“You’re joking, right? Please tell me you haven’t completely lost your marbles, Harriet Montgomery.” His eyes are concerned again. The silence is deafening.
I let out a forced laugh. “Of course I’m joking.”
He lets out a breath. “Phew.” He pretends to wipe his brow and laughs with me. “Thank God you’re still funny.” He kissesmy cheek and walks out of the room.
“You have ten minutes until the car’s here,” he shouts from the living room.
I return to look at the girl standing there in front of me. She feels so unfamiliar, strange and broken. I feel as if I’m staring at a stranger. I brush my dress down and apply some lipstick. Maybe a night out will help. Maybe mixing with my old friends and social circle will help me feel more at home again. Even seeing my parents might be the reset I need to stop feeling so alien.
I grab a clutch and find Greg pouring himself a single malt in the kitchen and talking on the phone. It’s business-related, of course. I place my bag on the side and pour myself a drink too. Greg ends the call and smiles at me.
“That’s my girl.” He clinks my glass with his and tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “You look fucking delicious tonight. I even don’t mind the extra pounds you’ve gained on your ass.” He grabs my behind and pulls me into him.
“Kind of rude, Greg, to mention my weight.” I look up at him as he smiles that Cheshire cat grin back down at me.
“I mean you look hot with a bit extra. I was worried you were letting yourself go, but I don’t mind the cushion.” He slaps my ass hard.
I’m annoyed now. “So, you’re saying if I gained any more weight that would be a bad thing for you?”
He rolls his eyes and backs away from me sighing. He’s now definitely also annoyed. “Fuck’s sake, Harri, just lighten up. It’s not what I’m saying. Why do you have to be so Debbie downer at the moment? But yeah, to answer your dumb question, if you stopped looking after yourself completely and looked like a fat pig then yeah, it wouldn’t be a turn on for me and it wouldn’t work out, would it?” He downs his whiskey and slams the glass on the counter, smashing it and cutting his hand.
“Fuck,” he shouts, grabbing his hand in the other as blood starts to drip down his knuckles.
I grab a tea towel and gently put it over the cut. It’s not deep, just superficial thankfully. I can feel his gaze staring at me through the silence of what just happened. Greg has a temper. He’s never been violent towards me, but he’s very easily irritated which leads to many broken plates, cups and glasses in our apartment. It’s a lovely genetic trauma present from his father.
The tension in the air slowly fades and I can feel Greg come out from his angry episode.
He lets out a large sigh and uses his other arm to pull me into him.
“I don’t know what’s going on in your head at the moment, babe, and I’m sorry for getting mad. It’s hard for me, you know? You’ve gone from this fun-loving beautiful girl, to living like someone completely different and asking these questions all the time. And the dreams, I’m sorry, but they are just dreams, Harri. I’m sorry you’re feeling sad or depressed or whatever it is you’re feeling, but it’s fucking time, babe. Time to just get over it.” His eyes look deeply into mine, pleading with me.
I can feel the lump in my throat burning. My eyes sting with the pain I’m not just causing myself, but the man I used to be besotted with. Then it hits me like a truck. Used to. But right now, I’m not. I’m not even sure if I love Greg anymore. The realisation hits my chest and crushes my heart. I clutch my chest and breathe out. Greg pulls me in and holds me. The smell of his musky aftershave fills my nostrils, and his strong arms hold me tight. But I feel numb.
His phone goes off in his suit pocket. He pulls away and checks it.
“Car’s here,” he whispers.
“OK,” I whisper back, wiping my eyes from any slight tears that have tried to overspill.
He holds me by the shoulders and meets my eyeline. “Let’s go to this party, have a fun time and just put this behind us, yeah?”
I nod, not wanting to speak in fear of my voice wobbling.
He smiles sympathetically. “And hey, after the wedding we can book a big expensive honeymoon. Anywhere you like. Room service, beach sex, private pools, endless champagne for weeks, even a month. I’ll take time off work or take my laptop with me.” He throws a smile to me.
To anyone else, that’s the dream, and four weeks in the Maldives sounds idyllic, but Greg will never have time off work, so the laptop will come with us, and I already feel totally alone.
I paint a smile on my face and kiss his cheek so as not to be ungrateful. Satisfied that I’m playing ball, he grabs my bag off the side and slips his arm around my waist, guiding us out of the apartment and down the lifts into reception. A black SUV is waiting for us. The driver, Charles, steps out and opens the door for me, I slide in and Greg follows. The sun is still shining in London this evening, so the drive is pretty. People are still out shopping and enjoying the late Indian summer weather. I stare out of the window, the whole of London rushing past me without a care in the world. Greg’s attention is on his phone as per usual.
We pull up outside a swanky venue in Mayfair. Beautifully dressed guests make their way through the stone archway leading inside. The driver helps me out of the car where then Greg takes over, grabbing my waist tightly and again guiding me through the crowd. As we make our way inside, we stop too many times to count to make small talk to the other fat cats of the city.
We smile at politicians, influencers with massive trust funds, supermodels, business tycoons and just anyone within the one percent wealth of the world. Making a name for yourself is Greg’s family all over. If people know you have wealth, they treat you well. Greg insists that people must know who heis, so that when he does take over his father’s business he is already respected. Makes sense, I guess, but it means a lot of schmoozing, something I don’t have the energy for, so I stand next to him, smiling and laughing at the shit jokes they pass between them in an attempt to be liked.
We finally get inside the venue. Lauren’s father has spared no expense. The ceiling is full of those tiny LED lights making it look like the night sky is inside. Tables are adorned with silk sashes and beautifully laid with gold cutlery and white china. Servers flow around the guests ensuring that champagne glasses are never empty. On the stage at the back of the room is a small orchestra playing music for those mingling before taking their seats. A large backdrop displays whatever this year’s gala is intended for. Yes, we raise some money for some animal, event or homeless shelter, but the real reason for Lauren’s father’s events is to show off. Any event that happens with the elite is to show off. Who can host the most amazing parties with the best champagne and best stories to tell. Giving to charity is just an added bonus, again to show off who can give the most. These parties are also a significant opportunity for business opportunities which is exactly why Greg was adamant we were attending.
A group of older men spot us and call Greg over.
He throws his hands up in excitement at seeing them and shouts back, “Dom, you old bastard! I’ll be there. Hope you’ve got the Cubans!”
