The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  We don’t have rings to exchange, which is a shame, but I thought it would be a step too far when it comes to Nate believing that this whole night was an impromptu, mutual agreement. I try not to glance down at my watch because, nice as our minister is, he is, unfortunately, a talker.

  ‘I’ve been married for seventeen years and the best bit of advice I like to share is that you must never, I repeat, never go to sleep on an argument. Start each day with a clean slate.’

  I daren’t look at Nate as I start to feel him fidget.

  Finally I hear the words, ‘By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife.’

  There is a camera flash. I lean over and kiss Nate on the lips. I hear the words ‘smile’ and ‘congratulations’. We are showered with confetti as we sign our names. I’m vaguely aware of handing over gratuities and saying ‘thank you’, several times.

  It’s a total, utter, exhilarating, overwhelming dream come true. I can feel my hands shaking.

  I’d love to be able to announce it on all my social media pages and wait for the outpouring of congratulations and good wishes. I fantasize that everyone would be happy for us, including Bella, and they’d wish us well.

  As we pull away from the Tunnel of Love, Nate holds my hand, just like we’re in a proper fairy tale and, for once, I’m playing the starring role.

  18

  I insist we go back to my room. I want him on my territory for a change.

  We are alone on our wedding night; the night I have been dreaming of for years.

  We kiss before the door even shuts properly behind us, as though he has missed me as much as I him. Clumsily, I guide Nate to my bed as we half-kiss, half-embrace whilst he steps backwards. He lies down straight away. But before I can even join him, his eyes shut.

  ‘Nate! Nate!’ I shake him roughly by the shoulders.

  He has to wake up. We have to do this properly, otherwise it just won’t work. I shake him again, then pinch him hard on the upper arm, but he remains dead to the world.

  He snores gently.

  After a couple more attempts, I give up and decide instead to savour my achievement. I phone room service and order champagne, plus a selection of luxury nibbles. Next, I call the concierge to check that our DVD, printed photos and USB have been sent over from the chapel, seeing as I paid for an express service. I love Vegas, it is so wonderfully accommodating. I dim the lights by the bed, pull off Nate’s shoes, remove his wallet from his back pocket and cover him up with the duvet as best I can. It is hard work pushing him on to his side, he is bloody heavy.

  I wait.

  He remains unconscious.

  In my bag, several sleeping pills and four of the antidepressants I took from Amy’s remain untouched. I didn’t need any backup drugs. Nate was as docile as a lamb. I succeeded in getting him to the right level of pliability to make him reckless, but not unmanageable. Until now.

  There is a sharp rap at the door. I open it. A waiter pushes in a table on wheels, upon which rests an ice bucket and several silver domes.

  ‘Hi. Do you mind leaving this right here?’ I say, blocking him from entering the room any further.

  I guess they’ve seen all sorts, but pride prevents me from letting him think that I’m going to drink and scoff my way through this lot whilst Nate is asleep. The waiter takes his time lifting each dome lid, offering an unnecessary description, then pops the champagne cork.

  ‘Don’t pour,’ I say. ‘We can do it.’

  He hands me the bill to sign. I help myself to some dollars from Nate’s wallet. It’s time he contributed. As the waiter opens the door to leave, a porter is standing there with the wedding memento package. I dip into Nate’s wallet again.

  With our wedding ceremony playing on my laptop in the background, I pour the champagne down the basin and tip the empty bottle upside down in the ice bucket. I break up some of the salmon and caper canapés, scrape oysters from their shells and squish them into a napkin. I retch. All this is a huge waste, I know that. But the more memory gaps that Nate has, the more he will rely on me to fill them in. And if he has any doubts that he was any less than a one hundred per cent willing participant, then all this physical evidence will prove to him that he was as swept along in the moment as I was.

  We are both to blame.

  I brush my teeth, but leave my make-up on. I attempt to brush Nate’s, but it is messy and futile. I pull off his clothes and scatter them on the floor. On the desk, I leave out a large photo of us and our marriage certificate. If we get up early enough tomorrow, we could go ring shopping.

