Ollie and I experienced just shy of ten years of happiness and commitment without a ring.
Marriage? Come on.
That was like asking me to… well, marry someone.
Marriage has documents. Rings and venues. Lots of people congratulating you. It’s expensive. It’s paperwork and law and tradition and values. Years of wearing a ring and being in domestic squabbles and mortgages and God forbidkids. It has people falling out of love but not being able to leave because they’ve built this life together and it’s all got too complicated to leave and so they live a life of misery until one of them hurts the other even more by suggesting they part ways. No, Iwasn’tprepared for that.
Except a honeymoon would be nice.
Somewhere hot and exotic. Perfect for Instagram. Thailand.
Although Ollie and I always spoke of Greece, yearning for theMamma Miafantasy. Only without the unplanned pregnancy and three strange men. Mind you, an affair with three strange men would have been fun.
A memory flashes before me of us at 2 am in our flat, singing theMamma Miasoundtrack at the top of our lungs, on our third bottle of wine. That soundtrack was the music of our relationship. Every other week we’d indulge in the album, but whenever one of us played a playlist on shuffle it was almost guaranteed that aMamma Miasong would come on. We saw it in the West End once, too. Front row. We cried.
When Cher appeared inMamma Mia 2, we were euphoric.
Now I cry when Cher comes on screen.
Tragic.
Totallynotmelodramatic.
‘God, what am I doing with my life, Willow?’
Thirty, with no obvious career prospects, a spider as my best work colleague, Grindr messages, no house to call my own, and a pay cheque that gives me heart palpitations.
The only thing I have is credit card debt. Lots of it.
‘Oh, Will?’ Clive’s back, opening the door without knocking. ‘Don’tsupposeyou couldrunand make me a cuppa, could you?’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Terriblybusy.’ The door snaps shut again.
Willow twitches another leg in her web.
‘One day, Willow, we’ll show him.’
Chapter Three
WILL
‘Do you think I should reach out to him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
We sit across from each other on my sofa, me with my knees underneath me and Alice with her socked feet on my coffee table. Alice sips at her wine, trying her best not to spill any, her dark hair tied in a messy bun. I’ve already consumed half of mine. Incense burns, with smoke rising in twirling pirouettes. I breathe in the white sage, woody scent.
As soon as Clive left for the day, I was out of there, bringing the work home with me, telling myself I’d do it later.
It’s later, and I haven’t done it.
There are more important things.
‘Just to congratulate him.’
‘No, Will.’
