My dad asks if he can use the bathroom before leaving. I’m not sure if it’s some sort of delaying tactic – who knows with my father? – but I can hardly say no.
I slump down on the sofa, overcome with exhaustion. Just over a week ago I still had a perfect life.
The buzzer rings and I wonder whether to ignore it. It will be some poor person trying to get me to sign up for a monthly standing order to their charity. Either that or Jehovah’s Witnesses wanting to save my soul (too late).
‘Em, it’s me.’
Mark?
What the hell? I buzz him in, throw open the door to the flat and watch him coming up the stairs.
‘Why didn’t you use your keys?’ I say. Yeah, Emily, because that’s the most important question right now.
‘I didn’t want to—’
Mark is interrupted by my father emerging from the bathroom. For a second, I’d forgotten he was still here.
I am hit by a sudden and unwelcome realisation: my father has just come face to face with the man he thinks is still my fiancé. I am busted.
‘Ed,’ Mark says. ‘I didn’t know you were in England.’
‘Yeah, just until tomorrow night.’ Dad shakes Mark’s hand. ‘Good to see you, mate.’
How can he be so perky? A few minutes ago, he was in tears, but perhaps that was all fake?
‘How was your business trip?’ Dad says.
Mark’s face crumples in confusion. ‘Business tr—’
‘Dad was just leaving,’ I say, fighting the urge to physically push him out of the door.
‘Emily and I have spent most of the weekend planning the wedding,’ Dad says.
I stare at the floor, my face flaming and my heart racing. I can’t bear to look at Mark. ‘I’ll call you, Dad.’
He takes the hint, scoops up his jacket and rucksack and shakes Mark’s hand again. ‘Good to see you.’
I follow my father out onto the landing, pulling the door to. ‘I won’t be calling you,’ I hiss. I am furious he made me look an idiot in front of Mark – the tragic little soul who can’t accept the wedding is off. Rationally, I know this isn’t his fault, but that doesn’t stop the white-hot anger pumping around my body.
‘Everything okay with you and Mark?’
‘Yes, of course it is. Just go, would you?’
He nods and I watch as he heads down the stairs. He looks old and tired and defeated, but I am damned if I am going to let myself feel sorry for him.
I take a deep breath and steel myself to go back into my flat and face the humiliation that lies on the other side of the door. I have no idea why Mark is here – maybe to discuss selling the flat – and now I have to cope with the shame of him knowing I have spent the weekend playing the part of bride-to-be.
‘I can expl—’
‘It’s okay,’ Mark says. ‘I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell my parents about the split yet either.’
My brain struggles to catch up. Mark not yet mentioning the break-up to his parents is a little different to what I have done. But I suppose he thinks ‘we’ve spent all weekend planning the wedding’ was my father’s usual hyperbolic nonsense. He doesn’t imagine for one second that we actually bought a wedding dress. Or walked around wedding venues with me feigning interest in where they suggested for photographs, what canapés were on offer and how they set up the room for the live band.
‘May I sit down?’ Mark says.
Why is he asking me if he can sit down in the flat he still half-owns? Have I really got away with what I’ve done? When did everything get so bloody weird?
We sit side by side on the sofa, my mind immediately serving me up a memory of the last time Mark sat in the same place.
‘What’s your dad doing in London?’
‘Long story.’ I don’t want to talk about my father.
Mark reaches out and puts his hand on my arm. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt.
‘Emily, I’m so sorry. I’ve had the worst week of my life. I’ve missed you so much. I don’t know what I was thinking before. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll forget about the job in Manchester.’
Relief floods my body. Mark is saying all the things I have been desperate to hear.
‘I know it’s a huge ask, but I want to know if there’s any way you can forgive me; pretend this never happened? I think I just got scared but that’s crazy because the scariest thing of all is being without you. I’m not even sure I know how to do life without you. We’ve been together all our lives, haven’t we? We grew up together. You’re the Dec to my Ant.’
‘That’s true,’ I say, through the tears.
Mark reaches out and pulls me closer towards him. He has big dark rings under his eyes. He has been suffering too. Not out shagging other women like I imagined.
‘Please forgive me, Emily. Please say you’ll still be my wife.’
I look into the face I know almost as well as my own. I see the sixteen-year-old version of Mark, shy and awkward as he leaned in to kiss me for the very first time; I see the Mark who held me while I sobbed after Mum died and the Mark who proposed to me in the Howarths’ garden.
Less than an hour ago, I was reflecting on Mum’s regrets about never getting to visit her best friend in France. I was vowing to myself that nothing was going to get in the way of my dream of going travelling. I heard my father telling me that someone can be a great person but not your person.
What the hell does my dad know about anything though?
I put my hand on Mark’s warm cheek, stroke the scar he’d got falling off his bike when he was three. ‘Of course I’ll still marry you.’