Chapter Thirty-Four
Lilavati
“Are you suggesting this is my fault?” I squeak in a voice almost too high for human hearing.
My heart is breaking. I needed him to say No, Lilavati. None of that is true. Not admit that he lied to me. And that Warren is right, and he’s looking for an investor. Because if Warren is right about that, doesn’t it follow that he’s right about the rest of it?
“It’s not a matter of fault. But you started this charade. I don’t see how you can possibly believe it was a con from the beginning. And I can’t believe you think so little of me as to believe it.” There’s a world of hurt in his voice, but I can’t let myself be fooled again.
“You’ve just admitted you’ve been lying to me, and yet you expect me not to think ill of you? It doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe you should take a minute to think about who delivered this message, Lil. And why.” Ant picks up his phone from the table.
“You’ve just admitted what Warren said is true.” I can’t bend. I need to stay strong.
Ant’s shoulders drop, and all the fight seems to go out of him.
“You know what? It seems like no matter what I say, you’re going to believe what you want to believe. I need some air.” And before I can think of a response, the door is swishing closed behind him.
Somehow, I get up off the sofa and drag myself out onto the lanai, curling up on the big round chair where Ant and I had kissed and napped and given each other more pleasure than I would’ve believed possible. Now, it’s where I sob. And sob.
It was all a lie.
I can’t explain how he worked out who I was, but it’s all just too convenient.
Warren was right. What would a man like Ant want with a woman like me?
I’m hard work. A prickly, demanding, work-obsessed control freak.
My own family don’t love me, why would he?
I use work as an excuse for why I have no social life and hardly any real friends.
But the truth is, I’m not likeable. And certainly not loveable.
Ant, or at least the Ant I thought I knew, is full of humour and life. Easy going. Friendly. Likeable. Charming. Was all that an act too?
But I can’t square the circle, no matter how much overthinking I do.
Warren doesn’t have all the facts. He doesn’t know it was fake. But it is true that Ant didn’t say yes right away. So, is it possible he saw Warren on television and jumped on an opportunity?
I think about everything that Ant has said and done, the way he’s looked at me, touched me. I can’t believe it was all a lie. But maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.
And even if everything Warren said about Ant was a lie, what he said about me was true. How could it ever work between us? He’s handsome and lovely, and I’m … me. Hard work. Difficult.
Regardless of what’s true and what’s not, perhaps this is for the best. I’m only going to get hurt—more hurt—if we continue with whatever this is.
It saves us the awkward well, this has been great, but …
conversation. It saves me the embarrassment of being discarded.
Because long term? The reality of being with someone so difficult would take its toll, and he’d move on.
If I’m this devastated now, imagine how shattered I’d be if he broke it off—which he’d inevitably do—weeks or months in the future. Broken-hearted wouldn’t even come close to how I’d feel.
Yep, this is for the best.
If only I didn’t feel like my heart was being gnawed on by one of the turtles in the bay.
My thoughts are like the ball in an old-fashioned pinball machine, bouncing madly, changing direction with no discernible logic. And the clanging bells and flashing lights are disorienting me, making it impossible to focus.
I have no idea what I should believe. What I should do. Or even what I want to do.
I need a rational voice.
Mei answers on the third ring.
“Hey, what’s up?” she mumbles. I hear sheets rustling and what sounds like a man whispering.
“Are you in bed? It’s lunchtime in Sydney!”
“Yeah, on a rainy Sunday.” A door closes. “That guy from the bar on my birthday? Sooo glad I called him.”
“Oh my God, I’ve interrupted a sneaky link.” Information I wish could distract me from my own dramas, but it doesn't.
“That’s okay. We were just dozing. Aren’t you supposed to be at the wedding of the century right now?”
That’s all it takes for the whole story to come tumbling out with barely a breath.
Mei is quiet until I peter to a stop with a miserable “What do I do?”
“Well, I have to say, this is classic Lili Gordon.” She’s taking this seriously because there’s the sound of her coffee machine whirring in the background.
“What do you mean?”
