I look for Martin, but he’s left the room. We’re on our own. It feels as though we always have been.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can. I’ll try harder, we both will. We’ll make this work.” There’s a determined slant to his lips. He’s a winner in life, he always has been. It’s in his nature to fight.
“We’ve tried, Simon, and neither of us is happy. We’ll be better off apart.”
“And how are you going to afford to live without me?” he demands. “Your income from the clinic isn’t going to get you very far.”
“It isn’t about the money.” I know I’m not going to be able to find much. A bedsit at the most, or a grotty room in a shared flat. “Do you really want me to stay with you for your money?”
His laugh is harsh and humourless. “Yes.”
Reaching out, I cup his face with my hands. His skin is cold and damp. “That’s not true. You wouldn’t want me to be a gold digger any more than I’d want you to be my sugar daddy. That’s no way to have a relationship. We got married because we loved each other, because we wanted to be together.” My voice cracks. “Because we worked.”
“We can still work. Give it time, we can find another counsellor. We can go twice a week if we have to. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“How many times are we going to try?” I ask. “Tell me, when was the last time you felt truly happy?”
He pauses for a moment, enough to wipe his eyes with a crisp, white handkerchief. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either, and that’s not right. You deserve to be happy, we both do.” I lean forward until our foreheads touch. It’s an intimate gesture but not sensual.
“I know we’ll both be happier in the long run.”
Fifty-two percent. It’s not a fail, but it’s only a cat’s whisker
away. I read the number again, and wonder whether I should be pleased or appalled. Part of me is delighted I passed, despite my worst fears. I won’t have to repeat a year or come back in the summer for retakes. I won’t have to go crawling cap in hand to my parents and ask them to fund a fourth year at university.
But fifty-two percent. Just three marks less and I’d be in a world of trouble. It should be a wakeup call, a reminder of why I’m here. A second chance to make things right.
When I walk into the studio Niall isn’t there. Instead I find Digby leaning over some clay-type monstrosity, his face screwed up with concentration.
“Is Niall around?” I ask.
Digby looks up from the table. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“I wonder where he is.”
“I’m not sure.” He stares back down at his clay and starts to mould what looks like an arm. “He said something about getting some supplies.”
I try to hide my disappointment, but he sees it anyway. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Digby since we smoked white widow together at his house. He takes me for coffee and listens to me go on about Niall for hours. Even joins in sometimes.
I’m beginning to suspect he’s got as big a crush on Niall as I have. For some reason it doesn’t make me feel jealous. Having somebody who knows exactly how I feel is reassuring. Like I’m not going totally mad.
“Are you going to the party later?” he asks. There’s a big rave going down at one of the racier halls. DJs and dancing. A whole lot of drugs. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I’m going to enjoy the hedonism while I can. It’s only a week before I have to go home for the summer. Back to Mum and Dad, to overcast Essex. Back to pretending to be a good girl.
I’m dreading it.
“Save me a dance?” He gives me a suitably cute look. I’m going to miss his funny expressions over the summer.
“Of course. I’ll only ever Macarena with you.”
But we don’t dance together that night.
Or ever again.