Clive’s in his forties now. He looks after himself through a combination of an eye-wateringly expensive private trainer and a punishing squash habit, so he’s not without appeal to a twenty-two-year-old. But you’d have to be naive to think the zeroes in his bank account didn’t add to his attractiveness.
Actually, I’m being unfair. Clive is a nice guy, if you can overlook the recurrent bouts of chlamydia which technically I’m not supposed to know about. He had a rough childhood in Belfast. ‘Sure, didn’t we all,’ he always adds whenever he casually reveals a new horrific detail. His dad died in a hit-and-run, the driver was never found, and eight-year-old Clive found solace in believing his dad had been reincarnated as a rat and was living in the skirting board of his bedroom. ‘Ma would clip me round the ear whenever I called him Da. “You’ll go to hell if you keep spouting all that reincarnation shite,” she’d warn me. Usually with a rolling-pin in her raised hand.’
This is their fourth session. Clive is determined to make his third marriage stick, and he’s doing as much pre-emptive counselling as possible. He cheated on his second wife – a mistake he bitterly regrets, and not only because she took him to the cleaners and got half his money in the divorce. Clive is a Category 4 cheater. He didn’t think the normal rules applied to him. When you’re that wildly wealthy, I can see how easy it would be to fall into that trap. But I’ve got high hopes that Clive has put his cheating days behind him. He’s worked hard onhimself, even going as far as having solo sessions, all so he can be a better husband.
We’ve successfully navigated the pre-nup, which specifies that if he cheats, Chantelle is entitled to a hefty divorce settlement. The current sticking point, however, is Clive’s friendship with his first wife Mary.
Childhood sweethearts from the age of sixteen, they married when they were twenty and divorced when they were twenty-one. This was before Clive made his millions in London, so Mary never got to share in his good fortune.
‘It’s not right,’ he says. ‘She deserves something.’
Chantelle doesn’t agree. ‘But it’s been more than twenty years since you were with her. Who else are you going to hand out charity to? Your first maths teacher? Or how about the milkman’s sister?’
‘We wouldn’t even notice the money,’ he says quietly. ‘But it would make a huge difference to her.’
‘It’s not about the money, and you know it,’ says Chantelle. She looks at me. ‘He talks to her all the time.’
‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘Like he prefers her to me.’ She sounds sad rather than angry, and I think it surprises Clive.
‘That’s not true,’ he tells her earnestly. ‘She’s just going through a difficult time.’
‘She’s not your responsibility any more,’ she says.
‘Is that how you feel?’ I ask him. ‘Responsible for her?’
‘If I can help her, and it’s not hurting anyone, why shouldn’t I?’
‘But Chantelle is telling you it does hurt her.’
‘Well, she’s overreacting. I don’t have feelings for Mary. She’s more like a sister to me.’
Chantelle rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Let me ask you this, Clive,’ I say. ‘If the tables were turned and it was Chantelle having this much contact with an ex, would you be okay with it?’
He frowns.
‘It’s not a trick question. Maybe you and Chantelle just see the world differently.’
‘You wouldnotbe okay with it,’ says Chantelle.
‘I’d be fine,’ says Clive. But it’s obvious from his tone that he’s not at all certain. And Chantelle hears it, too.
Chapter 18
At midday, Tig sends a panicked message to the sibling WhatsApp group.
Urgent wedding prep. Tonight at Bar Salsa at 7.
What sort of wedding prep can we do at Bar Salsa?I ask.
She doesn’t reply, which gives me half a mind to tell her I can’t make it. But I feel too guilty, so I message to tell her that my last patient doesn’t leave until 7 p.m. but I will get there by 8 p.m.
Yan replies he can’t get there until 10 p.m.
Once Pen sees no one else is arriving at 7 p.m., she privately messages me to say she’s going to claim she’s got too much revision and will get there later, too.
