Chapter 43 Andrea
Andrea
“You know Sainsbury’s delivers, right?” Liam was backing into a parking bay near the shopping trolleys.
“Yes, but I like to choose my bananas. In person. They’re always too green or too brown otherwise.”
“No such thing as too brown,” he said. “Banana loaf.”
“You bake?” Never saw that one coming.
“It’s been known.”
“Personally, I like to plan to bake, then leave them in the bowl until they turn black and start to leak, and my kitchen fills up with fruit flies,” I said.
“Um … yeah, sounds about right.”
We grabbed a trolley and went inside. This was possibly the worst time to shop—everyone was on their way back from work—but Liam had insisted on coming with me. He always liked to help me.
The small, normal things seemed even more important than anything else we did together. Did he think the same?
He followed me toward the vegetables.
“Could you grab me some of those?” I pointed at the tomatoes.
“Doesn’t Eliza like the cherry ones better?” he asked, grabbing a box and dropping them into the trolley, then slipping an arm around my back.
We moved along the aisle. I picked up a melon and pressed it with my thumb.
“Too soft,” I said.
He picked up another. “This one? It’s on special.”
“Even better.”
At the end of the aisle, a man struggled with a stack of multipack water bottles, trying to balance them in his trolley. One slid off and thumped onto the floor.
“Here.” Liam crouched and lifted it back up. “They’re awkward.”
Did he realize I noticed things like that? That I was watching all the time, that it mattered to me how kind he was to other people, even when he thought nobody was looking?
The man muttered a thanks and wheeled his trolley away, still looking annoyed at the world.
In the stationery aisle, Liam picked up a copy of Modern Painters and waved it at me.
“Hey,” he said. “You ever been in this?”
“That’s a little out of my league.” Sweet of him to think it, though.
“You never know. When do you find out about your portrait?”
“Any day now.” I crossed my fingers and held them up. I felt more excited about the idea of it selling now. I still hadn’t heard from Sebastian since we’d got back three weeks ago, but if it had been significant, surely he’d have followed up, right?
“Now, just one more thing and we’re done,” I said, scanning the shelves for hand soap.
Ah, there it was.
Right next to the incontinence pads.
Mum’s face beamed up at me from thirty packs of Defenda, like she was beyond thrilled about her imaginary pelvic floor issues.
My eyes shot over to Liam. He was looking at them too.
“The UK’s premium brand,” he said, turning a pack over like we were discussing teabags. “Should we … ah—”
“No, we absolutely should not,” I said. A nearby head turned.
“Oh. I didn’t—” Liam straightened instantly.
“I know that,” I hissed. “But I don’t need them.”
“Sorry, Andy.” He paused. “It’s very common, you know. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Seriously, I don’t give a shit if you—”
“Liam! I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“That’s my mum,” I said.
“Your mum uses them?”
“It’s her. On the packaging.”
“Oh.” He squinted at the pack. “Ohhh.”
Oh my God.
At dinner. And the clothes fitting. And the wedding. And everywhere else for the last month.
This entire time he’d been thinking—
And he’d never once said a thing.
“She’s a model,” I said quickly. “Over fifties stuff like support tights and hemorrhoid cream. Cialis, once. She gets free samples sometimes.”
He looked at me like something new was coming online in his brain. “So in your flat that time—”
“Hers.”
“And the—”
“ErectaGel? Also hers.”
“Right.” He rubbed his chin and frowned. “I did briefly wonder if you had an aggressively hopeful skincare routine.”
“I don’t think it works on … facial skin.”
“Mmm.” He nodded. “Probably wouldn’t. So your mum’s an actual model?”
“Yes. Just … less couture, more … condition specific.”
“Well,” he said, “she certainly makes incontinence look enjoyable.”
A snort escaped before I could rein it in.
“You didn’t hear that, did you?” I asked.
He grinned. “Hear what, babe?”
*
Back in my kitchen, Liam leaned against the counter, easing a corkscrew into a bottle of wine. Sometimes, when I looked at him like this, just hanging out, I could hardly believe it was just so … easy.
“White okay?” he asked.
“Yes, please. Whatever’s cold.”
He nodded and turned back to it. I kicked my shoes off and picked up my phone from the table.
Oh. Sebastian’s name. He was finally getting back to me.
I opened it.
Sebastian: Hi, Andrea. Sorry for the delay. Just wanted to confirm the sale of your Montclair piece went through today. Buyer was Roth Holdings. ￡17K. Funds should clear this week. Congratulations.
I read it.
Then read it again.
Oh my God.
Behind me, the cork gave a soft pop.
“That was easier than expected,” Liam said. “I thought it’d fight me more.”