“I love you, Lils. You know that. But you tend to”— she pauses, I guess looking for the right words—“jump to conclusions and assume the worst.”
“You’re saying I overreacted. Why are you taking Ant’s side?”
Mei laughs.
“I’m not. I’m on your side. Always. What I’m saying is, instead of allowing Ant to explain and asking questions about his explanation, you took what Warren said at face value and shut down.
And now you’re working overtime to convince yourself of the validity of your position.
But there’s a lot of daylight between not telling you about the inner workings of his business finance and being a money-hungry opportunist.”
She’s right, of course. She’s also on a roll.
“This is what you do. It’s how you protect yourself. But it’s not productive. And honestly? I don’t know Ant, but if it came to a choice between trusting Warren and trusting just about anyone else in the world, up to and possibly even including the devil himself …”
“It wouldn’t be Warren you trusted,” I finish for her.
“Correct. I also have to say, you need to let go of this idea that nobody could love you. I love you. And okay, when it comes to men, you could say I’m not always the most discerning.
But when it comes to friends, I am. You’re the whole package, Lil.
Any man who can’t see that doesn’t deserve you.
And it sounds to me like Ant saw that from the get-go. ”
“So what do I do?”
“I think you know what to do, Lils.”
I cry a whole lot more before the alarm I set to remind me to get ready for the wedding goes off. I stagger off the sunbed and into the apartment.
My phone rings, and I leap for it. Maybe it’s him. Apologising. Telling me it’s all a big misunderstanding. But it’s my mother. I send it to voicemail. There’s nothing she could possibly have to say to me that I want to hear. Now, or maybe even ever.
If Ant was using me, I guess it would’ve come out eventually. When he got what he wanted. But right now, I’d trade living in delulu land for another few days or weeks or months for the pain I’m in.
Dragging myself into the shower, I wash my hair, shave my legs and use my favourite exfoliant to scrub my skin as raw as my heart.
It doesn’t help. I still feel strung tight as a bow. So, I run myself a bath, and pour in enough of the expensive resort bath oil to have the bubbles rising over the top of the tub. The whole apartment starts to smell like frangipani and coconut.
I wet a face washer with ice water and fold it over my eyes in a valiant, but ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to reduce the puffiness, and soak until the water goes cold and my fingers are pale and pruney.
There’s no sign of Ant when I finally get out of the bath. I’m glad. I’m devastated. I’m confused.
I need to get dressed for the wedding. Every movement takes more energy than it should. I can’t be bothered drying my hair, so I twist it into a smooth, sleek roll and call it done.
Still no sign of Ant.
It takes the better part of a tube of concealer to cover the puffy, purple bags under my eyes.
They’re still obvious, so I create a distraction with the reddest red lipstick I have.
Eye make-up is tricky since my eyes keep leaking without permission, but eventually I get them looking half way presentable.
I choose not to wear the dress my mother picked out for me for the event.
Right now, I need armour. So I’m wearing the stunning pantsuit I bought at Wailea with Louise.
She said it made my bum look incredible and my legs look twice as long as they really are.
Although that might have been the heels the saleslady insisted I try on.
Either way, I won’t be giving my mother the satisfaction of following orders. Not today.
My chest is tight, and when I try and take a deep breath, it turns into something between a shuddering sigh and a wail. I wonder if this is what patients with pulmonary oedema feel like. As though no matter how hard they try, they can’t get enough air into their lungs.
I contemplate not going to the wedding. Staying here and waiting for Ant. But I absolutely will not give Warren the satisfaction of seeing me defeated.
Nor will I beg Ant to come back. To get ready and go with me to the wedding. I don’t think I could pull off the act, even if he did.
I check the time. Fuss with my earrings. My shoes. Double-check the contents of my clutch. Touch up my lipstick. Blot the shine that’s already appearing on my forehead. Fix the run in my mascara and eyeliner.
When I can’t put it off another minute, I drop my phone in my bag, add another handful of tissues for safety, square my shoulders, and let myself out of the suite.
Still no sign of Ant.