A few hours later I feel slightly more human, thanks to a shower, a nap and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. I’m trying to keep busy, because if I don’t I think I might start crying and not be able to stop. So I stand in my bedroom, my meagre summer wardrobe spread across the bed. Shit. Apart from the dress Myles has inexplicably given me, that’s probably a pretty good way to describe it, to be honest. I do have another dress, a deep red sundress smocked across the bust with shoulder ties, then flowing loose to my ankles. Another charity shop bargain. But I worry about the bare shoulders. This is a business trip and, Morocco or not, I want to remain professional.You’ll need an appropriate wardrobe.Myles’s voice echoes in my head.
It’s all very well for him, I think crossly, bending to pull my small suitcase from under the bed. I bet he’s got a thousand things to wear. I try not to imagine him out of his sharp suits, his immaculately tailored shirts. Though I do wonder how he’ll look.
Oh God. How am I supposed to do this? I drop the case on the bed and sit down, grabbing my phone. I scroll down until I reach Eloise’s number.
I should have called her already. Should have told her about Dean. I told her when I thought he was going to propose, so I should tell her now that everything’s fallen apart. I’m embarrassed, I realise, even though I know she won’t care, that she loves me and she’ll be there for me. She’s my dearest friend in the world. But she warned me to be careful, and I wasn’t, and things are all fucked up now.
Plus I know that whatever barrier is holding back my tears is going to break the minute I speak to her. Maybe it’s better that way. Better to process things now rather than having a breakdown in front of Myles, heaven forbid.
I hit dial. A few seconds later, she answers.
“It’s Zara. Can I come over?”
ChapterNine
Zara
When Eloise opens her front door, Arthur cradled on one hip, it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. But I don’t want to be that friend so I try to smile, even though I know my mouth is doing some sort of funny shaking thing that makes it difficult. She sees through me immediately.
“Oh my God, Zara, what’s happened?”
I follow her along the tiled hallway to her bright modern kitchen, taking a seat at the scrubbed pine table. Eloise puts Arthur in his little bouncy chair, then switches on the kettle. She shoots me a wary glance. I still haven’t spoken, because I’m trying really hard not to cry.
“Is this a tea or wine situation? If it’s the latter I can’t join you, because of the boobs, but just say the word.”
“Tea,” I manage to say. “Tea is fine.”
She makes the tea, still shooting me glances. I’m so ashamed. Such a mess, sitting at her table twisting my hands together, my breath hitching in my chest. I no longer feel like vomiting, so that’s progress, I guess. But it hits me again as I sit in Eloise’s house, so full of love and family and all the things I long for, how lonely I am. How lonely I’ve been for a while. I’m twenty-eight years old. A century ago, I’d have been on the shelf. Maybe that’s the best place for me, at the back of a dusty cupboard where I can’t bother anyone anymore.
I blink as Eloise puts my tea down in front of me, plus a plate of chocolate biscuits. She gives one of the biscuits to Arthur, then sits opposite me, cradling her mug in her hands.
“Zara, you’re frightening me. Tell me what’s going on.”
It’s as though a dam breaks. And it all pours out of me. Dean and his stupid girlfriend and their stupid open relationship and the lies and the non-proposal and how lonely I am and some sort of slightly unhinged rambling about, if I am on the shelf, what kind of shelf it is. Eloise, bless her, just lets me talk, refilling my tea, bringing me a box of tissues, topping up the biscuits and tending to Arthur.
Finally, I’m done. I feel ravaged and hollow, as though I’ve lost some internal organs in the telling. Eloise stares at me for a moment.
“You’re really done with Dean? For good?”
“What? Yes.” Not what I expected, but okay. I wipe my eyes, bracing myself. Eloise has a knack for cutting to the heart of things.
“Thank Christ. Because oh my God, that man was a total ass. Nowhere near good enough for you!” Her voice gets higher, her cheeks reddening. She’s angry, I realise, but not with me. “How dare he treat you like that? You know Anwar can’t stand him?”
“He can’t?” Eloise’s husband, Anwar, is one of the most easy-going people I know. He likes everyone.
“Oh, God no! He thought he was so pompous.” She shakes her head. “With that accent? And always banging on about Oxford. It’s like Anwar says, how do you know someone went to Oxford? They tell you, that’s how.”
I giggle, despite myself. Eloise is funny when she gets going.
“And nowthis? An open relationship? Is he high?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
Eloise’s gaze narrows. “Did you really love him? Because honestly, Zara, if Anwar pulled a stunt like that on me, I would be dead for ever. Like, how are you even here?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you love him?”
