Page 23 of The F*ck-It List

“He does. He told me.” I use Pedro to soak up my tears and maybe a little snot. He might need to go through the wash.

“He what now?” Cas says, anger now threaded through their tone.

“He told me he hated me,” I cry.

“People aren’t allowed to hate you,” Cas says, indignant. “You’re an angel, a bloody delight.”

I laugh wetly.

“Fuck him,” Cas practically shouts.

“I really don’t think he’d be into it,” I try for a joke and Cas gives me a flat look.

“I hate that someone’s made you feel like shit and I’m not there to kick their butt for you.”

“I know.” I sigh. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself, I’ll feel better in the morning.”

When I see my mother’s incoming call the next morning, I know I’m about to be bitterly disappointed.

“Hi, Mum,” I say, injecting some brightness into my voice. “How are you?”

“Darling,” she coos, her voice soft and breathy as it always is. I always wonder if the Marilyn Monroe quality to her speech is another trick to lure rich old guys into marriage. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Beatrice. I feel like it’s been forever.”

“Well, you’ll hear it a whole lot when you get here,” I say, knowing full well she isn’t on the train as she should be already.

There’s a long and uncomfortable pause, but I refuse to be the first to break it. I’m always the first to break it. “Beatrice, sweetheart, I have some bad news.” I can just picture the mournful look she’s probably pulling on the other end of the line, as much as her Botox will allow her anyway. “You know I told you Cynthia had failed to invite me to her annual summer bash, which was why I was free this weekend? Well, it turns out, she hadn’t forgotten me and there must have just been some mix up in the mail.”

“Right,” I say, shoulders slumping where I sit on my sofa. I must have known subconsciously I needed it, because Pedro is tucked under one arm while Heathcliff is curled on my lap, tail swishing slowly.

“Darling, you know I was so looking forward to seeing your little cottage and spending some time with you, but you have to understandCynthia’s summer party is such an important event for me. I couldn’t possibly miss it.”

I hate the tremor in my lip and the way I’m physically deflating, falling back into the couch cushions so deep I’m hoping I might just disappear altogether. “I get it,” I say, my voice quiet and not hiding the disappointment I know I shouldn’t feel because no matter what I told Cas, we both knew this was coming.

If my mother hears the defeat in my tone, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “There’ll be plenty of time for me to come and visit. And of course, you’ll come back to the city.”

Of course, because that will be easier for her. “Mmhmm,” I agree, just wanting this conversation to be over.

“You know Cynthia says there’s a man she wants me to meet.” I can hear her excited smirk. “Arichman.”

I sigh, having no energy to indulge the conversation. “Okay, well, I better get going, I’m meeting someone for café things,” I half lie.

“Okay, sweetie. We’ll speak soon, love you,” Mum chirps, breezily.

“Love you.”

And she’s gone.

“Well, I think we all saw that coming,” I huff to Heathcliff. He lifts his head from where he’s lying on his side on my lap and continues to swish his tail. “Guess it’s just you and me.”

He proceeds to crawl off my lap and climb the cat tree in the corner, hiding inside the little house on top, his back to the door. Well, that’s just great.

I’ve kind of run out of things to give Connor to do. The bloody espresso machine won’t be fixed for a while as we wait for an engineer and I can’t open a café without being able to make coffee, so I’m twiddling my thumbs.

Connor bounds in with great excitement, carrying a book he slaps down on the counter. “Can we make this?” He points to the cover of the old looking cookbook where a rather decadent looking chocolate cake sits tall and proud.

“Uh…I don’t know,” I say, head spinning from his hasty entrance and unexpected greeting. “I’d need to check the ingredients.”

We spend the afternoon making the cake, Connor doing most of the work while I supervise, and he tells me he wants to take it to his family Sunday lunch. My chest does a little squeeze with the thought of Connor sat at a big family dining table, with August and his mum and grandparents, while I’m sat in my cottage alone. But Connor’s continuous narration and stream of consciousness is entertaining enough, my mood lifts.