Chapter 33
“So, you’re turning down all of them,” said Margo, a hint of disappointment in her tone.
She had manipulated the arms of a male mannequin in the clothes department so that he held her in a bridal carry and, legs swinging, she read the latest batch of emails on Casey’s phone that had been sent to Coopers it’s all about the pheromones.”
Casey eyed her. “I am especially not doing that one.”
“Apparently, Sam’s up for it if you are.”
“I am not sniffing anyone for TV, and I certainly have no desire to smell Sam again, thank you very much.”
“Suit yourself.” The spirit continued to scroll. “Ooh, this just in. You’ve got an offer here from an agent.”
“I don’t need an agent. Unless it’s the kind of agent who turns down all these requests on my behalf.” Ties hung, she began to hang a new batch of dress shirts.
“I’m not sure you understand the concept of an agent.” Margo regarded her dryly over the top of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I’m not sure you realize how ridiculous you look reclining in the arms of a mannequin wearing Christmas Spider-Man pajamas.”
“Don’t listen, Adonis.” Margo dropped the phone into her lap and placed her hands over the mannequin’s fiberglass ears.
Casey rolled her eyes, smiling.
The sound of animated voices began to blare out of Casey’s phone, and she glanced up at the spirit, who looked equally alarmed. “Sorry,” said Margo. “There was an attachment in one of the emails and I opened it. I can’t seem to make it stop.”
Casey moved in closer and Margo turned the phone so that they could both see the video that had begun to play. Two men were sat opposite each other across a desk, each with a microphone.
“Take this Casey Smith woman,” said the guy in the cap.
“I’d rather not,” shot back his colleague.
Cap guy laughed. “Right! But seriously, she is representative of the issue facing good men today. You’ve got Sam Moon, fair to say a high-value guy, and he’s chasing after this low-value female—she doesn’t even take care of herself—and she turns him down!
I mean, this is a problem. Who do these women think they are? ”
“And this is indicative of a lot of women today…” his colleague agreed.
“Bloody hellfire!” Margo exclaimed as Casey reached over and stopped the video. “Did feminism die when I wasn’t looking?”
Casey laughed despite how grim it was to hear her entire being reduced to her “value” like a cow at a cattle market. “To be honest, there’s been so many like that, I’m not even horrified anymore; they just make me feel tired.”
The manosphere seemed to have taken a particular dislike to her. Casey had become the poster girl for every “ungrateful” woman who dared to turn down a “good” man’s advances, and popular podcasters asked, “Has feminism finally gone too far?”
Casey rubbed her temples, where a dull headache had taken up residence.
“It’s like stepping back into the sixteenth-century witch hunts,” said Margo. “You know, in the old days, folks got their kicks by gathering around the gallows in the town square to watch that week’s hanging. Now they gather in the comments sections.”
“Thank goodness we aren’t still in the ‘old days,’ ” said Casey dryly.
“They’d have burned you at the stake,” Margo observed. “Still,” she said brightly, as she continued to scroll, “there’s support for you as well. Here’s an article with the headline, ‘What If We Believed Women? Wouldn’t That Be Novel?’ There are people in your corner.”
“I know you’re right.” Casey sighed. “It just feels like the hostility drowns out any good stuff.”
“It’s a foible of the human condition to absorb every negative analysis of oneself like a sponge and yet be impervious to compliments. Even with its bitter taste, the bad stuff is always easier to swallow.”
“Yeah,” said Casey dully.
“And what of Sam?”
“Ha!” She pursed her lips as she thought about the way he’d managed to saturate screen and print like an uncontained oil spill, igniting little fires everywhere as he alternately poured out his heart and vented his spleen. “From what I can tell, he is loving life.”
A message from Nigel popped up. “Here,” said Margo, handing the phone to her. Casey took it while Margo began to rub the mannequin’s abs beneath his pj’s. “How about it, Adonis?” she asked in a devilish tone. “Would you like me to turn you into a real boy?”
“Do not do that!” Casey warned as she opened the message.
Thought you should see this. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings…
Beneath was a link to Sam’s Instagram. A picture of Sam’s face smiled out at her, and she snarled back at it.
