My blood ran a little bit cold when I read that. It felt critical of James himself, and I hoped this could be sorted out between solicitors without him seeing it.
My solicitor continued and asked for various changes, including a clause that if at any time I chose to leave, I would get at least the market value of my mum’s house at that time.
James’s lawyer rejected all of them except one I had asked for, whereby I could choose the decor when the bedrooms were renovated.
In particular, they objected to the idea of giving me the market value of my house.
James’s lawyer said that would be unfair to James because if he had to provide me with that amount from the investment, it could be at a time at which the value was low and he would have to make up the difference. Plus, why would he give the market value? I could waituntil property values were high, then jump in and make a killing; it would be like signing a blank check.
I didn’t like that either; it made me sound like a gold digger.
Then my lawyer said, “He’s meant to be a billionaire, for god’s sake! Why is he quibbling over a few thousand?”
And this went back and forth for a while, until James’s solicitor said they could write in the clause about the house, but for the amount I sold it for, not the market value, and only after twenty-five years of marriage, take it or leave it. Of course, I could cash my investment in at any time, but I may get back less than I invested if I did that too soon. Although that was not what I remembered James saying to me when he took my money.
Next, my lawyer gave me some advice.
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d walk away from the whole thing. Run, actually, don’t walk.”
But I was young, I was in love, and I wanted to get married. Plus, I had no money and nowhere else to live. And anyway, we were going to start a family. The terms became much more favorable then.
So, that was the length of my sentence, twenty-five years. At that point, if my investment was worth the same, or more, as my house, I would take that. If it was worth less, James would have to give me the amount I had sold the house for.
Tally done for another day, I made my way to my sewing room and set to work taking in James’s jacket.
It took me well into the afternoon and my back was stiff by the time I finished, but it would be well worth it to see James later, standing up straight, sucking his stomach in, surreptitiously testing the give around his shoulders, which I had left as they were because I wanted him to think his stomach had expanded, not the rest of him.He would eschew food and would look sheepishly at a glass of whiskey in the moment before he slugged it down.
Then I went for the required shower and grooming processes. It was especially important for me to look the part that night because this was a crowd James had been trying to get in with for a long time. Many of them would be from the far end of Somerset, almost Devon, and we didn’t see them in this neck of the woods very often. James thought they were the gateway to an untapped seam of business from the South West and the south coast, if he could only pin them down long enough to get their investment.
Once washed and groomed, my flyaway hair straightened into submission, I opened my wardrobe and chose a dress. I went for a sleeveless gray silk creation; I knew James would approve, simply because it cost nearly two grand and I’d never worn it before. It was rather tighter than it had been when I first bought it; I should’ve let it out when I was taking James’s suit in.
Finally, hair and makeup complete and a suitably expensive pair of earrings in place, I added the finishing touch: a delicate gray-blue scarf, made from a tablecloth I found in a cupboard here when I first moved in.
“Love your scarf!” I imagined the other women saying. “Who’s it by?”
And James would try to control his apoplexy as I smiled sweetly and said, “Daisy at Dunelm Mill.”
James was later home than he had planned to be after work, which was all the better for me. It meant he would take the first shirt he was handed and wouldn’t swap them if he didn’t like the fit.
“Your shirt’s gaping,” I said to him as we were about to leave, admiring the way the buttons were straining. James stood upstraighter, breathed in, and pulled his jacket around his middle, struggling to bring both sides together. I might have gone a bit too far with that.
He stared at me and held the car keys out. “You’re driving.”
I knew it was coming, but I still felt the pang of a woman condemned to a long evening of small talk and mineral water.
“Why don’t we get a taxi?” I asked. But the one and only village taxi driver finished for the day around seven o’clock, and to wait for one from town took so long you could usually have walked more quickly.
“Sorry, darling.” James shrugged, but he wasn’t sorry at all.
We drove with a retro station on the radio. James was engrossed with his phone, so he didn’t comment on my choice of music, but as we reached the outskirts of town he put it away and looked at me.
“I’m really concerned about your weight,” he said.
“I can go and get some tests,” I said. “For my glands.” A trip to the doctor’s would at least be a trip out of the house.
“I think there’s more we can do ourselves first,” he said. “We can have a look at some lifestyle tweaks to see if there’s anything you could be doing differently.”
Come to think of it, it wouldn’t do me any harm to go for a walk now and then, I could live with that, but James continued.
