust at myself. I rest my head back against the cool tiles and let the warm water sluice down my body until I feel a little better .
After fifteen minutes, I’m feeling a little more human again. I’m not ready to go back home, though. I’m not ready to face Oliver. I’m not ready to face my parents, who think the sun shines out his ass. I’m definitely not ready to go back to work. I wonder how long I can get away with sick leave.
I wonder if anyone would actually care if I just stayed here forever. Would anyone come looking for me? If I break up with Oliver, he might actually get to keep my parents in the split. God knows they love him more than they love me.
I’m being melodramatic, but sometimes I swear it’s true. Dad couldn’t wait for us to get married so he can make Oliver a partner in the firm.
A knife laced with poison stabs me right in the guts. Was Oliver only marrying me so Dad would finally make him a partner? No. Surely not.
But the more I think about it, the more I wonder.
To distract myself, I shave my legs, my bikini line, my underarms. I exfoliate every inch of my body and wash my hair. When I’m scrubbed as clean and smooth as I can get I take the showerhead down—the one nice feature of this ugly ass brown bathroom—and close my eyes, leaning back against the wall of the shower while I try to forget all of it for a moment.