The caption read So whadda you guys think, should I propose to Casey again or not?
with an arrow pointing to the next slide.
Casey swiped left to find a voting page with boxes for ticking Yes!
Propose again! or Hell no! So far, the votes were level.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she exploded. “Really?”
“He’s a marketing genius, that’s for sure,” Margo quipped when she saw it, and then, seeing Casey’s expression, she added, “What? A person can be both talented and flawed—just look at Alexander the Great.”
“Did you meet Alexander the Great?”
Margo sucked in her cheeks. “A spirit doesn’t kiss and tell.”
—
With Casey’s committed stonewalling of all press and there being no shortage of loquacious minor celebrities willing to fill the gossip columns, the media had quickly lost interest in her, at least as far as waiting around outside her home and the store was concerned.
She found Nigel walking stiffly around the garden with a long-handled litter picker in one hand. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms tucked into Wellington boots and a thick cable-knit jumper.
“Casey!” He smiled broadly when he saw her. “Ah, it’s so nice to see you. I feel so out of the loop not being at work.”
She gave him a hug, careful not to squeeze him too hard. “Should you be out here?” she asked.
“Aha, physiotherapist’s orders. Easy walking at intervals throughout the day. I must say, it feels good to be moving about again.” He saw Casey’s doubtful expression and laughed. “I take it I don’t look as good as I feel.”
“You just don’t look very comfortable.”
“I’m not,” said Nigel, grimacing. “But I’m better than I was. How about you?”
“Better than I was,” she parroted.
“Are you ready for the radio show?” he asked, using the litter picker to pull a small weed that had taken root beneath a rosebush.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, but I’m doing it anyway.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“I need to take back some ownership of my own story, or at least that’s what I’m hoping will happen. It could all go horribly wrong and I’ll somehow end up engaged to Sam.”
“Perish the thought!” Nigel laughed. “And you trust Liz?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I think it might be time to take some chances and hope that I’ll be pleasantly surprised rather than have my skepticism proved right.”
“I’m proud of you. We’ll be listening! And how are things going with you and Ajay?”
She felt her cheeks color and the need to tamp down the smile that pushed upward each time she talked about Ajay. “It’s going well,” she said, trying not to gush. “Dating’s not so bad with the right guy.”
“Are you saying that Ajay is Mr. Right?”
Casey got the distinct impression that were it not for a slipped disk Nigel would be hopping with glee. “Cool your jets there, pal,” she said, laughing. “I said he’s the right guy for me to be dating, not that he’s Mr. Right.”
“Oh, let an old man dream, would you!” Nigel scolded.
“Actually, Ajay is one of the reasons I’m here.”
“I’m afraid he’s at work.”
“I know. I need to pick your brains and utilize Vern’s and Jared’s muscles. I want to do something nice for Ajay, but I’m going to require guidance and power tools.”
“Well, color me intrigued.” Nigel chuckled. “They’re over in the vegetable garden, no doubt with Clara and Mildred in tow; those goats seem to have decided that Jared is one of their gang. He’s helping Ms. Marcasite to film today’s TikTok videos. Turns out the lad’s a right little Spielberg.”
One responsible adult raising a teenager was all it took, as she well knew.
Nate had been everything she’d needed, but with hindsight she could appreciate how tough it must have been for him, so she was happy that Ajay was getting the benefit of a small but perfectly formed village to help him with Jared.
—
With her plans set into motion, and even Jared showing an enthusiasm she hadn’t expected, Casey headed home to check in with the other man in her life.
The children were asleep and Nate was in the sitting room on his knees at the large square coffee table, surrounded by gifts and yards of brightly colored paper as he wrapped their Christmas presents, The Family Stone on the TV.
“Here,” she said, handing him a mug of mulled wine she’d just heated on the stove. “Set me to work.”
Nate smiled at her and said “thanks” with such feeling, she got the sense he had reached his wrapping limit. There was already a pile of gifts in the corner ready to be hidden in a cupboard until it was time for Father Christmas to deliver them.
“Why don’t you give your knees a break for a while?
I can do this.” She looked at the two mounds of gifts he’d been working through.
