by Dana Bate
“So, what did you want to discuss?” I start to say.
She keeps her eyes fixed on mine. “You know exactly what I want to discuss.”
I swallow hard. “Do I?”
“Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act—it’s pathetic.”
Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I’ve been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I’m not sure I’m ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw—she’ll crush me.
“Okay. Fine,” I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. “Let’s cut the bullshit, then.” My eyes drift toward her cabinets. “Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby.”
I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me.
“There is a baby, right? You wouldn’t make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core.”
She clenches her jaw. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do. And you know it.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don’t even love him.”
“You have no idea how I feel. About anything.”
“I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you’re having an affair with a guy named Jacques.”
“And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life.”
“No, but it means I know you don’t have Hugh’s interests at heart.”
“What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?”
“I know he doesn’t love you. I know he never did.”
“Well, la-di-da. Here’s a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work.”
“But you can’t really make a relationship work without it, can you?”
“You can if you want to.”
“Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn’t. Not anymore.”
“Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?”
“Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he’s trying to do damage control?”
“Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?”
My face grows hot. “It kills you that he’d choose me over you.”
She throws her head back and cackles. “Is that what you think? That he’d choose you? Christ, you’re even more naïve than I thought.”
“He loves me,” I say. “He said so.”
“You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don’t.”
My hands are shaking. “What about you? You’re having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh’s constituency? Let me answer for you: Not well.”
“Jacques and I are through.”
The blood rushes to my cheeks. “What?”
“We called it off. It’s over. I’m going to focus on my marriage.”
“What marriage? You mean your business relationship?”
“It is what it is.”
“Do you even care about Hugh at all?”
“Why is it any business of yours?”
My chest tightens. “Because I care about him. I love him.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet. Well, guess what? Your little schoolgirl crush is a fucking fantasy. Love isn’t some silly crush. Love is complicated and layered and a hell of a lot deeper than a sex-driven fling. Wake up and join the rest of us in the real world.”
“The real world? Is that where people play house for publicity’s sake? Where people care more about what OK! magazine might say about them than how they actually feel?”
She smacks her hand against the counter with force. “Don’t you dare pretend you know what it’s like to be me. To have the paparazzi hound you day and night. To have them splash the gory details of your breakup across the Web for everyone to see. To have them revel in your heartbreak. And to have them waiting—drooling—for someone to break your heart again. You don’t have a fucking clue.”
“So, what, you protect yourself by marrying someone you don’t care about and ruin his life, too?”
“I’m not ruining his life.”
“You’ve lied about being pregnant to trap him in a marriage. That’s even worse than not loving someone. It’s cruel. It’s the opposite of love.”
“Wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. And I am not indifferent.”
“Then what are you?”
She stares at me, her expression cold and hard as ice. “Winning.”
She stands firmly in place, watching me closely as I try not to react, my breath so shallow I’m afraid I might faint.
“You haven’t won yet,” I say. “This isn’t over.”
She glowers at me, her face like stone. “Oh, yes, it is.”
She turns around and walks toward the hall. When she reaches the doorway, she rests her hand on the frame and gives me one last probing look.
“Oh, and in case you were wondering,” she says, “you’re fired.”
CHAPTER 43
Fired? Fired? But that means . . . Oh, my God. I have to talk to Hugh. Immediately.
I grab my belongings off the kitchen chair and then race down the street toward the Belsize Park tube station. I pull the phone from my bag and call Hugh. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Hugh—hi. It’s me. Kelly. We need to talk. I spoke to Natasha earlier, and . . . Could you just call me? Soon? I know you said you’d call tonight, but I need to talk to you now. I thought about coming up to Nottingham, but I realized that would be stupid, especially with all the press, and . . . Anyway, just call when you get this okay? I’m going crazy.”
I barely recognize the neediness in my voice, the clinginess of my words. Who have I become?
I hurry home, and as soon as I enter my flat, my phone rings. My heart leaps, but it quickly sinks when I discover Hugh isn’t calling. It’s Poppy.
“I’ve just spoken to Natasha,” she says. “I’ll need you to hand over any notes or documents related to the cookbook, along with your phone and any other items we provided for you.”
“Okay.”
“And of course you’ll need to leave your flat.”
“What?”
“Well, I suppose technically you don’t need to leave, but Natasha certainly won’t be paying for it anymore.”
I’m about to ask what the rent is, to see if I could pay for it on my own, when I remember something. “If you want to talk about paying, Larry still hasn’t paid me for the work I’ve done so far.”
Poppy snorts. “You aren’t actually asking for money, are you? After what you’ve done?”
