Page 40 of Two Wrongs
‘Ivy, your client out here will be needin’ Nat’s waxing skills if she’s to wait any longer.’ My brow furrows at Ted’s expression, which immediately turns to a withering glance at the ceiling. ‘She’s been waiting so long she’ll have grown a beard as full as mine.’
‘Will she need colour to hide the grey, too?’ Nat responds, saccharine sweet.
‘You know what, Natasha?’ Ted asks, stepping into the tiny kitchen now. ‘You’re a troll.’
Nat scoffs, folding her arms as she rests her hip against the countertop. ‘At least I don’t look like one.’
Ted begins to huff. And flounce a little. ‘You’re a cheeky besom! You take that back.’
‘Okay, okay—enough of that now. You can’t keep going around rubbing each other up the wrong way.’
‘I would’nae rub anything up against that girl. You don’t know what you might catch!’ Before the final words are out of his mouth, he stumbles back in response to Nat lurching forward.
‘Ha! You wouldn’t have any idea what to do with me, you big girl’s blouse.’
‘M-maybe not,’ Ted stammers back, now standing his ground. Well, once he’s realised Nat’s movement was all bluff.
‘Come on—knock it off now before you’re both out of a job. I mean it.’ I point the soggy tinting brush at each of them in turn. ‘It’s like having a couple of kids. I’ve had it up to here,’ I say, bringing my hand to my forehead. ‘Now, apologise, both of you.’
The pair mumble insincere apologies, making me wonder what was the point. I have no idea what the issue is, other than I assume Nat thinks he’s a waste of facial follicle and Ted’s probably jealous of Nat’s height. I may have employed the man, but I wasn’t here for his first week, meaning I’m not privy to what went on, but by the time I got back, it was already obvious they were never going to be friends. At this point, I’d settle for them ignoring each other because if they can’t get along, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m beginning to think they enjoy being mean to each other.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Ted,’ Nat says. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were a troll.’ I narrow my eyes at her as she pushes past the man in her effort to flounce out the door; I know she’s not done. ‘Because I totally meant to say garden gnome.’
Chapter Nineteen
Ivy
Last timeI visited Fin in London was just after I’d flown back from LA. She had a new job down there but wasn’t expected to start for a few weeks. However, inadvertently finding out the man you love has another woman pregnant can make a girl change her plans pretty rapidly. Accordingly, I’d changed mine, too. Nat and June assured me they had everything under control at the salon, so I’d booked a connecting flight to London timed within two hours of my long-haul flight touching down. We’re close, Fin and I. We spent our teenage years dashing in and out of each other’s bedrooms, crushing on the same boys. Got drunk together our first time, and even shared a flat at one time. But then, as they say, we put away childish things. We went our separate ways and, in the process, started hiding things. We’re still as close, but our friendship has changed in its dynamic. Maybe due to a kind of preservation or, in my case, maybe more a selfishness. But whatever the reason, we’ve hidden things—my marriage and, up until recently, Fin’s sadness in hers. Maybe neither of us was prepared to listen to the other—the voice of reason in the face of the troubles we’d made for ourselves.
But my past is milk already spilt—milk that has soured on the carpet. I wished I could say I was still crying over it, but I haven’t shed a tear since I woke up in the bed with Dylan gone. That’s not quite true; I did cry once, and the embarrassment from a stem of tears and snot I couldn’t slow was enough to make me promise it’d be the last time. No more tears from this girl. Business as usual, I’ll keep my feelings locked up.
It’s too late for me to confide in her. What good would it do? I unburden myself and make her worry, but for what? My reality would remain unchanged. I couldn’t do that to her; she has enough to deal with herself. And,Jesus Christ, I’m so angry about all that on her behalf—hasn’t she gone through enough already at the hands of another man, her feckless husband—without being screwed over by Rory, the man she loves?
The truth, if I cared to examine it at any length, would be I’m glad I’m heading to London. That I’m happy to be there to support her because while I’d do anything rather than see her unhappy, focussing on Fin’s heartbreak might prevent me from examining my own.
I was doing my best to ignore anything relating to Dylan. To what I’d done. And I probably still am. Even now as I sit on the train, on my way once again to visit Fin, several weeks later. Last time, she was understandably devastated but has since spent hours reassuring me she’s fine—that she’s moving on. But I know she still hurts. I can hear it in her voice when she calls. And I know because I hurt, too. Love and pain, pain and love. These things don’t disappear overnight. So while she’s all positive affirmations over the phone, I know better. I know loss twists in her chest like a knife. Not regret over Marcus, her bastard of a husband—a man who deserves none of her regret—but for Rory. For taking a chance. For falling in love. I know with certainty that every time she thinks of him, her heart constricts, the barbed vines wrapped around it tightening.
Again, I know because it happens to me.
Scenery blows past the window as I reflect on how much time I have to think these days, especially now that she’s no longer living with me. During the day, I’m busy with the business, same old, but evenings, I seem to spend a lot of time wondering. I know I was unfair in my apportioning of blame. Don’t get me wrong—Dylan did plenty wrong, but if it hadn’t been for my cowardice that night I let him believe something that wasn’t true, I might never have found myself on the way to a divorce. These days, I no longer think of him with malice. Instead, I have... regret. And a sadness I try to hide from. Regrets. Like the song says, I have a tonne of them. I regret the choices I’ve made and the hurt I’ve caused. Most of all, I regret leaving Dylan.
I-miss-him-I-miss-him.
The train seems to echo the sentiment in its lulling sound. I push away my cold coffee and the rail company’s excuse for a cheese sandwich, which was so vile, while I consider the thoughts I usually hide from. I feel loss. And lost. I’d never allowed myself to feel sad after I left L.A. that first time. Back then, I’d channelled my energy into spite and hate. Into blame—how dare he assume I’d cheated on him. Why couldn’t he see the truth in my lie—the lie I told him. The lie I toldforhim? I’d turned my disappointment of his reaction into hate. Maybe I blamed his whole gender on behalf of him. But this second time? Yes, he was hurtful, and yes, his planned revenge was wrong, but somehow, being near him had opened up another part of me.
Maybe it was a reminder. Of how we were. How we used to be.
So yes, I miss him. And I’ve no one to share that with. It’s not just our partnership I grieve for or the way he loved me. It’s the little things. The presence of his hard body next to me in bed, the touch of his hands, and the way his arm would fall without thought to my hips whenever he stood near. It’s like I turned all my love into hate, and seeing him again, well, it thawed, melting away my rage and my blame.
It made me remember the man.
And I no longer worry that the choices I’ve made make me a bad person. My actions won’t define me. I’m not a bad person—I love my family and friends. I try to live my life without doing harm;Trybeing the operative word. But I’m not a bad person. I’m just a regular one, striving to be good, and sometimes getting it wrong.
I’m not a bad person. Maybe just a stupid one.
It’s not regret or remorse that keeps me awake some nights. Well, not always. It’s what comes next. Am I destined to live my life in Auchkeld? Is this it for me now? Will I remain alone? If what June says is right, we’re deserving of more than one great love in our life. While I don’t think she’s necessarily wrong, I find it hard to believe I’ll ever love anyone the way I loved Dylan.
The way I love him still.
