Page 43 of Two Wrongs
‘They’re hair extensions,’ I say quietly. ‘Not that you can tell.’
‘Ivy used to work in Hollywood. Sometimes on movies,’ Fin offers in explanation.
‘I remember you telling me. This Georgia, is she as horrid as I’d like her to be?’
I shrug noncommittally. ‘There are plenty worse.’
‘True. The world is full of horrible, horrible assholes.’
‘And he’s fucked a lot of them, apparently.’ Dylan’s words fall from my mouth, pulling tears from my lids.
‘He does have a colourful love life,’ agrees Fin. She’s not looking at me, so she doesn’t realise I’m currently balanced on a sharp emotional edge.
‘My God—did you guys see his sex tape?’ Bea interjects. ‘It’s not surprising he gets so much action. The man is hung like an elephant!’
In an explosion of tears and motion, I jump from the sofa and dash into the bathroom.
Chapter Twenty
Ivy
‘Areyou feeling any better this morning?’ In the kitchen, Bea turns from the double espresso boiler, looking fresh from the shower, tangles of wet hair making the back of her t-shirt damp.
‘Yeah, sorry. I’m not usually so weepy. I don’t know what’s come over me these last few weeks.’ Though, I know fine well what came over me last night; an extra-large helping of remorse, faced with the sight of my happy husband.Happy without me.
‘Fin tells me you’ve just started a new business after moving back to Scotland.’ The words sound like a question, but not one that requires an answer of any sort. ‘Those are big changes for anyone. I’d know, about moving internationally, especially. Coffee?’
‘Please.’ I add my thanks as she pours me a cup from the boiler, setting it down. I’ve made peace with the fact I’ve fallen off the coffee wagon. There are worse things I suppose. ‘Did Fin go out?’
She nodded. ‘For her run. She said she wanted to get a head start on her calorie intake. You’re heading to Camden later, she said.’
‘The markets,’ I affirm. ‘More specifically, the food stalls.’ Street food, she’d said. ‘Then onto somewhere for an afternoon of gin-fuelled cocktails.’ I can hear how forced my bright tone sounds as I lay it on especially thick. What must this poor woman think of me? Will I be forever referred to asthat friend you have—you know—the crying one?‘I’m sorry about last night.’
Bea laughs. Probably for politeness’ sake. ‘Don’t worry about it. How about some breakfast,’ she says in a swift change of topic I’m glad for. ‘I’m making eggs?’ She brandishes an egg slice and a carton of mushrooms as a shiver of revulsion slides down my throat. ‘But you barely touched the food last night,’ she says, noticing my shudder.
‘I wasn’t really hungry. Plus, I had a dodgy cheese sandwich on the train. It left me with an awful metallic taste in my mouth.’
‘A metallic taste,’ she muses, turning back to the stove.
‘Aye—I mean, yeah. Nasty, it was.’
‘And an overly emotional state.’
She turns her head over her shoulder, half a smile evident. ‘You sure you’re not pregnant?’
‘Ah-ha. Ha. Ha.’
Erm, no.
No fucking way.
When did I have my last period again?
‘What’sup with you today? You look like someone who lost a fiver and found a pound.’
‘Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.’ I inhale a deep breath, pleased we’re out of sniffing distance of food now that we’re walking along the banks of the canal. The weather’s warmer today; a quintessential spring day, and the canal side is busy with families enjoying the sunshine. Meaning lots of avoiding strollers and dogs, which hurts my heart. Not the kids, strangely enough. I miss my Nigel.
‘You looked like you were about to barf when I suggested Mexican.’