“I worked really hard on those recipes. Her cookbook wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for me.”
“Do you honestly think no one else could do your job? Don’t flatter yourself. She’ll find someone else.”
“She still owes me for the work I’ve done so far.”
“That’s Larry’s domain. Take it up with him.”
I clench my fist. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll get another job here in the meantime.”
“Here? Oh, I don’t think so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Darling, Natasha knows everyone in London. And right now, you are the last person she would ever recommend.”
“Then I’ll go back to America.”
“Good. As of today, you have only thirty days left on your visa anyway.”
I start. “What?”
“Your visa was contingent on your working for Natasha, and now that you aren’t, you have thir
ty days to leave the country or find another job here—which, as we’ve discussed, you won’t. So, it sounds to me like you’d better start packing.”
She hangs up, and with her strident voice still echoing in my ear, I wait for my life to implode.
I never appreciated how long a minute could feel. Sixty achingly long seconds, each beat dragging its heels to the next. And an hour—oh, God, an hour feels like a year. Which means waiting eight hours for Hugh to call feels like eight years, and by then I’m exhausted.
He calls just after six, and the phone has barely rung once by the time I pick up.
“Kelly—hi. I’m so sorry, I only just got your message.”
“What the hell is going on? You haven’t called in more than a week.”
“I know. I tried—several times—but Natasha has made it impossible for me to contact you.”
“I talked to her this morning,” I say.
“You did? Where?”
“In your kitchen.” A lump forms in my throat. “She knows about us. And she made it sound as if you’d reconciled.”
“She what?”
“She made it sound like you weren’t going to leave her. Like, ever.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Jesus. Listen, I’m heading back to London late tonight. Let’s meet tomorrow to talk about all of this. I can be at your flat for breakfast. Okay?”
“Why can’t we talk about it now?”
“Because I love you, and I want to talk to you about this in person.”
The words echo in my head: He loves me. Does he? If so, then why isn’t he saying, I’m leaving Natasha? Why do we need to talk about this in person?
“Can’t you at least tell me whether you’re leaving her or not?” I ask. “It’s a simple question.”
“It isn’t simple at all. It is, in fact, the opposite of simple.”
“But can’t you just—”
“Mr. Ballantine, someone from Crabtree Farm Primary School is here to see you. Shall I let him in?”
He muffles the receiver. “Yes—just a moment.” He directs his voice back into the phone. “Sorry—between Natasha’s bombshell and this education bill coming to a head, I haven’t had a moment’s peace. I’m still at the office. But I will see you first thing tomorrow. I promise.”
“But—”
“Mr. Ballantine?”
“Coming!” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I have to go. But tomorrow. Breakfast. I’ll see you then,” he says, and then he hangs up.
When I wake up the next morning, I rush to the bathroom to shower and make myself presentable for Hugh. I haven’t seen him in more than two weeks, and even though I am completely rattled by the events of the past week and a half, I still want to look good, more for my own self-esteem than anything else.
I flick on the shower, expecting the weak stream of water to which I have become accustomed, but nothing happens. Instead, the showerhead heaves forward and back with a loud whine, like an angry donkey—hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw. I flick off the faucet, then switch it back on, and as I do, I hear something rattle behind the tiled wall. The sound gets louder and louder until—BOOM!—the showerhead bursts from the wall and a surge of water explodes through a gaping hole in the tile. I panic as water gushes into my tub and onto the floor, soaking me and pretty much everything within a five-foot radius.
I fumble with the tap and finally manage to turn it off. I shiver as I scan the puddles on the floor and catch my reflection in the mirror. I am drenched. My hair clings to my face and neck, and my nightshirt is now transparent. Perfect. This is exactly what I need.
I throw on a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, pull my hair into a high ponytail, and head down the hall to Tom’s office. He sits at his desk and seems to be playing some sort of game on his computer. I knock on the doorframe, and he jumps.
“Good morning,” he says, clicking furiously with his mouse to close whatever application he’d been using. “Sorry—you caught me by surprise.”
“My shower broke.”
“Oh, dear. Is it not running?”
“It’s running—all over my bathroom. Something happened with the water pressure, and the showerhead burst off the wall. There’s water everywhere, and I can’t shower until it’s fixed.”
“Hmm. I see.” He leafs through a Rolodex on his desk. “I’ll call the plumber. Hopefully he’ll be able to come this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” I glance at his clock. “Is there any chance he’d be able to come sooner? Like . . . within the next half hour?”
“Possibly. Will you be at home?”
“Yes. All day.”
