‘WHAT? Married?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’
‘To “Elvira”? When?’
‘I have no idea when the big day is. Helen found out – he hasn’t told me yet.’
‘TWAT.’
‘Isn’t he just? He better tell me first. This is a big deal for Grace, whether she realizes it yet or not. She’s going to have a fucking stepmum.’
We both remain silent for a moment and I finish my drink. I can feel my sadness rising again and I sigh loudly.
‘You OK?’
I shake my head.
‘Are you shaking your head?’
I nod. I want to punch the wall but I’m afraid it’ll hurt, so I whack a scatter cushion before demanding, ‘How is this remotely fair? He’s found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and I’m still alone?’
‘Listen, don’t let him get to you, and don’t get bitter about this. I’ve known you since Primary Three – you’re better than that. It’s not a competition. You’ll meet someone. I promise.’
‘But what if—’
‘There is no “what if”. He’s getting married and you’re on a different path right now. Just take a moment to feel sorry for Emma. Bow your head in sympathy for the woman who will be legally bound to Peter Anderson until death or an expensive divorce.’
I laugh and start to feel better about everything – well, except this onesie, which now seems to have entered my colon. ‘You’re right. I’m going to watch Rear Window and forget about this for the evening.’
‘You should watch The Corpse Bride. Remind you of anyone?’
‘Ha, I’m going now. Speak soon.’ I continue laughing after she hangs up, then refill my drink and settle down on my white corner couch, glaring at the massive chocolate stain that Grace obviously made and failed to tell me about.
Dear God, I hope it’s chocolate.
Chapter Three
I wake up at half past eight to the sound of Grace and Adam heading out to the shops. I hear Grace chuckle when Adam asks her if she wants to drive, then the front door closes with the kind of bang only a hyper child can produce. The sun streams directly into my eyes like laser beams through my Ikea blinds and I snuggle back down, pulling my lemon-yellow covers over my head, promising myself some new blackout curtains when I get paid. And maybe a blackout room. I need my sleep.
Knowing I have at least half an hour before Grace is back and all hell breaks loose, I let my hand wander between my legs, grateful to have some me time, but then Chris the fish man pops into my head and my hand retreats like my pubic region is on fire. Bugger, now I’m reliving every bad one-night stand, including the DJ who dribbled on my face in 1998 and the lawyer who sniffed my dirty underwear when he thought I wasn’t looking. I try and shake the images off and start again, but once my phone starts to ring it’s clear that my ménage à une is ruined for good. I don’t have to check who it’s from; there’s only one person whose assigned ringtone is ‘Loser’ by Beck. I grab my phone off my bedside table. Better get this over with.
‘Hello, Peter.’
‘Hi, Catriona. I wanted to have a quick word.’
When we were together he called me Cat. Now he uses my full name like a disapproving parent. ‘OK . . .’ I reply, knowing full well that he’s calling to tell me he’s getting married. I prop myself up on my pillow, take a deep breath and close my eyes.
‘It’s about Grace. We’ve noticed she seems to be very tired when she’s here. At bedtime she’s exhausted.’
I exhale. ‘. . . What?’
‘I said that we’ve noticed—’
‘You’re calling to tell me that Grace gets tired at bed-time?’
No mention of the engagement.
‘Yes, that’s correct. Wait – no, not like that. We’ve just noticed she seems unusually tired when you bring her round to us.’
