Chapter 33 Now
Now
At home, I try to keep my mind occupied as I wait for James to come back.
I watch TikToks of people pretending to be happy, but they make me sad.
I watch some of people who are genuinely happy, and I feel worse.
I take myself for a restorative walk, as that’s something people do, isn’t it?
But this town is a leafy kind of dead. I realize I hate it.
With no chance of starting a family on the horizon, giving up London for its green barrenness feels like a sin.
A cookie from a corner shop does little to lift my mood.
I struggle to understand why I thought it would.
And then I see her. The blur of a woman in a greedily large hoodie, wild dark curls pushing out of the hood.
I catch a flash of brown skin and a blink of bright yellow from the back of her Doc Martens as she disappears down a side street.
And it’s not just the outfit lifted from her uni days; the too-speedy smudge of her features looked just like her.
Claire. It’s too much. Too much a reminder of how much I miss her and how much I now hate that I do.
I return home. Pick my phone up time and time again, start trying to call Claire and stop.
I want to scream at her until I’m hoarse.
Want to tell her about James. Want to hear her beg for forgiveness.
That I can’t see a way to work through the betrayal leaves me feeling wrung out like a wet rag.
I wish I could say that I’m not dreading my husband walking through the door, but this morning was tense and uncomfortable. I’d almost convinced myself to have it out with him while brushing my teeth, but by the time I’d left the bathroom, he’d gone. No goodbye kiss.
Not long after my fourth attempt at reading something and my second glass of wine, I hear the sound of the keys in the door and straighten.
For a moment, I think about discarding the wineglass.
It’s becoming a habit, and I don’t want James to think I have a problem.
But also, if I am developing a problem, probably good to have someone to hold me to account.
When I start hiding the bottles, I’m already a lost cause.
He materializes in the kitchen doorway, handsome as ever, but face taut.
I’m not sure if it’s his day at work or the prospect of this conversation stretching his nerves thin.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he replies. “People were asking after you in the office.” A beat. “I told them you’re okay.”
It’s awkward. I know it’s awkward. He knows it, too.
But so much has happened between us that I don’t know how it couldn’t be.
He tells me that Will’s recovering fine.
They’ve not spoken, but Vanessa accepted a call from James to check in.
Black eye, broken nose. Looked worse than it was.
He reassures me that his violence was a one-off.
I reassure him that I believe him. I apologize again for lying about George.
He reassures me that he understands. Neither of us seems convinced by the words tumbling out of the other’s mouth.
When we go to bed that night, I curl up on the far side of the bed.
I’m not sure what else to do with myself.
And when I feel him move up beside me, pulling my back into his warm body, for a moment, I consider telling him to move away.
But I feel his regret, feel my own, and hold his hand in mine.
I think he’s preparing to let himself fall asleep when breath fogs warm on my ear.
“I can get the money. I’ve got some stuff from my father that I think I can…I mean, I know it has value. We’ll be okay.” A beat. “And I’m sorry things have been so shit, Nat.”
“It’s okay.” I want it so badly to be true.
In the morning, I’m almost convinced that things might not turn out totally horribly, that James and I will find a way.
After all, it seems that perhaps we’re just as damaged as each other.
It’s this thought that allows me to head into the office, fire off emails through the workday, contribute to meetings, act like a fully functioning member of my team, the threat of Will still present, but a bearable heat on my skin.
But when I get home, stepping into the lightly jasmine-scented air, my foot finds itself treading on a crisp white envelope.
It stops me in my tracks. Turning the cold paper over in my hands, I can see it’s been sent by priority mail.
I also see my name hand-printed in clear letters above the address.
It’s not a bill or junk mail. This is something important.
Taking care not to slice my finger open on the paper, I rip the envelope open and pull the contents out. Staring boldly at me are words I recognize all too well.
I hate how much your opinion of me made up my opinion of myself. I hate that I ever let anyone ever have that much control over my self-esteem.
My letter to Marc. Or a photocopy of it, at least. And on the next page, my letter to Luca. And on the next, my letter to George. It only takes me a second to connect the dots. Motherfucker.
The feeling is stronger when it comes again this time, and unlike the last, it doesn’t take me by surprise.
Will is fucking with me. He’s taunting us.
Wasn’t it enough to steal the money? Wasn’t it enough to worm his way back into the business?
Did he think he could really send me to prison for something I didn’t do, too?
He might feel safe in the knowledge that in the past, my sister has fought my battles for me. Might make the mistake of thinking of me as powerless, someone he can walk all over. But I’m not the girl I was back then. Not powerless, just patient. Patient enough to get rid of him properly.