Roth Holdings. ￡17K.
My head swam, and I looked up at the window over the sink. It was dark outside. The flowers he’d bought me at the market were dead, the vase was slimy, and the water was starting to smell. I should throw them out.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I set the phone face down. Was it?
It had been. Sort of. I’d grieved with my friends losing their jobs, taking their calls when they’d wanted to talk. That had been tough enough. But now this? Knowing Liam had bought my painting for an outrageous amount, and for what—kicks?
Or did he just want to contain it for me, take away the risk?
He didn’t even ask me. He just did it.
My stomach felt like ice, my thoughts jumbled.
I’d felt so safe with him, like I could finally rely on someone other than myself.
It had been so easy, sliding into this life where Liam stepped up, made me believe something solid and lasting was possible.
I’d told him things I’d never told anyone …
he’d listened when I’d talked about my dad, my mum, and what had happened.
When I was with him, I felt like I could finally loosen that tight knot of responsibility that had let me hold things together for Eliza and me for so long.
But underneath it, I’d always known the sense of ease was borrowed. Even my job—my role at Novexia—was only safe because Liam had decided it should be.
And now, with my painting …
That was all I had left. The only thing that was still completely mine, outside of his influence, his control.
That tiny speck of knowledge that no matter what happened, maybe, just maybe, I could still make it in that world, that I could do it myself, that Sebastian might be right, and that my future still belonged to me.
And now he’d taken that away too.
But that was who he was, it was what he did. He took control. I’d been kidding myself to think otherwise.
I wasn’t ready to process this, let alone talk about it. What could I even say, anyway? I reached for an excuse.
“Just James.”
He chuckled, then poured the wine and slid a glass across the table, the base scraping on the wood.
“You want pasta?” he said. “Or we could just do eggs on toast. I don’t mind.”
“Whatever’s easiest.”
I don’t care what’s for dinner.
My world was closing in on me. Everything I’d ignored for so long was coming back at me, more unsettling than ever. Was Toby Davenport right?
“The little lies we tell ourselves so we can keep doing what we want, have the nice things.”
Liam took a sip of wine, then reached past me for the olive oil.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
No. No I’m not.
The wine was sharp in my stomach.
He cracked the eggs into a bowl, one-handed, noting how the shells split cleanly, without any mess. I watched the yolks slide together as he whisked them with a fork.
“What time’s Eliza back? Do you think she’ll want some?” He tipped the eggs into the pan, being careful not to spill any.
“I don’t know. Late.”
See, Andrea? You knew this would happen. You can’t ignore things forever.
The sizzle filled the kitchen. He nudged them gently, turned the heat down, and watched them begin to set.
“You seem kind of quiet, babe.”
I opened my mouth to speak and stopped. If I shared what was on my mind now, I was worried about what might come out.
And what that might do to Liam and me.
*
Me: Thanks for the update, Sebastian.
Sebastian: Any time.
He probably thought I knew about the purchase, that it had been Liam. The text was just a courtesy.
We lay on my sofa, Liam’s long limbs sprawled across the cushions. Mr. Darcy sat on his lap, purring, and the room still smelled faintly of eggs. To an outsider looking in, the setup looked idyllic. Happy, even.
I was trying not to spiral, but I couldn’t decide which I felt more: humiliation or hurt.
How could he?
“So you bought it,” I said coldly. I couldn’t sit with it inside me any longer.
“What?” He was flicking through the channels, looking for the latest MAFS.
“My painting.”
“What about it?” His eyes didn’t leave the screen.
I sat up and folded my arms.
“You bought it, Liam.” My tone had a hard edge that made him look over, and Mr. Darcy decide it was time to leave.
“Sorry, babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I tipped my head on one side. “I think you do.”
He pushed himself upright and turned to me.
“I was just—” He gestured at the screen. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening properly. What’s up?”
“Are you seriously going to pretend you don’t know?”
“About your painting?”
His hair was messed up, his features softened by the dim corner lamp. Looking at him like this, the real, gentle Liam, made my heart twist.
Please, Liam. Don’t make this worse than it already is.
“Sebastian told me. Seventeen thousand.” I tried to keep my tone neutral.
“Andy, that’s great. Seventeen thousand is—”
“Don’t patronize me.”
His brow creased.
“I don’t know what you mean. That’s an incredible price for a first piece. Isn’t it?”
He thought I was upset because he hadn’t paid enough?
“How can you say that?” The words piled up in my throat, threatening to spill. “I didn’t ask for your money.”
I hadn’t asked for anything. Not the clothes, not the wedding, not even that IKEA chest he’d insisted on paying for.