“I was going to. But then Nick phoned and asked me to pick him up. I found him passed out in the toilet. Had to carry him out to my car.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember that fuzzy picture. It wasn't Nick he was holding. Definitely not Nick.
“Nick was out with Sophie last night.” I know this for a fact. My best friend, Sophie, posted photographs all over Instagram. He took her to some swanky restaurant near the City, and the two of them ate dinner overlooking the Thames.
“It was later, after he took her home.” Still unruffled, Luke leans back on my bed, folding his arms beneath his head. His legs are so long they reach the end of the mattress, making me feel tiny in comparison. It’s the story of my life—being 5’3” means I’m forever craning my head upward, even when we’re both horizontal.
I stare at him for a minute. Enough to take in his smooth skin, his pale lips, the way the pale-blond stubble is shadowing his jaw. I rub my own face as a lungful of air slowly escapes through my pursed lips.
For the first time I’m wondering if this is it.
Is this all I have to look forward to? The bitter lies of a boyfriend who can’t even be bothered to cover up his tracks. Once upon a time he would have been on his knees, begging me to forgive him, making promises he’d never do it again.
Now he’s got his eyes closed. His lips are curled up into a half-smirk. There’s no need to apologise, no need to make up a story, because he knows I’ll take him back anyway. I’m Pavlov’s dog, dancing to the tune only Luke knows the notes to. Too scared to question him in case I end up alone.
This is no way to live.
But it’s been so long, I’ve forgotten how to exist without him. It’s stupid, I know, but every day of my adult life has been interlinked with Luke’s. Even on the bad days—the ones when we argue, or when he’s criticising me—he’s still there. Whether he’s a red devil or a white knight, he’s been the lead character of my story for as long as I can remember.
Swallowing, I glance at his face again. Seeing him so unaffected by it all gives me a strange kind of confidence. Rolling my shoulders, I brace myself for a confrontation.
“Did you have sex with her?”
“What?” His eyes blink open. The next minute he’s sitting up, grabbing at my hand. “You think I had sex with somebody else?”
Silently I hand him my phone. The photo is on the screen, showing his indiscretion in its full glory. He looks at it and rolls his lips beneath his teeth, bleaching them white as the blood drains away.
“It’s not what it looks like, Amy.”
The urge to laugh takes over. My chest tenses, my throat gurgles, and it’s like I’m watching a Richard Curtis film. I can see myself the way he sees me. Gullible, easily led. I’m the girl who’s always been here, the girl who’s eaten up his lies while he’s done
exactly what he wanted.
Some people might say I deserve everything I’ve got.
“What is it then? If it’s not what it looks like?”
“She’s just a girl, one of my mum’s friend’s daughters.”
“Which friend?”
For the first time, he looks panicked. His knee starts to bounce up and down. “An old friend, you don’t know her. Somebody my mum met when she was at college.”
“Your mum didn’t go to college.”
His mouth sets into a firm line. The corners of his eyes wrinkle as they narrow. “Why do you keep questioning me?”
“Because you’re full of shit.”
I might sound brave, but my heart is hammering in my chest, making the blood flow too quickly through my veins. Luke leans closer, enough for me to feel his breath against my skin, and my own oxygen disappears in a whoosh.
“Amy…” It comes out as a warning, not an attempt to placate. “You don’t want to do this, babe. Just back off and let me explain, then I’ll leave and you can get some sleep.”
The word “okay” forms at the tip of my tongue, so strong I can almost hear it. I have to grit my teeth to keep it swallowed down. My bedroom—the familiar walls, the comforting pictures—suddenly seems more like a prison. Being with Luke is making me feel claustrophobic.
Closing my eyes, unprompted images flash before me. Luke and me with children, in a house in the suburbs. More promises, more lies. Raising toddlers on my own.
That’s where I’m going to end up if I don’t step away. Maybe not this year, maybe not next, but one day I’m going to be that woman who sits at home and waits for a husband that never comes home. Or worse, one that comes home full of glib lies and secrets.