The one on the right had a distinctly dinosaur theme, while the one on the left contained a colorful book about dragons and a pair of Ellory-sized butterfly wings. “I’ve got this.”
“I’m not going to argue,” he said, heaving himself up and emitting a range of groaning sounds. Two loud clicks sounded out. “Oh my god, did you hear that?” he exclaimed.
“The neighbors probably heard that.” She sniggered.
“That was my knees!” he protested, looking at them as though they’d offended them. “Are knees supposed to make that noise?”
“Well, you are nearly forty,” Casey quipped, shrugging. “What can you expect?”
“Up yours,” he replied, flopping onto the sofa and taking a swig of his mulled wine. “Ooh, it’s good.”
“It’s a Mary Berry recipe,” Casey said, feeling pleased with herself. “Mary Berry is the queen of practically everything.”
“Don’t let Sylvie hear you say that. You know she thinks that crown belongs to her.”
Casey settled into a rhythm of cutting and sticking.
The fire crackled in the hearth, and she thought about what a cozy room this was and how little time Nate spent in it.
He always seemed to be in his study or in the kitchen.
She wondered if that was because this room was where he and Grace would snuggle on the sofa together on an evening when the kids were settled.
“This film is so sad,” she said as she folded a sweater with a puffin on its front.
“I like it,” said Nate. “It feels more real, more relatable than all those happily ever afters. This has more of a ‘life goes on’ vibe that I can appreciate.”
“I can see that,” she agreed. She left a beat and then asked, “How are you doing?”
He took a deep breath in and then out. “Better. I feel like I can look at myself from the outside, if that makes sense. I couldn’t before; it was all just very intense, very insular. I couldn’t see that I was spiraling because I had no other view.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs,” said Casey. Her guilt made her feel heartsick—talk about selfish—the worst part was how annoyed she’d felt with him; he’d needed help and she’d been irritated by his overprotectiveness. “I feel horrible.”
“Don’t. I don’t always make it easy for you to approach me—especially when I’m feeling stressed, it feels like one more thing I’ve got to deal with, and I snap and grumble to make you go away.”
“Yeah, but I should have been more persistent. That’s on me.”
He watched her as she wrapped and taped another parcel, as though deliberating. “I talk about you with Theresa,” he said. “And our childhood.”
She was taken aback, a nervousness fizzed in her stomach. “You do?” She had always worried that he’d been forced to grow up too quickly, that he’d been parenting her when he should have been out having fun and making foolish decisions. And now he was going to confirm her fears.
“Mum and Dad weren’t able to put us first. It is what it is, and I made my peace with that a long time ago. But one of the consequences is that it made us feel hyper-responsible for each other.”
Casey nodded. “I guess.”
“I think it’s time we cut each other some slack.
There are going to be times when I struggle with what happened to Grace, and I need to be better at recognizing when I’m slipping.
But you are not responsible for that, or for me.
You don’t need to fix me; I have to fix myself.
You don’t owe me anything, Case, despite what you may think.
And by the same token, I am not responsible for you, and I need to learn to step back. ”
She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Wow, whatever you’re paying Theresa you should pay her more.” She was going for jokey, but the crack in her voice made her delivery unconvincing.
Nate smiled wryly. “And they say men aren’t good with shows of emotion.”
“I am good with shows of emotion, just not from you. I’m not used to it. Can’t you just throw a clementine at my head or something like you usually do?”
A clementine whizzed toward her and she ducked; it bounced off the wall and landed in the magazine rack. “Better?” Nate asked.
“Much. Thank you.”
They were quiet for a time, the sounds of sticking tape ripping and Sarah Jessica Parker nervously coughing her way through excruciating encounters on the TV.
“So,” Casey said casually. “Coffee with Hot Penny. Want to tell me about it?”
Nate gave a coy smile. “Coffee was good. We have since progressed through Danish pastries and on to light lunches.”
“Light lunches?” she exclaimed in faux shock. “Slow down there, Casanova, you’re going to get a reputation.”
He chuckled. “Yesterday we had garlic prawns.”
“You filthy slut!”
This time the clementine missed her by a hair’s breadth and plopped down into a green triceratops slipper.