I think about feigning sleep on Monday morning as I hear Rupert up and moving around, getting ready for work, but when he leans over and kisses me, I open my eyes.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. And I’m sorry about this weekend.’ We have barely spoken since Friday night, Rupert busy on Saturday with rugby, and then meeting Will for a few pints after, and me borrowing the car to spend Sunday in Salisbury, browsing the artisan market alone. It would have been that way regardless of whether we had argued on Friday night, our plans already made, but because we had argued, I’d felt as though I’d moved through the weekend under a thick black cloud. Rupert’s kiss is like a chink of sunlight on a grey day.
‘Me too.’ I give him a sleepy smile. Part of me does want to stay cross with him, at the way he just seems to brush my concerns aside, but I’ve been through so much to get where I am – to be with him – that I can’t. Rupert kisses me again properly this time, not even minding about morning breath, and I wait until I hear the door snick closed before I get out of bed. Heading straight for the bathroom, I shower quickly and brush my teeth. It sounds ridiculous, but it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I brush them, I still think I can taste Friday night’s veal at the back of my throat. I managed to mask my horror as Rupert ordered it for me, but I couldn’t eat it. I try to drown it out downstairs by making a large mug of coffee, and then heading upstairs to brush my teeth again, but it’s still there, coating my tongue and making me feel slightly nauseous. Or maybe that’s just nerves.
I’m excited, my stomach fluttering at the thought of what I am about to do today. No more drifting around the house with nothing to do; I’m going to follow Caro’s lead. My mouth twists a little at the thought of Caro. Rupert and I didn’t discuss the photograph again after Friday night. I don’t know where he’s put it, and I don’t want to know either. All I do know is that it isn’t on display anywhere, and on Sunday evening when I got back from Salisbury, our own wedding photo was on display in the sitting room. Still, the very fact that Caro’s picture somehow found its way onto the fireplace makes me feel unnerved, as though Caro’s ghost floats through every room in the house. I wonder briefly whether to ask Sadie or Amanda about it but push the thought away. Like Rupert said, they are my friends now, even if I do feel as though I have only a tenuous grip on the friendship. I’m just starting to feel accepted, and I don’t want to accuse them of something and potentially rock the boat. I scoop up my bag and grab my scarf, realizing as I check my watch that I’m going to be late, and that wouldn’t do, not today.
Half an hour later I am rushing along the pavement, head down and mindful of what I am about to do, when I collide with someone, losing my grip on my bag – tampons, pens and make-up tumbling out across the pavement as it hits the floor.
‘Oh, shit!’ I exclaim, as the guilty party, a man in a suit apologizes profusely before dashing away down the street without even offering to give me a hand to pick my things up. Sighing, I crouch down, biting my lip hard in frustration.
‘Em? Is that you? Are you all right?’
On hearing a familiar voice, I look up from where I am scrabbling in the gutter for my favourite mascara, aware of the soggy, blackened leaves perilously close to the hems of my designer jeans, to see Mags standing over me. ‘Oh, Mags.’ I swallow hard, suddenly caught off-guard. Mags is the last person I was expecting to see. ‘Hi. Yes, I’m fine, that… idiot just knocked me flying.’
‘Let me help you.’ Mags bends down and I am assaulted by that old familiar scent of patchouli oil and weed.
‘It’s fine, Mags, honestly,’ I say as Mags grabs the last of the detritus from the filthy pavement and slides it with a grimace into my bag. ‘I should…’
‘It’s been ages,’ Mags interrupts, ‘I haven’t seen you since you came and got your things. How was the wedding?’ Her voice is cool.
I cringe inside a little, guilt making me feel hot and prickly. ‘It was lovely, thank you, I’m sorry I…’ I break off. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you, were the words on the tip of my tongue, but it seems too cruel to say it so bluntly. I had had every intention of inviting Mags to the wedding, had even started to write her name on an invitation, but when I thought about the way people – new friends like Sadie and Amanda – would look at Mags, the way Rupert had said, ‘Are you sure you want her there?’, I had torn the invitation in two and stuck it deep down into the kitchen bin. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No problem. I was probably busy that day.’ Mags sounds hurt, but she hides it with a cool smile, nothing like her usual wide grin. ‘Your new life seems to be