  He could also call his family and announce the good news. I’m in, I’m finally in! However, I do feel a twist of nerves at the thought of Bella’s reaction, but even if she does have anything negative to say, it will be too little, too late.

  I undress and slide into bed, falling into a well-earned sleep next to my husband.

  I deliberately left the curtains open. I want the sun to stream in. It doesn’t disappoint, marking the first day of our honeymoon.

  Nate is still asleep.

  I slip out of bed. The air conditioning blasts out. I shiver and turn it down. I clean my teeth and return to bed, reliving last night.

  Nate stirs. I nearly scream as his eyes open suddenly and he stares at me.

  Silence.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead. It’s early afternoon. Coffee?’

  He continues to stare, but his eyes don’t look fully open.

  I kiss him. ‘I’ll make one. Just how you like it. I intend to start this new life as I mean to go on.’

  He sits up and in the mirror opposite I can see he is still staring. He doesn’t seem to clock our wedding photo or any of the other clues showing indisputable evidence of our love. I push the filter button on the coffee machine and watch as the liquid bubbles into the glass jug, splashes of black dirtying the sides. I look up and smile at Nate in the mirror. He gives a weak one back. I fill two mugs, add plenty of creamer to Nate’s and stroll back to the bed, handing him his. He pushes himself up with his left hand and accepts it with his right. I climb in beside him and take a sip. It is delicious; the perfect strength.

  ‘So, it was quite a night?’ he finally speaks in a hoarse voice.

  I laugh. ‘You’re so funny, babe. That’s the understatement of the year. You really surprised me; I had no idea that your feelings for me were still so strong. My only concern is how I’m going to break the news to Matt. He’ll be gutted.’

  ‘I feel dreadful. You have my word that I won’t cause problems for you. There’s no point in hurting someone for nothing. I guess we both overdid the drink?’ He smiles.

  The bastard actually smiles at me. As though his behaviour is reasonable.

  I smile back. ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit deceitful?’

  I lean over and leave my mug on the side. I take his cup, stretch over him and leave his on the side too. I run my hand over his chest, then I kiss him. He tastes of stale alcohol, despite my attempts to brush his teeth last night. At first he hesitates, but I persist. I know him. I know him too well, and my knowledge is his weakness.

  It is over in minutes, but I don’t care. The final hurdle is over. I cuddle into him.

  After a few seconds, he moves my arm and pulls himself into an upright seated position. ‘Lily. This has been great. But—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But . . .’ He stares ahead.

  I know what he thinks he’s going to say. But he can’t.

  He will need a little time to accept the sudden change in his life. I get that. I developed a little theory recently, which I named my ‘Olive Stone Theory’. Whenever I bite into an olive, I expect a stone. I am prepared. I am not like Nate – or pampered people like him, who expect to bite into their bloody olives, pitted, soft and perfect – I anticipate problems and mentally deal with them in advance.

  My husband frowns. He holds up his left hand, then his eyes explore the room, resting on our wedding pho
to. He leaps up, looking around.

  I watch.

  ‘Lily? What on earth?’

  ‘Don’t you mean Mrs Goldsmith? This is our honeymoon, darling. Come back to bed. It’s call-time in a few hours. We’re going back home. Remember? I’m moving back in until we choose a place together.’

  ‘Lily. I’m serious. Everything’s a blur. Just fragments.’ He stares at the food remnants. ‘We ordered food? After a meal out?’

  This piece of information seems temporarily more incredulous to Nate than the marriage bit. I think he’s still under the influence. He’ll have to be careful and behave normally – although his alcohol level will be within the flying limits by the time he is due to report for our flight, and Rohypnol barely lasts twenty-four hours, so he should be safe enough.

  ‘Come and lie back down. You don’t look well.’

  He obeys. Lying down, he groans, then closes his eyes.

