Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I make it a few more steps to my hotel door before I stop, utterly confused. The Weasel I knew from Peacock was cutthroat and arrogant. Weasel in the taxi from the airport was positively diabolical and made me want to scream. But Weasel the fake boyfriend is annoyingly charming, the perfect coffee-buying, bunting-helping, cheese-eating stand-in.
I thought it was a giant act this whole time, but now … he isn’t pretending. Apparently .
The entire thing is disorientating. Resisting the urge to look at him, I dig deep into my bag for my room key. Finally, I give in and glance up, expecting him to be smirking like it was a hilarious prank. But Weasel just gives me that inviting grin before he disappears inside his hotel room. My heart beats quickly.
What in the world?
For the first time I contemplate the possibility of Weasel being a man, instead of my enemy. A very handsome man. I feel gratified and weirded out by all that wine talk. Was he flirting ?
But then the memory of his overheard words sears through me. It’s over. Words said so seriously, and sounding so … calculated . The last few months come back to me with a jolt. And suddenly my brain gratefully exits the frothy bubble and says, HELL, NO.
Of course, this is his way in. Probably just a giant ruse to make me relaxed around him.
Like a judge, I stare at the cold, hard facts and come to a decision. He’s playing with me. Him, cat. Me, string. And honestly, I realise, that’s just the kind of despicable person he is. This entire helpful faux boyfriend act is just that: an act.
My brain rights itself. The giddiness disappears. I take a solemn vow not to think of his inviting lips, or his tanned legs, or his chest hair or his tempting warm, large hands ever again.
Instead, I march straight to my room, grab a pen and paper, and write down:
THINGS THAT MATTER.
I have someone. A good someone. Even if he is not at the wedding with me.
This someone wants to look after me, thinks cheating is an insidious pox, and is dedicated to us and our future. HE WANTS TO BUY A HOUSE.
For the first time in a decade, I have a plus one that I can proudly bring to any event (except this wedding) who is genuinely interested in my ambition and success.
We talk about interesting topics (climate change, love, my favourite poetry, his AI, how to be calm and rational) and I am learning to be patient and try and listen when he talks about politics or sports (note – this is a skill I still haven’t mastered).
I’m not on those horrible dating apps anymore. (Thank God I’m not seeing another fifty-something man, looking for his ‘soulmate’ between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. PLEASE.)
He is an IT geek – Sheldon style, wears glasses and I find all of this rather CUTE.
When we’re not tired, there can be good chemistry between us. Kissing is nice.
He is the hugger after sex. Yes. HIM.
He doesn’t see the grey hairs that are busy multiplying on my head and have amassed so that there are too many to pluck individually, and now I’m about to be one of those women who have to trot off to the hairdresser’s every five weeks to get my roots done. Same, same for wrinkles, which, no matter how much Clinique under-eye thingy I wear, does not make me glow like promised. He thinks I’m cute, even though I’m a bit saggy, and creased.
He doesn’t play around, nice one minute, horrible the next. Not a mind fuck. IMPORTANT!
He’s teaching me how to keep all my emotions in check.
I stick this up on my bathroom mirror, and vow to look at the ADAM LIST every chance I get.