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Something hot opens in my chest, as Cate speaks, an angry, bubbling orb. ‘But, Cate, he’s manipulative,’ I say. ‘And he’s so good at it. Dresses all his possessiveness and distrust as this protective, romantic, caring, insecure boyfriend who just loves youtoo, toomuch.’
Cate nods, her eyes shining. ‘I know,’ she says.‘I know. And I kept thinking it would get better. That he’d change and relax a bit when his work got easier, or we’d been together longer, or his mum was out of hospital, or .?.?. insert delusion here.’ Her beautiful, heart-shaped mouth lifts a fraction at the corner, with sad amusement. ‘And I feel like .?.?.me.Single? Seriously? Solicitors and a house halved down the middle and who’ll get the sodding DFS sofa, blah, blah, blah, but – I also feel .?.?.lighter? I mean, OK, I feel absolutely wired, and I have no idea what I’m going to do or where I’m going to go, and of course, classic Cate, I can’t stop going to the toilet.’ She gives a small, tearful laugh. ‘But .?.?. I just walked out, Millie. I got home, he didn’t even say hello, or ask why I was home. He just went straight intowhy didn’t you answer your phone?Andswear to me you didn’t see my messagesand when it should have been scary, like the end of something huge, it just felt like .?.?. waking up?’
And as Cate’s watery eyes meet mine, I feel everything.Everything.Relief and pride and love; but God, so much shame, so much worry and disbelief. And it gathers in one big, hot, forceful storm inside of me and .?.?. I burst into yet more tears.
‘Oh, Millie! Don’t cry.’
‘No! No, I should be comfortingyou.’ I reach for the roll of kitchen towel on the counter, tear off a square. It’s patterned with a border of oblivious happy dancing green and purple teapots. I blow my nose into it. ‘Are you .?.?. are yousureabout this? I know the things I said about Nicholas were scathing and—’
‘Truthful,’ says Cate, squeezing my hand. ‘Truthful.And so kind about me, too. Do you know how lovely it was to read that stuff about me, Millie?’ Cate tears off a sheet of kitchen towel for herself. ‘He doesn’t say it, andIdon’t say it anymore, and I can’t believe we justgotto a point where that was OK, but I trust nobody as much as I trust you. And you say it, you know? You know everything about me, and you say it. So, it must be true. Just like I see you; know everything aboutyou.’
And at those words, a lightning bolt of guilt zigzags through me. Because .?.?. does she? Does anyone know everything about me anymore? Cate definitely did once upon a time. I told her everything; from bowel movements (‘just a courtesy text to say I’m back on an evening poo schedule, thought you should know’) and midnight philosophical realisations, to what I was eating for lunch and existential ‘Just queuing for a Nandos takeaway and wondering if I’m living enough,’ worries. But, slowly, over time, it’s like I’ve subconsciously held things back. Squirrelled things away. A gradual retreat, I suppose you’d say. Especially since Owen. There’s something about giving your whole entire heart to someone, saying ‘here I am, in front of you, no barriers, no masks, prepared to do whatever it takes, to make this work, because I love you’ and having that someone look at it, at all you are, and saying ‘no’, that makes you hold things back. Keep things closer to your chest. That just in case it happens again, you still have parts of yourself that you never exposed to the elements.
Cate stands now, circles the breakfast bar, sandals on tiles. ‘He panicked,’ she says. ‘Nicholas. Like, crying and begging, and I was almost doubtful. You know? Then he turned it on me. Like a switch. Without a fuckingbreath.And then it was all –I knew it. I could just tell. What’s his name?’
‘Jeez. What an arsehole.’
‘Total arsehole!’
And Cate may be tired, wrung out, sad, but she still somehow looks immaculate, as she always does; wide-legged, light-blue jeans, a white tucked-in tank top, an oversized baby-pink shirt half-undone, half off one shoulder. A shirt that would make me look like I riffled through a lost and found box to get dressed. Cate always looks nice, always smells nice. She makes sure of it, because she really enjoys it. She likes her outfits, her diary, her home, all carefully curated. And a pang of sadness surges through me thinking about Cate and Nicholas’s house. Because I know it’s just a house, but shelovesthat house. Three Christmas Lane. I remember how excited she was about the address alone. And she’s lost it. Because of me.
‘Cate, maybe .?.?. maybe you could keep Christmas Lane?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Millie.’
‘And you share a car .?.?.’
‘Fuck cars. Honestly, I don’t care about any of that at the moment.’ Cate glances around the kitchen. ‘God, where did that sweet little man put the bottle of weird meaty wine .?.?.’
And I know she says she wants this, that she feels lighter and empowered, but I feel –responsible.I do. Almost sorry for her, watching her rummage through our kitchen on a Friday night when she’d normally be at home with her own things. Her own cupboards, her own normal-tasting wine, plucked from that integrated wine-cooler fridge she loves so much. Cate was so excited when they bought that house. Bought a candle for every room, would change her bedsheets every Tuesday, following a cleaning schedule from Instagram. And now what? She’s walked away from it. Because of my email.
‘You can stay here,’ I say. ‘Live with us.’
‘You do not want me in your bedroom—’
‘We have a third room,’ I insist, ‘and Ralph wants to rent it out, but we hate everyone who comes to interview for it, so .?.?. let me speak to him?’
Cate’s face softens, sad, tired, eyes brightening, a deep dot dimpling her cheek. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Completely.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ She reaches across the counter for my hands. She lowers her voice. ‘Did your emails really all get sent?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck.’ Cate’s eyes close and she bends, half groaning, half laughing, her delicate bracelets jingling against the worktop. She looks back up at me. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Oh, so bad,’ I say. ‘So,sobad. Emails to rude people at work. Mum. Alexis, which .?.?. Jesus, she’s so mad at me, Cate. I think she’s blocked me. But – I dunno. Because shehasupset me recently. I just wish she hadn’t found out just how much like this. I was so cutting, and .?.?. It’s Alexis you know?Alexis.’
Cate nods knowingly. ‘She’ll come around, Millie.’
‘Oh, and there was a massive email to Owen, too,’ I announce. ‘But sent toall.So, that was good.’
‘Holy shit.’
I nod, teeth clamped together, like that little emoji who always looks like he’s just walked into a train carriage to find two passengers shagging in the shadows. ‘I know. I know, I’m an awful, awful monster.’
‘I mean, it sounds like a fucking nightmare, mate,’ Cate says, carefully. ‘But you are not the monster.’
