Chapter 2
TWO
Only four messages from Rupert today. Not the normal thirteen. Or forty. I tend to keep him on mute all day then read them when I go to bed, which is an oddly masochistic way of ensuring I will lie awake for hours going over everything that happened and trying to decide what I’m going to do about it. With all this Harriet business to think about, I don’t feel like opening another worm can tonight, but the evening text torture proves irresistible once again.
Just remembered… Isn’t it Grace and Paul’s wedding on 23 Feb? Assuming you’ll be back for that??? Please confirm ASAP that attendance will be guaranteed.
Saw our Mastercard bill. Almost had a purple fit! PLEASE remember to pay for your purchases in US$ not in ￡, otherwise we’re getting crucified on the exchange. PS Not sure why you have to buy hypoallergenic pillows if your apartment is supposedly furnished. Assuming you’re not going to lug them home with you? Which means other people reap the benefit of our expenditure.
Any idea where you put Tiddles’ anti-anxiety meds? Poor thing’s overgrooming again. She’s practically as bald as a Sphynx.
He has attached a close-up of our cat’s nether regions, legs akimbo. As far as I can see, her fur is perfectly normal. Zero evidence of her licking herself to the bone, which is what happens if she’s stressed. Talk about ways to gaslight someone!
Can we please just talk on the phone and have a civilised conversation? You can’t go on ignoring me forever!!!
‘Sorry,’ I chirp out loud. ‘No can do.’
I click off, conscious that my heart is pumping a little harder. Telling him to essentially F off when he can’t hear me is a short-lived gratification, though. There are no winners in this. My tiny triumphs are quickly replaced with the sort of crushing sadness that I hardly know how to handle.
Suddenly, I’m blazing hot. I kick the duvet off, stretch myself across the queen-sized mattress, gawk at the ceiling. Now what? Night-time is the worst as there’s no distraction. Bed has become the enemy. I can’t throw myself at copious activities to keep my mind occupied. Can’t run from it; it has backed me into a corner and there is nothing for me to do but face it again. Relive every sanity-shattering detail of…
That day.
The flight over here from England.
Harriet about to embark on her big adventure of a study term at UCLA. Her first experience of being away from home. Rupert and I accompanying her on the pretext of the three of us having a little family holiday in California before we would say goodbye to her for three whole months. But we were really doing it because we didn’t want her arriving in a strange country all by herself. Having to navigate setting herself up in residence; shopping for groceries, dishes, reading lamps… All that without us, without even a car. She’d been used to university being a twenty-minute commute from our house in Reading. She’d chosen, sensibly, to live at home to save some money, though I’d often wondered if she might have short-changed herself of a proper university experience, like the one I’d had. I still did her laundry and we still shared cups of tea while I talked her down from feeling overwhelmed when she’d said ‘yes’ to a few too many commitments and was about to crumble under the weight of all her good intentions. Secretly I had loved it; I could still be there for her, she still needed me. We knew she was capable of travelling to America by herself, facing whatever challenges that came with it. Harriet is strong, and strong-minded. But this way we got to make her feel like she totally ‘had this’, as everyone says in America, but we could keep a watchful eye in case she didn’t. Deep down, I just wanted another of our ‘three Musketeers’ adventures for the memory bank. Another pristine page in the many chapters of our life that I would pore over at some later stage, perhaps when she truly had grown up and left us.
But I could never have guessed what I was going to get instead…
There we were. The three of us on the runway. Harriet by the window. Rupert in the middle. Me at the aisle. Row 18. The pilot announced we were fifth in line to take off. We didn’t care. We were happy. We’d never done a long-haul holiday before. The stress of all the preparations was behind us. We’d even shared a bottle of Champagne in the airport. Rupert hadn’t yet put his phone in flight mode because Rupert generally likes exercising his rebellious streak – but not in big ways that could get him into trouble. He was more relaxed than I’d seen him in ages. He was showing us some travel article he’d found of a scenic drive he thought we might do from Santa Monica to Montecito. Harriet was all into it. I could hear the giddy note in her voice; for the last few weeks she’d been like a kid on Christmas morning knowing this adventure was coming up. Rupert was going on about the ocean and the orange groves, and a famous resort where John and Jackie Kennedy supposedly spent their honeymoon, which enthralled her. We were leaning into him, flanking him, staring at the pictures, when up popped a text. A lightning bolt across the bottom of his screen.
You don’t intend to read somebody’s message. But it’s there, and your eyes have gone to it without you even realising.
It was from someone called Dagmara.
And it said: I really need to fuck you.