Him being away for all those days in a row – it’s dangerous when I have too much time to stew. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have come out and asked him about her. It was like some kind of disgusting illness – I couldn’t help it pouring out of me. That’s what he thought, I knew it was. That I was disgusting.
He was very quiet. Cold and silent like an iceberg you might just sail right into and drown. He told me not to be so stupid. Stupid’s a funny old word – it can sound like a term of endearment or a punch in the face. He knew full well it was a right hook – he’s many things, but he’s definitely not stupid. I burst into tears, ran out of the room. ‘I can’t help the fact you’re so highly strung,’ he shouted, like his words coming after me were enough to mean he was a nice person. I lay there and sobbed. I called Lysette before I was thinking straight, but of course I couldn’t tell her about him. Made something up on the fly, an attack of my famous PMT, and stuffed myself with chocolate like it was true. It did make me feel better, in a sick kind of a way. Most things that make me feel better seem to come with that kind of kicker.
I bet he doesn’t talk to her like that. He wouldn’t dare. She walks around this village like she owns it, like I’m some kind of fucking peasant. Now I’ve got a bit more cash I’ve been upping my game – I clocked her looking at my arse at pick-up on Thursday when she thought I couldn’t see her. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she had a lezzie crush, but all she was doing was calculating how much my silky red maxi dress – dry clean only, naturally – had cost me. It’s got that fake boho thing going on where it looks casual and costs a fucking fortune – it’s the kind of shopping you learn from living in a perfect shithole like this one. Thank God for Lysette, she gets it. I burnt the tags, couldn’t risk the bin, another lecture on my irresponsibility. He’s clever, we know that, he finds things. I used to think it was because he cared, but now I wonder if it’s the polar fucking opposite.
Later, when he tried to tell me he loved me again, I didn’t pour cold water on it. I let it burn even though I knew I shouldn’t. I know how he feels – it’s the kind of fire that could be fatal – but it’s so long since I’ve felt warm to my bones.