by Jade Beer
Betsy decides to retreat into their bedroom and pack a few things quietly before the raised voices start. There’s no way she’ll be able to stay here tonight. Not once he realises what’s been going on and that everything between them is over. Dylan said that she should go over to his place and spend the night once this is finished. He offered to park outside and wait for her to emerge, but she’s decided against that, feeling it would add to the duplicitous and premeditated agony of it all.
She’s trying to find the large carry-on case they normally ram under the bed but it’s not there. Bloody hell! Where is it? She hasn’t got long until he hears she’s back and comes out. But after checking behind the wardrobe and in the cupboard under the stairs she gives up. She hastily places everything she thinks she might need for a few nights in a carrier bag and puts it down the side of the bathroom cabinet, where she knows he won’t look. A few spare pairs of knickers, some work clothes, jewellery, make-up and a framed picture of her and Mum. It’s not much, she thinks, considering she has no idea how long it will be before she can face coming back for more. Then she sits on the bed and tries very hard not to cry.
Is she going to regret this in the days to come? Is she doing something tonight that will alter the course of her life, taking it down a path full of regret and bitterness? What if she never marries now and Jacob was her one chance to get it right? She thinks about the invitation to her mum and Nick’s drinks on Christmas Eve – what should have been her wedding day – knowing that she will have to go alone. Christ, Jacob doesn’t even know it’s being planned! Betsy hasn’t been alone for so long. She hasn’t been the single woman in the room, having to be extra-interesting to break into all those closed couple conversations, and competing to find her place in the natural rhythm of other people’s familiar, established relationships. It’s an uneasy thought.
She had so much love for Jacob once. It’s impossible not to feel a little wistful about the times she’d dream about him all night and still it wouldn’t be enough – she’d wake, longing to see him. She thinks about all those long, lazy days, walking, holding hands and not even registering where they were going; the way he used to sit and stare at her, listening to every word she said like it was the most insightful thing ever uttered; getting so close to her on the sofa that their bodies became a permanent tangle of limbs. Then, when they were serious enough to know there would be one, plotting their future. It was all so flattering. Neither of them knew this was how their story would end: spare knickers and half a tube of toothpaste stuffed into a plastic carrier bag, ready for a quick getaway. And would Betsy have bothered, back then, if she had known? Would she have taken a few happy years for one miserable one? Right now, knowing the conversation she’s about to have, the answer would have to be no.
Betsy’s given a lot of thought to what she’s going to say. She’s just not sure how to package it up so it sounds less brutal. She doesn’t love him any more. That’s the truth. Because you can’t love someone who shows their keyboard more attention than you. But can she say it? Should she? Will it crush him, making it impossible for him to find someone else to have a better life with, or will he appreciate the can’t-argue-with-that clarity?
How can she live with someone this long and not know the answer to these questions, how Jacob is likely to react?
She heads downstairs, opens the fridge and pours herself the dregs of a bottle of white wine that must have been uncorked more than two weeks ago. It tastes sour, vinegary. It should be going down the sink but instead it’s coating her throat, detaching her ever so slightly from the nervous anticipation that’s making her head start to hum.
She’s not going to tell him about Dylan. Not unless she absolutely has to, but if he asks the direct question, Betsy knows there will be no point lying. He’ll see it in her face and then detest her for not crediting him with the intelligence to work it out.
As this awful scenario is playing out in her mind, she can hear the office door open upstairs.
‘Betsy? Is that you?’ Jacob hollers down to her.
Her eyes close and she lets a slow, controlled breath escape her. There is an angry moment when she scolds herself for not taking the cowardly way out. She could have scrawled a note, an email even. It might have been gutless but at least it would have avoided standing in front of the man she said she would marry and admitting she’s let another one touch every part of her. Her face will give away that she didn’t just enjoy it, she craves it. And in a way she never did with Jacob.
‘Oh, you’ve already started on the wine then?’ Jacob steps into the kitchen, his eyes falling to the glass she’s clutching hard enough to shatter.
‘Yeah, busy day, needed it.’ She can’t look at him and distracts herself, fiddling in the cutlery drawer for nothing in particular.
‘Right. I’ll just grab a beer, then shall we have a chat about some… wedding stuff?’
Really? He wants to talk about this now? What a colossal mess, thinks Betsy as she’s walking through to the lounge, wondering what sort of relationship carnage they’ll both be fighting their way through, ten minutes from now. Can he really believe the wedding is still happening, when so little has been planned? When they’ve had so few conversations about it in recent weeks? Yes, they always agreed to keep it low-key but they haven’t even decided on a menu, for Christ’s sake! But then again, a venue has been booked, a not insignificant deposit has been paid. Who knows what conversations he’s been having without her? Maybe he just never noticed the pile of now dust-covered invitations still stuffed under the sofa? Maybe in his neurotic pursuit of writing a bestseller, he hasn’t noticed anything else going on around him. She takes an armchair so there is no chance of him sitting next to her. Then waits for eight painful minutes while he clatters around the kitchen looking, presumably, for the bottle opener she knows is in the sink. She just can’t face going back in there to help him locate it.
