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Three and a half years, I think to myself.
“Three years, give or take,” Agnes continues, “and you’ve yet to set a date for a wedding.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face. “Loads of people have long engagements, Agnes. We’ll only have been engaged two years this April.” I cross my arms stubbornly.
“Two years,” Agnes repeats as she sips her stupid tea. She pays better attention than I thought. I wonder how many other people have noticed that I’ve been putting James off and I’m suddenly embarrassed, which sets off my defenses.
I cross my arms and huff loudly. “Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to make me angry by poking at my private life.”
She waves her hand carelessly, “I’m not trying to make you mad, Ellie. You just need to be happy, and if you don’t want to marry the bloke, then quit kidding yourself and call it off. Does he even let you have any friends? I never hear about you going out with the other girls on the unit. Keeps pretty close tabs on you, doesn’t he?”
My defenses raise but I quickly deflate, knowing she’s right but I’m not in a state of mind to admit that to myself. “I am happy,” I say to Agnes, but I have to drop my eyes from hers because it’s total crap and I know it. I don’t have any friends now that I think about it, but it’s not because of James, is it? He does insist I text him every break and when I leave work, but it’s because he cares, right?
“If you say so Ellie. If you say so.” Agnes focuses back on her magazine, freeing me from her probing stare.
I flee the break room as fast as I can without it looking like I’m running, and jog up a flight of stairs before ducking into the toilets. Better to not use the ones on my floor when I want to have a good cry because then no one I work with will find me sobbing in the loo. I learned that the hard way once. It’s tough to explain your middle of the day weeping to someone you only know through work.
I head for the largest stall and shoot the bolt behind me. Dropping heavily onto the closed toilet seat, I grab a wad of toilet paper and pat at the tears and snot that have already started a steady flow.
Crap. Agnes knows I don’t want to marry James, which means I haven’t been hiding my feelings as well as I led myself to believe. That means James probably knows too, but he hasn’t said a word. Three and a half years and not one word about the fact that his fiancée isn’t in love with him. He’s in as deep of denial as I am.
Is he keeping me from having friends? I’m not sure. I know that I haven’t really felt like going out socially since the attack, but now that I think about it, I haven’t really had any friends since I started dating James. Shit! He decided we would live together, he decides when and if we go out, he pretty much runs the show.
I steady my breathing and blow my nose one last time. Then I gather my courage to put my happy face back on so I can clean up and head downstairs.
As I wash my hands, I think back to a few days ago. After James left our flat to go to a crime scene late at night, I searched the computer for the American Grammy Awards that were on the night before and watched as Adam sang a heart-breaking song. The song that I first heard last autumn and instantly knew that it was about us, our relationship.
Bundled up on my sofa in a thick afghan on a cold February night, I watched him sing at the Grammy’s and knew he was singing to me. Adam still thinks about us, a lot. He still loves me. That’s what the song said, and since then, my ability to keep up the façade with James has slowly degraded until people like Agnes can see right through it.
I dry off my hands, step out of the bathroom, and head back to work, vowing to do a better job of keeping up appearances.
“Mum?” I call out after entering my mum’s little flat. I helped to upgrade her to a nicer one near mine after finishing school. That, and she got a promotion to office manager of the small company she works for along with a nice salary bump.
“In here El. I’ll be out in a minute!” she calls from the bedroom.
Her flat smells wonderful, I walk over to the tiny oven and open the door. Ooohhh, Shepard’s pie, my favorite.
“Close the oven, you’re letting out all of the heat!” Mum says from behind me.
I slam the door shut, rattling the teakettle on top of the stove. “You scared me to death!” I grab my chest as it pounds wildly.
“Sorry dear,” she laughs as she pulls me in for a hug. “I didn’t think I was being sneaky.”
“It’s okay Mum. I’m just a little on edge today, that’s all.” I return the embrace and she pats my cheek lightly before releasing me. “So, how did I earn the pleasure of your Shepherd’s pie tonight?”
She grins, her eyes crinkling in the corners. Her hair, a shade or two darker than the golden blonde it was before the chemo, is pulled into a low knot at her nape. “I knew you were coming over El. No other reason.” Mum shoves her hands into two big oven mitts to take the pie out of the oven so it can cool off.
“God that smells good.” My mouth is watering for a taste. “I missed lunch at work so I’m starved.”
“You know that’s not good for you, skipping meals.” Mum gives me a stern look. Then she grabs a couple of wine glasses and some biscuits and hands them to me. “Get the white wine out of the fridge and we’ll chat while dinner cools.”
I pull out a somewhat pricey bottle and obediently fill our glasses. We sit at the small table that divides her kitchen from her lounge. She sips at her wine, staring at me while I eat my biscuit, as if waiting for me to say something.
“What?” My hands brush at my mouth. “Have I got something on my face?”
“Huh? No,” she laughs. “Not at all, love.”
“Why are you looking at me funny?”
