Chapter Five
Rowan
The pub is perfect. Roaring fire to curl up next to, half the floor laid with wooden boards, the other half a rich, green plaid carpet. Bar etched with the stains of years of orders, smoothed to a polished shine by hands and glasses and tea towels.
All the good spots near the fire are taken, so I find myself a table for two in the corner and settle in with my beer, back to the wall.
Everyone looks relaxed: red-cheeked, in fleeces and down jackets, half-drunk pints sat next to plates of steaming food.
The mother and daughter pair I spotted earlier are on a sofa, as the mother hands her daughter chips from their shared plate.
I snuggle down, trying to ignore the pang of loneliness I feel when I think about how nice it would be to be here with someone, instead of on my own.
Ethan would hate this. He, like me, is happiest at home, re-watching old episodes of Dexter with a takeout, or lost in a shooting game on the couch. He’d complain about the smell of damp coming off the hiker’s clothes, and their muddy boots, and the pub’s low ceiling, and the lack of television.
But that doesn’t matter anymore, I realise with a jolt. When Ehan cheated on me, he lost any right to an opinion on my life. And without him, I have to rediscover who I am. What I want. What I’m like.
I have no fucking idea.
Across the pub, Angus strolls in through the door. That cheeky bastard. So it’s not that he doesn’t want to go to the pub.
No. He simply doesn’t want to go with me.
He orders a drink and levers himself into an armchair that couldn’t be further from where I’m sitting unless he’d exiled himself in the rain, balancing a book on his bent knee. He holds it open with one hand, the other cradling his pint.
It’s infuriating. The ease with which he sits there, his thumb turning the pages, the firelight dancing on his weather-beaten skin. It’s infuriating that my presence doesn’t bother him.
I try to spy on the book in question. Is he an action man?
A crime guy? He doesn’t seem like the type for a sweeping romance, and I’d be surprised if he’s into the kind of fiction I like – sarcastic stories about millennial women crying into their cocktails, dysfunctional but charming families where somehow the mum is always the unintentional villain.
He probably isn’t into fiction at all. He seems too serious for that. He’s probably reading something profound and informational: something about trees or global politics or a biography of someone I’ve never heard of before.
I wish I’d remembered to bring a book. I’d love to forget my worries with a story.
My solitude nips at me again. There’s no one to chat to.
Not one to laugh with. No one to distract me from my thoughts.
My hand twitches towards my phone, and I let it, but instead of allowing myself to doomscroll, I choose the healthier option: I call Marnie.
“You’re alive!”
It’s been less than forty-eight hours since I last saw her and I already feel like I’m missing a limb.
She’s my best friend. The better part of me.
Other people have partners who were soulmates: I have Marnie.
And, sure, I have to share her with Brian and Rufus, but her heart is big enough for all of us.
That’s what makes her so special: she always has time and space for the things she loves.
“I’m alive!”
“Is it awful? Are you in terrible pain? What’s the weather like? I bet it’s bloody raining.”
“It’s…” I don’t have the words. Everything hurts.
I’ve spent most of the day in some combination of wet, cold, or pain, I’ve been scolded by a man twice my size, and I’m about an hour away from attempting to sleep on the floor, and yet…
“It’s been hard,” I settle on, unable to explain the way I feel, aching and relaxed and heavy, but in a good way, like this is what my body is meant for.
“My feet hurt. And my back. And my shoulders. And it’s been pretty wet, yeah. ”
“Oh, babe, that sounds awful. Do you want to come home? I’ll send Brian to fetch you right now.”
“No, you bloody won’t,” Brian chimes in. “I’ve got a pizza on the way with my name on it. Go fetch her yourself. She’s your best friend.”
“Thanks, Brian! Appreciate the support!”
“Besides, Rowan is as capable and stubborn as you are. She doesn’t need saving. Do you, Ro?”
A tear pricks my eye. He’s wrong. I’m not capable, or stubborn, and most of the time, I very much do need saving. But, perhaps, not right now.
