Love Is...

by Haley Hill

  Nick rushed into the kitchen. From his furrowed brow and teary eyes, I could tell he already knew. Maybe Victoria had told him, maybe he’d guessed. He smiled, but I knew it was for my benefit. He put his arms around me and pulled me into his damp coat. I hugged him tightly and buried my head in his chest.

  After a while, he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, Ellie,’ he said.

  I knew he must be hurting as much as I was, and that now was the time we needed more than ever to love each other, but when I smelled whiskey on his breath, I felt my muscles tense. I pulled away.

  ‘Well, it might be OK for you,’ I said, with a sharp sigh.

  Nick cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of my sudden change of tone.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  He leaned forward and stared at me. ‘You’re saying I’m glad it didn’t work?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ I began, then paused just to be sure I wanted to continue, ‘you didn’t try as hard as I did.’

  He stepped back, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, Ellie? What is wrong with you?’

  I glared at him. ‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who’s spent the past year partying like the Wolf of bloody Wall Street. No wonder we couldn’t conceive.’

  He frowned. ‘Partying?’

  ‘You’re out every night.’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Drinking.’

  He ran his hands through his hair. ‘You know I hate entertaining. Drinking is the only way I can tolerate a night with those egotistical Neanderthals.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, poor suffering you.’

  ‘Besides,’ he added, frown turning to a scowl, ‘lately, it’s been preferable to being at home.’

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’

  I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’

  Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’

  ‘Relieved?’

  ‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.

  I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’

  He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’

  I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’

  ‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’

  ‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.

  I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’

  Nick screwed up his face.

  ‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’

  Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’

  I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’

  I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’

  Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’

  I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’

  Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’

  Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’

  He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’

  Chapter 4

  Matthew stopped at Cassandra’s front gate and scratched his head.

  ‘I’m not sure balloons are entirely appropriate for a divorce party,’ he said, gesturing to the bulging bunches tied to each post.

  Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me’ was blaring out through the open windows and, as we walked up the path, I could see silhouettes gyrating under a disco ball. The sunken roof of the Georgian townhouse looked as though it might collapse with the shame of it all.

  I knocked on the door. There was no answer.

  Matthew turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.

  I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’

  Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’

  I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’

  He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’

  ‘She’s going through a rough time.’

  Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.

  ‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’

  I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.

  She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’

  I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.

  Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.


  ‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’

  Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’

  I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend.’

  Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’

  Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’

  I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.

  ‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.

  He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.

  I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’

  He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.

  I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’

  He downed one of the tequilas. ‘Ellie, a divorce party is hardly the ideal platform to preach moral standards.’

  I snatched the other tequila, thought about putting it on the side, then downed it instead.

  Matthew did a double eyebrow raise. ‘I see you’re drinking again?’

  I nodded, wiping my mouth.

  He stared at me for a moment, looking as though he were about to offer something profound. Then, clearly thinking better of it, he put his arm around me and ruffled my hair.

  ‘Come on, fag hag,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’

  A while later, once Cassandra had informed the DJ that we had a ‘gay’ guest, it was as though the playlist donned a pair of leather chaps and dropped an E. And despite Matthew’s sterling efforts, which peaked at a rather gymnastic ‘Vogue’ pose, by the time we heard the intro to a remix of the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ we both agreed it was time for a tequila top-up. Matthew didn’t bother with glasses this time; instead, he just grabbed the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to me.

  I took a gulp and looked around the room. The furniture had been pushed to the side and the fireplace hidden behind the temporary DJ booth, but even through my now blurry vision, I could see that this was otherwise an elegant family room. I found myself imagining Cassandra and Dr Stud, or Stud-Wheeler, as they’d renamed themselves, snuggling on the sofa together, bottle of red in front of them, the latest HBO TV series on in the background. I held the image in my mind for a moment, before contrasting it with tonight’s frenzied quest for oblivion and wondered when it was that they had stopped loving each other.

  I snuck behind the bar and picked up a photo frame that had been placed face down on a radiator cover. Straight away I recognised the image. It was a photo I’d taken on our singles’ trip to St Anton: the moment they’d jumped off the ski lift together, now freeze-framed forever. I smiled as I recalled the months I’d spent prior trying to persuade them to meet each other.

  ‘No, he’s too short,’ Cassandra had said, when I’d shown her his profile.

  ‘I usually date hotter girls,’ Dr Stud had explained, before selecting the profile of a bikini-clad twenty-three-year-old nursing graduate.

  I’d always known though that if I could just get them together on the ski trip then they would understand. And they did—well, for nine years at least. I glanced back down at the photo and took another swig. I would never forget the way they laughed together. It was as though they were the only two who knew the punchline. That kind of love couldn’t simply fade to nothing. Could it?