“Ah, a day off?”
“No, actually . . .” I decide against regaling Tom with my personal and professional saga. “Long story,” I say. “I’ll be around.”
“Great. I’ll put a call in to the plumber, and I’ll pop by in a few to let you know what he says.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Bugger me—first locking yourself out, now a problem with your shower. You’ve had quite a time of it here, haven’t you?”
“Trust me,” I say. “You don’t know the half of it.”
When I get back to my flat, I pull myself together as best I can without showering. Even if the plumber is able to come soon, I have no idea how long it will take him to fix the faucet, and by the time he has finished, it may be too late for me to wash up. So I clean myself with a washcloth, spray my wrists and neck with perfume, and do my best to tame my stringy locks. Once I’ve applied a bit of makeup, I head for the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee and pull out a loaf of bread to make toast. Under normal circumstances, I would throw together something special for breakfast with Hugh—a Dutch baby pancake or an omelet—but at the moment, I don’t have much of an appetite. And anyway, this rendezvous isn’t about food.
As I wait for Tom to update me about the plumber and for Hugh to arrive, I flip open my laptop. There is an e-mail from Meg with the subject line “Check this out.” At first, I assume her account has been hacked and the link is some sort of virus, but then I notice the link has the address “Michiganradio.org.” I click it and am taken to the essay I sent her, which now has 107 comments and has been reposted and shared on a dozen other sites. I tentatively glance at the comments, knowing I may instantly regret doing so, but to my surprise, they are nearly all positive. People love the piece. The piece I wrote. About me.
Before I can contemplate what this means—for me, for my career—Tom knocks on my door, as promised. I flip my laptop shut, smooth my navy sundress, and rush to the door. But when I open it, it isn’t Tom at all. It’s Hugh.
“Oh—hi,” I stammer, barely able to breathe as my eyes land on his. After not seeing him for more than two weeks, I wondered if the image I’d created in my head wouldn’t live up to the man himself. But standing before me in his crisp white shirt and charcoal pants, he looks even better than I remembered.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize you’d be here this early. I thought you were the building manager.”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“No, no—I mean, I do need someone to fix my shower, but that can wait.”
He glances over my shoulder. “May I?”
“Oh—right. Of course. Come in.”
God, why am I acting like such a moron? Why am I so flustered? It’s as if I’ve forgotten how to act around him, as if the events of the past few weeks have somehow sent us back to the beginning.
I let him in and close the door. We stand in my entryway for a few awkward moments, and then I gesture toward my table.
“I put on a pot of coffee, and there’s—”
He grabs my face and kisses me, his lips pressing against mine with intensity. My body dissolves into his, and all I want is to stay like this forever, for him never to leave, for me never to let go. But just as I start to unbutton his shirt, he pulls away.
“No,” he says.
A lump rises in my throat. “No?”
&nbs
p; He walks over to my couch and collapses, holding his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
“Why? Please—tell me what’s going on.”
He looks up at me, his eyes pink. “Everything just sort of . . . spun out of control.”
“What did? What were you doing in Scotland?”
“Escaping the paps. Trying to sort out this mess. Talking to Natasha.”
I sit next to him on the couch. “About what?”
“Our marriage. Our future.”
“Your future? I thought you were getting divorced.”
“I thought so, too. But then . . .”
“Then what?”
“Then she told everyone she was pregnant.”
I sink back into the couch. I have so many questions, so many things to tell him—about my conversation with Natasha, about how much he means to me—but there is too much to say, and I don’t know where to begin.
“Does that really change anything?” I ask.
“It changes everything.”
“How? Do you suddenly love her? Does a fake pregnancy erase your feelings for me?”
“Of course not. But the way it appears to the public . . .” He rubs his temples. “If I have any hope of climbing the ranks within the party, I can’t leave my pregnant wife—certainly not for a woman who worked for her.”
“But she isn’t even pregnant!”
“The public doesn’t know that.”
“Okay, well, what if they did? Doesn’t that change things?”
“Yes—for both of us. If she goes down for a horrible lie that I knew about, I go down with her.”
“So what happens when there’s no baby, huh? What happens then? She fakes a miscarriage?”
“Possibly.”
“What do you mean, ‘possibly’? Of course that’s what she’ll do. Because then everyone will feel really sorry for her, and she’ll be the center of attention, which is what she loves anyway.”
“Okay, and if that’s the case, am I really supposed to then leave my wife, who has had a very public miscarriage?”
“Fake miscarriage.”
“Whatever. As far as the public is concerned, it’s real.”
“So tell them it isn’t.”
