Page 142 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Feeling his arms around my waist and the silk against my skin, I feel like I’m in a cocoon and I let myself lean into him. The past few days I’ve felt a bit anxious. After I spoke to Theo on the phone, he tried calling the bank a few times from the States, but never got through. He assured me it was fine, that it was OK to wait until he got back; he even told me he’d hidden some cash in a biscuit tin for emergencies, and to use that if I needed anything until his return.

But still, I did worry, so it’s wonderful to have him home.

‘You don’t seem very excited about marrying me,’ he says, sounding hurt.

‘Oh darling, I’m sorry, I’ve just been so distracted,’ I reassure quickly, feeling guilty for making such a fuss about the bank when our wedding is just weeks away. ‘Don’t be silly, of course I am!’

I feel him relax. ‘Good. And I’m going to take care of everything,’ he smiles, giving me a kiss, as George the cat miaows around his ankles, before suddenly yelping. ‘Ow, the little bugger just bit me!’

‘What?’

As we break apart, I catch a flash of George’s ginger fur flying into the bedroom.

‘He bit me!’ Theo is saying again, pulling up his trouser leg, to show me the marks on his ankle. I stare at it, aghast.

‘George did that? Are you sure? But he’s just the softest thing—’

‘Absolutely, I’m fucking sure.’ Theo is pissed off now, his good mood turned to a scowl. ‘I’m probably going to need a tetanus shot.’

‘I’m sure it will be fine, he’s had all his shots. Let me get some antiseptic cream.’

I quickly hurry into the bathroom, opening the cabinet, rifling through the different bits of medical kit I keep for emergencies. I still can’t believe it. George bit Theo? It’s so out of character, it’s almost laughable, but of course I mustn’t do that, he’s furious enough as it is. And then I spot a twenty-pound note on the floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket when Theo went to the loo. It’s neatly folded up with a couple of receipts. I pick it up. I’m already formulating my joke about him throwing money away when I hand it back, so I don’t know what makes me unfold it.

I just have a feeling. Before I even spot it’s a bill from a fancy restaurant in London and it’s dated four days ago, when Theo was in LA, I can feel myself pulling a thread. Cocktails, a bottle of expensive red wine, two main courses and a dessert to share. Along with the receipt from his credit card. And now it all starts unravelling.

I’m not sure how I make it through that evening without saying anything about the restaurant bill. I keep thinking about bringing it up, but after George bit him, Theo was in a foul mood and I didn’t want to make things worse. I could just imagine him, twisting it all round, accusing me of snooping, asking me what I was insinuating. Making me feel guilty for nagging or criticizing him, like I’m the one in the wrong. Tangling me all up in knots with his explanations and reasoning, then stonewalling me until I’m the one apologizing and trying to make things right between us. Because that’s what’s always happens.

I learned pretty quickly it’s better not to say anything at all.

Except the next day I find myself at work in the art gallery, unable to think of anything else. All day, while customers drift in and out, I sell a painting, eat lunch, and talk to a customer who’s interested in a small bronze, I turn it around and around in my head, trying to think of a perfectly reasonable explanation, but being unable to. By the time I turn the sign to closed on the door I’m tired and confused and feel like I’m going mad. I really need to talk to someone. By someone, what I really mean is, I need to talk to my friend George.

Only problem is, we’re no longer friends after we had that stupid argument. Though to be honest, it wasn’t just that; things haven’t been the same between us since the engagement party. Theo made it clear he didn’t want me talking to George and afterwards I didn’t want to make things worse or cause an argument, so whenever George tried to call me or leave messages about us getting together I’d say I was busy and could I call him back later? Only, I’d never call him back, just send a quick text with yet another random excuse. In the end he stopped calling.

I feel terrible about it. I miss him. But I don’t know what to do about it. I feel so torn. My wedding to Theo is just weeks away, he’s going to be my husband, and yet George is my oldest friend. I would always turn to him first in an emergency. Sitting in the back office, I think about the events of the past few days, compounded with my feelings from the last few months. If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.

I pick up my phone, pluck up the courage, and video-call him. And when he immediately answers, his familiar face filling the screen, and says, ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ and gives me one of his smiles, I promptly burst into tears.

Ten minutes later it’s all come blurting out. About the call from the bank. The receipt from the restaurant. The moods. The doubts. The feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away. The fact that in just a few weeks I’m supposed to be marrying this man.

‘You tried to warn me at our engagement party, you thought something wasn’t right, but I wouldn’t listen, I was an idiot.’

‘You weren’t an idiot, you were in love,’ says George kindly. He’s been nothing but sympathetic and supporting, listening to me as I tell him all about everything that’s been going on. ‘I just wish you’d told me about all this sooner.’

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say for about the hundredth time, but he shushes me.

‘OK, so let me get this straight, you’ve remortgaged the flat, taken out a business loan and put all your life savings – and inheritance – into a joint account with a man who says he was in America last week working, but was actually having dinner for two in a restaurant in Mayfair?’

Put like that it brings me up short.

‘It could’ve been a business dinner. He’s trying to woo lots of investors.’

‘So why didn’t he tell you he was in London?’

‘Do you think he’s cheating on me?’ My stomach lurches. Suspecting it is one thing, saying it out loud is quite another.

‘I don’t know what he’s been doing—’ George breaks off, and for the first time ever I see he looks worried. ‘And you’ve never actually met any of his friends or his family?’

‘He’s an only child. His dad died years ago and he’s had to put his mum into a care home. That’s why he sold his house in LA, to move closer to her.’