Page 49 of Two Wrongs
‘Fuck. Just fuck!’ Elbows against my knees, I have my head between pressing forearms as I begin to rock almost angrily.
‘You’ve been separated six months,’ he adds quickly. ‘At least, you’ve been in Scotland that long, according to this.’ I hear rather than see him pointing at the papers on the desk, his finger drumming the wood beneath three times. ‘Six more months and you can file the petition—’
I sit up suddenly, the blood rushing away from my head. ‘That’s it? That’s the only way?’I’ll be, what, six or so months pregnant by then. Not good enough.‘There isn’t a quicker way?’
I follow the line of my solicitor’s gaze, belatedly realising I’m cradling my stomach containing the little bit of Dylan I’ll always have.
‘No,’ he replies. ‘I’m afraid there is not.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivy
‘I’m tellin’ you,’ Natasha is saying as I enter the salon, ‘that’s the way to go these days.’
The bell tinkles as I close the door and am hit by a sudden wave of scent. Flowers, maybe, mixed with something not so pleasant. It’s all I can do not to gag.
From behind themade-to-look-rough-hewn-but-actually-cost-a-fortunereception counter, June frowns. ‘Something wrong, hen?’
‘Has the water been changed for those flowers?’ I immediately regret my terse tone. It’s not like it’s June’s job, and it’s not even as if she gets paid for the help she provides. And it’s not as though the odour resembles stagnant water exactly, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can she not smell those things? Theyreek!
‘They’re fresh this morning; the florist brought them in.’
‘Ask her not to bring them again. They stink to high heavens,’ I complain.
June leans in, her nose hovering over the delicate, pale apricot pink blooms. ‘They smell like roses,’ she answers, perplexed. It’s an expression quickly smothered as another crosses her face.
Suspicion?
Nope, not touching that one.
‘I just have a sensitive nose,’ I answer, despite not meaning to as I swing past the counter and onto the main floor of the salon to where Nat and Ted stand.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, only really interested in avoiding June’s observations. Besides, they’re probably only sniping at each other. I’m not expecting anything pleasant from them.
Nat sits in one of the chairs adjacent to a basin, and Ted is.. . what? Pretending to be busy now that his boss has just appeared?
Pssht.It’s gone four o’clock on a Wednesday; it’s not like we’re expecting a last-minute stampede.
‘Nothin’ much,’ Nat responds to my enquiry, adding an airy, ‘Good appointment, was it?’
I shrug lightly. ‘About what I expected.’ Maybe if it were opposite day, that is.
‘Is that so?’ Eyebrows comically high, she slides a hairbrush from a nearby stand, absently tapping it against the front of her thigh.
‘It is.’ It’s so bullshit. But I’m not thinking about it now. Not when she’s giving me the third-degree gargoyle eye. Or something.
‘Gimme that.’ Ted snatches the bristled brush from her hand. ‘Do I abuse the tools of your trade?’
‘Trade? You were tellin’ me earlier you were an artist.’
‘I said acreative,’ he responds, sounding exactly like, well, a child. A big, bearded narky child.
‘It’s only a hairbrush,’ she snipes in response, springing from the chair and causing him to stumble. ‘I bet you ten quid that if I left you alone for five minutes in my treatment room, you’d be abusin’ yourself with my massage oils.’ Nat digs me in the arm with her elbow. ‘Wouldn’t he?’
‘I hope not,’ I say on the breath of a sigh. My feet are hurting, and I’ve a horrible headache coming on. ‘What was it you were talking about when I came in?’ If nothing else, refereeing these two will be practice for when—for when.Well, you know. Offspring. Child.Don’t they have an answer for everything at some point? I certainly remember my own mother saying so at—
Oh fu—fudge.