“I’ve got a plate of pasta coming. I think I’ll ride this one out for now,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Marnie interrupts, “but I think you should know that Ethan called me. Cheeky git. Obviously, I told him nothing.”
“I know.”
“You know? Have you been speaking to him? Ro! He cheated on you! In your own bed! With a blonde! In Louboutin heels! You can’t even afford non-designer heels.
You buy yours at TK Maxx, and she’s there rubbing her wealth and beauty in your face.
That’s… psychopathic. You cannot, and I repeat, cannot, get back together with him, no matter what bullshit excuse he tries.
I know I’ve never been his biggest fan – not since the Asparagus Incident – but even you have to know that it’s over now? ”
I feel supported and stung all at once. I knew Marnie didn’t like Ethan, but I didn’t realise how deeply those feelings ran.
And, yes, I hate him no, and no, I’m not going to get back together with him – I have some dignity left – but it’s still hard to hear that someone you respect doesn’t approve of your choices. “Even you”? What does that mean?
But I won’t poke the bear. Not tonight.
“Don’t worry. He called me, but I hung up.”
I omit the part where I panicked, and the heavy Darth Vader mouth-breathing. Marnie doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Good for you!” Marnie cheers. “Serves the bastard right: he doesn’t even get words from you.
” She pauses. “Also, your mum and Sophie both texted me. They said you haven’t been replying to them, and that you sent them both some cryptic message about needing space and meeting them at the wedding.
They’re worried about you. I mean, I think Sophie’s more pissed than worried…
Why haven’t you told them what happened? ”
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t want to bother them with it, that’s all.”
I know what I’m doing is wrong. I’m supposed to be helping Sophie prepare for one of the biggest days of her life, and instead I’ve run away. And rather than explain myself, I’ve chickened out and apologised by text. Guilt settles in my stomach like a lump of bread. No wonder she’s pissed.
And Mum. Ever since the Great Collapse, Mum needs to hear from me at least once a day or she starts to panic.
I check my texts. I sent her a message on the train yesterday but haven’t replied to any of hers since.
A normal daughter doesn’t need this level of surveillance.
A normal daughter can be out of contact for a day without any questions asked.
But I’m not normal. I’m broken. And my whole family knows it.
“Ro… They’re your family. They’d want to know.”
Marnie isn’t wrong. They do want to know. They want to know everything that happens in my life, every single, small detail. It’s suffocating.
Maybe a part of me wants to rebel. To feel independent, if only for a few days. But mostly, I can’t bring myself to tell them. Can’t admit to another failure in a long list of failures.
Couldn’t graduate. Couldn’t climb the career ladder. Couldn’t take care of myself. Couldn’t even keep my boyfriend happy enough to want to stay.
I’m not bad to look at. I’ve got long brown hair, and blue eyes and a smattering of freckles over my nose that more than one man has softly stroked.
I’ve had my fair share of flirtations. But they rarely stay.
Not once they get to know me. About as interesting as a teaspoon, one date called me, while another didn’t even bother with an excuse, but simply walked out and left a tenner on the bar when I went to the toilet on our second date.
My bright clothes confuse people – they make me look interesting, when I’m anything but.
The furthest I like to wander from my comfort zone is a new flavour of bath bomb.
Sophie and I have that in common: we’re both stay-in-our-lane people.
Only her lane is high-achieving perfectionist, and mine is middle-of-the-road under-achiever.
So no, I can’t tell my beige-slack wearing, Cambridge graduate, lawyer sister who is about to marry a man so posh he has his own wax seal – and actually uses it to send letters – that I have, once again, failed to live up to expectations.
Even if her fiancé is a self-involved, entitled prick who doesn’t come close to deserving her.
“Looks like my pasta’s here!” I lie, voice bright. “I’ll call you soon, okay? Love you so much!”
“Ro…”
I hang up.