When he eventually appears, he’s carrying a beer and a new bottle of wine he’s opened. He tops up her glass without asking if she wants another, then perches on the sofa opposite her. She watches him drain nearly his entire beer in one controlled go and is struck that these are the last few moments she can consider them a couple. When he finishes, he places the bottle very deliberately at his feet, takes a deep breath and looks directly at Betsy, clearly building up to something. He’s right on the edge of the sofa, legs wide open, hands gripped together in front of him.
‘This wedding’s not happening, is it?’ It’s more of a statement than a question and catches her completely off guard.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Come on, Betsy, it’s time for a little honesty, don’t you think?’ There is no anger in Jacob’s voice at all, but his irritated tone does suggest that now would not be a good time to play the innocent.
‘You don’t want to get married?’ She’s carefully trying to work out what he may or may not know, what it is that has sparked this confrontation.
‘Oh no! You’re not pinning this one on me, I’m afraid. You’re the one who doesn’t want to get married. At least have the decency to admit that.’ He’s smirking and it’s totally unnerving. Betsy can’t think of anything to say in response.
‘Well?’
He’s not going to let her off the hook. It’s like he needs to hear her say it, confirming he hasn’t been imagining whatever it is he thinks he knows. The sneering annoys Betsy, giving her the confidence to deliver the answer he’s looking for.
‘No, I don’t.’ The words sound so spiteful left hanging in the air between them. Betsy curls her legs up under herself in the chair, much like an animal might roll into a ball to protect itself.
‘And why is that? And were you ever planning to tell me?’ He’s getting chippy now. Like he’s realised all those wasted weeks of trying to work her out were exactly that – he should have just asked her directly.
‘I don’t know.’ Pathetic. What’s happened to the speech she’s been planning all the w
ay home?
‘I think you do.’
She’s never seen Jacob like this before. He’s being unkind, and while she’s hardly one to talk, it’s so unlike him to make her squirm like this.
Silence.
‘Let me help you. Could it be something to do with the security code that suddenly appeared on your phone? The increasing number of nights you’ve needed to stay overnight in London? Or how about the way you’ve completely reinvented yourself – right down to the ridiculous, expensive lingerie that definitely wasn’t bought for my benefit. I mean, look at you, Betsy! You look nothing like the girl I proposed to.’
He lets his eyes travel over her for a moment, working their way down the dress that’s tightly skimming every inch of her, making her suddenly very conscious of her lips she’s painted a deep red.
‘I wonder if any of this sheds any light on why you have shown zero interest in our wedding day. Could it be, perhaps, because you knew there would never be one? You hired a professional bridesmaid, whatever that is, then left her business cards lying around. Why? Because you couldn’t even be bothered to choose your own wedding dress – and you couldn’t care less whether I would find that out?’
‘How d’you—’
‘I’m not nearly as stupid as you think I am. You’ve obviously been busy thinking about other things – other people – but it’s been glaringly obvious to the rest of us. Your own mother worked you out weeks ago. She came to see me, Betsy. Did you even know that? Stood in this very room, clearly believing it was all my fault that everything was going tits up.’ He’s almost hanging off the sofa now, his body thrust towards her.
Betsy’s cheeks flare with embarrassment and she can see the flicker of enjoyment pass across Jacob’s face as he registers it. She never imagined this was a conversation he would dominate. Just how much evidence has he been mounting? She’s sitting here, feeling completely exposed, desperate to bolt for the door, but knowing these things have to be said. He’s going to say them, whether she likes it or not.
‘I’m sorry.’ It’s all that quivers out of her.
‘Are you? Or just sorry you’re not nearly as devious as you needed to be?’ He hasn’t taken his eyes off her once throughout this whole conversation, not given her a second to visually compose herself. She’s wondering how long he might have been planning this little speech. Longer than her one journey home from work, that’s for sure.
‘I didn’t think you cared. You’ve been so engrossed in the book and—’
That makes him angry. ‘Don’t try and lay this on me! I’ve been doing that for us! Hoping it would be the pay day we need, to make life a little easier. But I’ve seen the way your eyes glaze over every time I’ve tried to talk to you about it, how bored you look. I’ve had to practically beg you to read any of it.’
Funny, it never felt like he was doing any of this for them and it’s a convenient argument to make now, when they both know it’s over. But she can’t deny she’s hated having to give him feedback on something she honestly doesn’t care about. Not recently, anyway. First, she resented the fact that the book took him away for days, sometimes weeks, into a self-indulgent obsession in the spare room. But more recently? She’s been glad of it. Glad that his book deal has wedged them ever further apart and his deadlines have given her an excuse to disappear out of the house for the day.
‘You never rated it, did you? Do you know how hard it’s been seeing my own girlfriend have no confidence in what I’m doing? It’s hardly inspiring! You never thought I’d get anywhere with it, did you?’
She really can’t answer that one and lets her head sink towards her lap. Having all her failures as a human being laid bare like this is making Betsy’s eyes fill with tears of shame. She can’t think of a single thing to say to justify herself. Because however righteous she may have felt at the time, she just looks a coward now for never speaking up and saying what she really felt about Jacob, their life together and their joke of a wedding.
