“I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s not the same without you there. I keep worrying about you.”
The guilt-bird nesting in my stomach takes flight.
“I’m fine, honestly. The room is nice and my flatmates seem friendly enough.”
I don’t tell him I haven’t been spending much time there. I’m not cruel, plus there’s a big difference between honesty and rubbing his nose in it. Still, I owe it to him to be truthful, and that’s a big reason why I’m here tonight. Things are getting serious between Niall and me, and I don’t want Simon hearing that from anybody else.
When the waiter brings the wine over we stop talking. Simon tastes the red, pausing to sample it before nodding at the waiter. It’s achingly familiar, as if we’re part of a play repeating itself night after night. The script would have us finish our food and go home, where I would take off my makeup and crawl into bed, while Simon puts on his reading glasses and picks up the latest Lee Child. Instead we are winging it, ad-libbing where the script requires strict adherence. I can’t help thinking I’m happier with our new situation than he is.
“How’s the clinic?” His question takes me by surprise, not least because I don’t know how to answer it. Do I tell him these past weeks have been difficult, that I’ve been crying more, scared for the fate of a little girl who doesn’t belong to me?
“It’s good. Especially now the gala’s over.” I give him a small smile. “At least until I need to organise next year’s event.”
“You did a good job. You always do.”
Silence falls again and I wonder how things became so awkward between us. Part of it is me. I’m hiding something and my lack of candour is colouring our conversation. My chest tightens when our first course arrives and I realise I need to say something soon. But I look at him—the man I married, the one who saved me when I thought I was unsalvageable—and it just seems so cruel. As though I’m breaking his heart all over again.
Putting his knife down, he looks right at me. “When are you coming home?”
“What?” My brows knit together.
“You’ve made your point. I get it. I neglected you, I should have paid you more attention. There’s no need to string it out, you can come back home now.”
This isn’t the first time he’s asked me to come back to him. Yet every time I tell him it’s over, it doesn’t seem to sink in. He’s still talking to me as if I’m a child. The prodigal daughter, waiting to return.
“Simon…” I’m not good at this. How many times can you break somebody’s heart? My own feels as though it’s cracked in two.
“You know I can take care of you. We work best when I’m making the decisions. Stop fighting me.”
He’s talking about a Beth I’ve left behind. I don’t want her back, I like being me, and the way I can make my own decisions. I don’t want to be the little wife anymore.
Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.
“I’m seeing somebody.” I blurt it out in my usual cack-handed way. “I wanted to tell you face to face.”
I watch as emotion clouds his expression. Confusion morphing into surprise. “As in seeing a boyfriend?”
I nod. “It’s early days. I just thought you should know.”
Simon stares at me silently. I look down at the chorizo and scallops congealing on my plate. Any appetite I had has long since been stolen by my words.
“Do I know him?” he asks.
My hands start to shake. “You know of him. He’s an artist. Niall Joseph.”
His eyes narrow and he drops his head. “The one you’ve been working with?” When he opens his mouth to say more, my phone rings, and I shuffle through my bag to find it, embarrassed that I’m subjecting the whole restaurant to the sound of chiming bells. I’m about to switch it off when I notice the caller. My hand freezes in the air, shock stilling any momentum it might have had.
It’s Daisy MacArthur.
“I need to take this call.” I look up, but Simon’s staring at his plate. Maybe a few minutes to let him collect himself is a good thing. “I’ll be back in a moment.” My chair scrapes across the polished wooden floor when I stand up and walk to the front door. Pressing accept, I put the phone to my ear and walk out into the cool, evening air.
“Daisy, is everything okay?” In the silence that follows I find myself wondering whether she’s dialled me by mistake, or is merely working up to giving me another earful. “Daisy, are you there?”
The sound is so quiet I can barely hear it at first. I press the phone closer to my ear, trying to drown out the cacophony of traffic and conversation reverberating through the street. Then it gets louder until I realise she’s crying, and the drawn-out sobs chill me to the bone.
“Daisy?”
“I can’t wake her up.”