  I looked up to see the redhead giggling and then flashing her cleavage at Matthew. I glared at him. Just as I was about to intervene, Cassandra appeared beside me.

  ‘Gimme some of that,’ she slurred, snatching the tequila bottle from my grasp. I’d forgotten I was still holding it. She took a swig and then turned to me. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes looked vacant. She nodded to the photo. ‘What goes up, must come down,’ she said, surprisingly succinctly. Then she laughed. ‘No one can defy Newton’s theory of…’ She rubbed her temples and swayed a little. ‘Or was it Galileo?’

  ‘Newton,’ I said. ‘Gravity. Are you OK?’

  She took another swig and then wiped her chin. ‘Never better,’ she said, handing the bottle back to me. ‘Right. Speech time.’

  I was still gripping the photo frame as I watched Cassandra climbing onto a chair, microphone in hand. I should have intervened. It was clear to everyone that a public and drunken explanation as to why we should celebrate the breakdown of her marriage wasn’t going to end well. However, as much as I wanted to preserve her dignity, part of me was desperate to hear what she had to say. I gripped the photo frame tighter and glanced over at Matthew, who was now cupping the redhead’s breasts through her dress. In the past year the agency’s divorce rate had doubled. Even my own relationship was in distress. I wanted to know why. Because if I knew what was wrong, then I was closer to finding a way to fix it.

  Cassandra wobbled on the chair a little, then steadied herself and tapped the microphone. The DJ turned off the music.

  ‘Hey, everyone!’ Cassandra shouted.

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘It’s great to see you all here tonight,’ she said, looking around the room and holding out her hands. ‘Some of you knew me before…’ she pointed at a few people in the crowd ‘… and some of you knew me during…’ she pointed out a few more ‘…but now, after nine forgettable years, Richard, or Dick, as I now prefer to call him, is finally out of my life…’ She punched the air and the light from the disco ball caught a tear on her cheek. ‘That bastard might have cost me £1.3 million in settlement and my last fertile years, and…’ she pulled the skin tight on her face ‘…given me greater need for Botox, but now I’m rid of him.’ She punched the air again like a motivational speaker.

  The guests cheered and clapped and she gestured for me to bring her the tequila bottle.

  ‘As I said,’ she continued, having taken another swig, ‘some of you knew me before, and some of you knew me during. But everyone will know me after! Let’s get this party started!’

  Cassandra jumped down from the chair and the music was replaced by synthesised siren. A group of faux policemen stormed into the room. They had sunbed tans, thick thighs and crew cuts.

  Matthew caught my eye, with a ‘can we please leave now?’ expression.

  I glanced back at Cassandra, who had begun to emit a noise not dissimilar to that of a mating tree frog.

  Matthew immediately abandoned the redhead and shuffled up beside me nervously. The crowd, mostly comprising single women, parted and chanted as the dance troop ripped off their Velcro fastened trousers in one synchronised movement and went on to execute a choreographed ‘stop and search’ procedure, intermingled with an array of dance moves, which Matthew identified as the rear arrest, the handcuff hustle and the truncheon treadmill.

  Once the routine had finished, and the only garments that remained were black satin pouches, Cassandra lifted up her skirt and called out to the dancer with the largest bulge. I did a double take. He looked disconcertingly like Nick.

  ‘Officer,’ she said, slapping her bottom, ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl.’

  After she’d manhandled his pouch, she whispered
something in his ear and slipped him a fifty-pound note, followed by a cheeky wink in Matthew’s direction.

  A short while later, after Matthew had been the non-consensual recipient of an extended lap dance from PC Schlong, he asked me if we could leave. I led him out of the house and closed the door closed behind us. He glanced around skittishly and then sped down the front path to hail a passing taxi.

  I giggled as we climbed in. ‘You can’t have the smooth without the rough,’ I said.

  He scowled at me. ‘There was no need for him to dangle the bloody thing in my face,’ he said.

  I giggled some more.

  ‘Stop laughing,’ he said, folding his arms and staring out the window.

  I leaned towards him and smirked. ‘You’ve still got some whipped cream on your chin,’ I said, still laughing.

  His hand flew to his face until he realised I was winding him up. Then he glared at me. ‘Speak about this to no one,’ he said.

  After I’d eventually managed to stifle my giggles, I shuffled up next to him.

  ‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘We had fun tonight.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, I’m glad you had fun while I was being lap-raped by PC Right Said Fred.’

  I smirked. ‘So you didn’t have any fun at all? Not even squeezing Cassandra’s bottom?’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Or checking out that redhead’s boob job?’

  ‘She was asking my opinion.’

  I sighed. ‘Because she thought you were gay.’

  ‘I can be objective.’

  I shook my head.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Lucy wouldn’t care anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You have a clause in your marriage contract stating that objective assessment of non-spousal secondary sexual characteristics is permissible?’