‘What happens now?’ She knows he’ll have an answer. He can’t have thought this far through everything and not known how they will resolve it all. She’s totally on the back foot.
‘I’ve cancelled everything that needs to be cancelled – which was depressingly little, actually. We’re going to have a real battle on our hands to see any of the deposit back from the venue, but that’s hardly surprising.’
‘Oh, right.’ She’s not sure whether to feel grateful he’s had the awkward conversations with suppliers or even more ridiculous that while she’s been tiptoeing around him, he was ensuring this wedding was never going to happen.
‘I did it weeks ago, Betsy.’
She’s nearly at the bottom of her second glass of wine, knowing she’ll finish the entire bottle tonight. ‘How are we going to…?’ Her eyes are moving around the room, trying to convey what her mouth doesn’t seem capable of.
‘How are we going to live together now? Is that what you’re trying to ask?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re not. I’ve rented a small flat a few miles from here. It’s in the opposite direction to the station so there is no chance we’ll be bumping into each other.’
The tears are flowing down her face now, powered by humiliation more than anything.
‘It’s a bit late for all that, don’t you think?’
The fact that Jacob is being so heartless about all of this, not giving her an inch, is making Betsy feel so sad. He obviously mentally checked out of their relationship some time ago. So did she, of course, but there is something mortifying in the realisation that he seems to care so little about the fact they’re over. There is nothing sensitive about the way he’s delivering his revelations tonight. She had at least spent some time wondering how she would break the news to him gently, with the least amount of damage to his feelings. He doesn’t seem to care how much any of this is upsetting her.
‘There’s still a lot to sort out with the house and everything, so I suggest we communicate over email, since I won’t be here. Might be less awkward.’ He’s on his feet now.
‘You’re going now? Tonight?’ Betsy rises from the sofa too, almost feeling like she needs to stop him. Like there must be more to say and she wants to find a way to end it more pleasantly than this. She wants a hug or a good luck, or something that tells her there will be no hard feelings.
She’s not going to get it.
She follows him out into the hallway and watches as he flies up the stairs in a hurry to grab his laptop and a couple of notebooks. Then he’s back, standing next to her, and that’s when she sees what was hiding behind the door, impeding her entrance earlier. The suitcase she was looking for. Already packed with all his belongings.
‘Let’s just try and keep this as civilised as we can, shall we? I’ll be in touch.’
Then he’s gone, out the door and out of her life. She’s been dumped and the tears are choking out of her in a way that is totally unexpected. They are officially over, but what’s really shocking is how much better he’s handled their demise than she has.
Betsy returns to the lounge, slumps down onto the sofa and instinctively makes a grab for her phone, wanting more than anything to speak to her mum. Then she sees a text from Dylan.
* * *
You on your way yet?
* * *
She won’t be going to his place. That will mean reliving tonight’s humiliating events and that’s the last thing she can face right now.
28
Helen
‘I can’t decide, Betsy. The rose red or the café au lait. What do you think?’
‘Both are lovely, Mum, but what are you wearing? Do you want your nails to match with it, or contrast?’
Helen and Betsy are side by side in one of the manicure booths in Fenwick’s department store. And Helen is suddenly incapable of making a single decision.
‘Actually, that’s a surprise. You’ll see tomorrow, but I’m just not sure if it should be…’
‘OK,
it’s just your nails, Mum. Stop fussing. No one will be looking at them, except you. I’ll decide for you. Go for the café au lait, it’s more classy.’
‘Yes, you’re right. That’s best.’ Helen nods towards the beauty therapist opposite them, who looks highly relieved to finally be able to proceed.
As she starts to shape and buff Helen’s nails, two glasses of champagne appear in front of them and Helen leans sideways in to Betsy, smiling, feeling more content than she has in a very long time.
‘Thank you for coming today. It means everything to me that you’re here.’ Helen’s spirits are lifted skywards by the gentle tinkle of Christmas carols being piped through the beauty hall and the it’s-nearly-Christmas fever that seems to be gripping everyone around them. There is tinsel draped across every shelf, gift boxes full of co-ordinating beauty products screaming to be bought, enormous green and red garlands suspended in loops above their heads and delicate glass baubles, in every colour, neatly placed on every spare inch of counter.
‘You’re so soft, Mum!’
‘I know, but I mean it. You’ve had so much to deal with and I’m touched you found the time to come today. Have you spoken to Jacob since last week?’ Helen’s not entirely sure whether to take the conversation in this direction but it’s the first time she’s seen Betsy since she called the night Jacob left. Nearly an hour was lost on that phone call, as Helen struggled to understand a word Betsy was saying through uncontrolled sobs and wails of, I’ve made such a fool of myself, Mum!
‘A few terse emails. Demands to get the house on the market as soon as Christmas is out of the way. Some dates and times when he’s planning to come and collect his things and instructions for me not to be there when he does. He’s obviously moved on, Mum. And, well, I can hardly blame him for that, can I?’ Betsy’s eyes don’t leave her champagne flute while she’s relaying all this to Helen, who can see the therapist is trying, and failing, not to listen.