  ‘Do you want some painkillers?’

  He nods. I take two from my bag. He opens his eyes, lifts his head and I help him swallow by gently tipping water from a plastic bottle into his mouth. His head falls back and he shuts his eyes again. His breathing gets deeper.

  I leave him alone for a good hour before I shake him awake. ‘Nate! Go and get in the shower. You’ll feel better. I’ll phone room service and ask them to clear this lot up, as well as bring some brunch. You look as though you could do with something to soak up the alcohol.’

  On his way to the bathroom, he picks up the wedding photo and stares at it. He then spends longer studying the marriage certificate. It confirms that we definitely got married yesterday on July the eighteenth.

  I hold my breath.

  He turns round to look at me. ‘Lily. We need to talk.’

  I dial room service. ‘Hello. I’d like to order . . .’ I say, pointing at the bathroom.

  Nate picks up his phone and, negotiating the debris, he shuts the door behind him. I replace the receiver and put on a dressing gown. I wedge open the room door and push the trolley outside into the corridor. I can hear the shower running. I twist the bathroom door handle. He has locked it!

  The thing is, he’s going to have to make the best of the situation. There’s no point in him fighting this – us – any longer.

  The water stops. Silence. He is on the phone to someone. He is talking quietly, but his voice is clear.

  ‘No fucking idea, mate. You’ve got to help me sort this.’

  A knock at the door. I open it and step back to let the waitress in.

  ‘Where would you like the tray?’

  ‘On the bed, please.’

  I sign, tip and let her out. Nate is still whispering away.

  I knock on the bathroom door. ‘Breakfast, darling.’

  ‘Out in a minute!’

  ‘OK.’

  I remove my robe and pour myself a coffee from the cafetière and sip, whilst looking out the window. I can feel the outside heat on the glass. As far as I can see, there is activity. I imagine other couples, like the ones in the Ford Mustang last night. I bet they are happy, normally planning their future. I don’t want this to turn into a hollow victory. I knew it was a high-risk strategy, but love can grow. And I genuinely love Nate, which is why I’m perfect. I’ll be a good wife, and he will never truly be happy with anyone else. I just need him to understand that. I wish he’d given us more of a chance when we got together last year, because he only has himself to blame for all this.

  The bathroom door opens. I keep looking out the window as though I, too, am contemplating the situation. If I act too needy now, he’ll dig his heels in. He pours himself a coffee and stands beside me. He is wearing a robe. It irritates me, because it appears as though he fears that by simply wearing a towel around his waist – as is customary for him – he will be exposed. He’s acting like we’re strangers after a one-night stand.

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Talk me through what happened last night.’

  I look him in the eye. ‘The thing is, babe, last night wasn’t the wedding of my dreams either. But . . . we grabbed the moment. Carpe diem and all that. Our buried feelings resurfaced. What’s done is done. And . . . we do love each other.’

  Silence.

  Nate exhales loudly. ‘Lily. I don’t understand how last night happened. I guess we were having fun and it went too far. But you need to realize that I don’t love you in that way. We split up, not because I didn’t like you, but because I’m not ready to settle down with anyone yet. If ever.’

  ‘So, last night? All those things you said about how much you missed me and loved me, they were lies?’

  ‘I can’t remember everything, Lily. There are blanks in my memory. I feel pretty shit.’ He sits down on the bed.

  I swing round. ‘Oh? So I’ve cheated on Matt for no reason? Because it’s the sort of thing a woman does without encouragement?’

  He raises a hand to his forehead and massages it with his forefinger and thumb. ‘I don’t know how you interpreted it, Lily . . .’

  ‘I love you. That’s what you said last night. We got married. How would you like me to interpret that?’ I mimic his voice. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s do it for real. Let’s get married.’

  ‘Lily—’

  ‘Juliette! I’ve told you, it’s Juliette now. We’re not getting off to a very good start if you can’t even get my fucking name right.’

  It’s my turn to lock myself in the bathroom. He pounds on the door.

