I feel like crap because my client’s fiancé fucked me behind her back, and that’s got sweet FA to do with De Chante.
I’ve heard from Ant on loop how what happened wasn’t my fault, and neither of us have any responsibility to check whether people are cheating pricks before we meet them, but I’ve also been hearing how I do have a responsibility to tell Claire what a piece of shit her fiancé is.
I can take you to hers, Cass. Just say the word.
I feel like a failure for not heeding his advice on morality. I should get in the car and go and do my duty, but I can’t even begin to imagine the seedy disgust and downright shame I’d feel at telling her what happened that night.
Will I ever tell her? I don’t know.
Do I want to tell her? No. Definitely not, since it will destroy her.
Should I tell her, at the cost of my career and reputation? Yes. That’s what Ant tells me. Yes.
Maybe I’m just a selfish bitch who is putting myself above clients I should be honest with? I hate it, but maybe it’s true.
I’ve been keeping a smiling face on things for Ant as best I can, assuring him that I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok.
He’s been giving me looks and asking if I really am as ok as I say I am, or has it put doubt in my mind about what I really want.
Do you still want to be the woman on the mattress for me, baby? If not, I understand. If I’m not the man for you, I understand. It wouldn’t be your fault, sweetheart. I wouldn’t bear grudges.
I still want to be that woman, I tell him over and over. He’s the man for me, I swear.
He doesn’t hold back in his determination as he offers his help on repeat.
I’ll take you to Claire’s, sweetheart. If you want to share the truth with her, I’ll be right by your side. You’ve done nothing wrong, Cass. There’s no reason to think you have, and you need to accept that.
The thought of losing him is a thousand times more terrifying than telling Claire, so if I need to do that to demonstrate I’m really ok with the morality side of what we do, I’ll do it, but I’m thankful it doesn’t get that far.
“I’m so glad you’re beginning to feel better, princess,” he says on Wednesday afternoon once I’ve managed a few decent forkfuls of tuna salad, giving me a massive hug and a kiss before he leaves for Berlin. A tiny part of me is almost relieved when he gets into the Audi and drives away, as though a weight of pretence has been lifted from the moment I wave him goodbye.
Fuck it. I take a break from health food and make myself some cheese on toast, curling up on the sofa in baggy PJs and fluffy socks for my last afternoon of wallowing before I pull myself together enough to get back to work. Janie has been pinging me about how I’m feeling, and if I’ll be up to swimming tomorrow night. She’s sent me three messages about it so far, all of them trying to subtly ask whether I’ve invited Gerwyn along with us, but not subtly enough that I know she’s buzzing at the idea.
I only wish I was.
The thought that Gerwyn knows about the mattress room and what I do in there makes me feel sick, because I’d never have pictured him seeing me like that. The idea of him knowing I’m Ant’s filthy slut whenever he wants me to be feels gross and outright horrible. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does. The idea of Gerwyn knowing I took a queue of men inside me last weekend is enough to make me want to curl up and die.
I’m going to have to face it soon enough though. Since Gerwyn and Ant are largely ships passing in the night at the moment on their trips back and forth to Berlin, I already know he’ll be turning up this evening, and I’m considering bailing and hiding in my room out of sight, but he arrives much earlier than I expected.
I hear the car pull up outside, the front door slam shut. Too late to run and hide upstairs. I’m thankful I’ve got the lights dimmed low because I’m already burning up with embarrassment.
“Hey,” the crusader says as he sits on the sofa opposite, dropping a bag at his feet.
I love his smile, and I attempt a genuine one in return that I haven’t managed in days, even though my heart is pounding so much it’s making me shake.
“Hey. Good time in Berlin?” I ask, trying to act natural.
“Not too bad. More importantly, how are you feeling? Ant says you’ve been ill.”