  ‘Lily! Lily.’

  I turn the taps on full blast and put my hands over my ears. My eye make-up is a little smudged, but I don’t look too bad considering the stress I’ve been under. I study my reflection, looking for changes now that I’m a married woman.

  Do I look older? Wiser? Or just married?

  The knocking on the door stops. I remove my hands from my ears, switch off the taps. He bashes the door repeatedly.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I say. ‘I need space!’

  I make him wait a further ten minutes before I venture out. He is sitting on the edge of my bed, his head in his hands. I manoeuvre myself on to the bed behind him and massage his shoulders. He stiffens and sits up straight.

  ‘How’s your head?’ I ask in a concerned-wife voice.

  ‘Easing off, but you need to listen.’ He edges away from me.

  I let my hands drop.

  ‘This is all too fast.’ He softens his tone a little. ‘This time yesterday, everything was fine.’ He sighs. ‘I’ve made a few calls and we’ll have to get this all sorted back in London, there’s not enough time left here. When we land, come to my place. A solicitor friend of mine is going to meet us there and we can figure this situation out.’

  I move to the edge of the bed and sit as close to him as I can. ‘What about me? What about what I want?’

  ‘Please, Lily. You really must understand that this is too much, too insane.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  He gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, but it’s definitely not a positive one.

  ‘We’ll work out together what’s best. For both of us. Jesus. What a mess. I’ve heard stories about Vegas, but that’s what they are, stories. I never thought . . .’

  ‘Worse things happen to people than getting married to an ex you didn’t realize you still had feelings for.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  He’s always fucking sorry. It doesn’t mean anything to me any more.

  The lump in my throat is genuine. I feel fragile but resolute. I reach over to hold him tight and he manages to reciprocate. We sit, arms wrapped around each other, for a full minute.

  He breaks away first. Of course he does.

  Our wedding brunch of bagels with smoked salmon and scrambled eggs lies ignored on the bed.

  ‘Let’s keep this between ourselves,’ he says. ‘We need to get through the flight home and then try to sort things out as best we can.’

  That’s what he thinks.

  19

  I busy m
yself in Nate’s – no, our – kitchen whilst James Harrington, Nate’s ‘lawyer friend’ sits in the living room, yacking away to Nate.

  I catch snippets. ‘Voidable marriage. Intoxication. Dishonesty. Non-consummation.’ Well, Nate’s screwed on the last option.

  I carry through a tray of coffee like the perfect little housewife. Espresso for myself, cappuccino for Nate and a latte for ‘the lawyer’. A trio of muffins – courtesy of me – defrosted in the microwave, sit on a small plate. In the absence of napkins, I have folded squares of kitchen towel into neat triangles. I sit down next to Nate on the sofa, opposite James Harrington. Two against one.

  They thank me for their coffees.

  ‘Right, so, Elizabeth, Nate’s explained to me that we can’t go for non-consummation, so I suggest we go for a voidable marriage in that you were both intoxicated—’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Nate glares at me.

  James looks confused. ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘I want our marriage to work. Nate may have been a little tipsy, but it was probably exacerbated by jet lag.’ I look at Nate. ‘I married you in good faith. You told me you loved me. We have a history together and I gave up a decent man on the basis of your charming patter. Matt is devastated. I had to tell him by text! How do you think that made me feel about myself?’

  There is silence. Rainbow swims up and down.

  It’s nicely familiar being here with Nate, and now I’ve inched through the door – legitimately – I’m not giving up without a proper fight.

  ‘Right. Well, this complicates things.’ He throws Nate a look, then glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got calls to make, so I’ll shut myself away in your spare room whilst you two sort this out.’

  I fold my arms and settle back into the sofa.

  ‘Lily . . .’

  I frown.

  ‘Juliette, no Lily, it’s too confusing, you’re Lily to me. Please. Be reasonable. I don’t love you in the way you want. You know that. You can’t want this for yourself either. You deserve better.’