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‘Stalk you?’
‘Yes. Pursue me. You know?’
‘Did you want him to?’
‘No! Oh God, no! I’m happy he hasn’t. I’m happy not to be with him. I’m happy he’s gone. I’m really happy. I never ever want to see him again!’
And there it was. The petulant edge to her voice. A marriage made in haste to a rich man who turned out not to be rich, to a smitten, adoring man who turned out not to give a shit, who washappy to let her walk out of his life, a manly man who let her down in bed, and Rachel saw how it looked. She saw it clearly and painfully. She was a princess and her prince had turned out to be just a guy, and she was disappointed that her fairy tale had turned out to be so numbingly pedestrian, and now she wanted out and her rich daddy was happy to pay the £500-an-hour, shit-hot divorce lawyer to make it happen.
‘So, you know, you could just talk to him and sort this out between yourselves,’ said Thea. ‘I mean, there are no joint finances? Mortgages?’
‘No. We own our own properties.’
‘No children? Debts?’
‘No.’
‘Does he have any of your property?’
‘No. Well, just clothes and toiletries. Nothing big.’
‘And you have none of his?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone else involved?’
‘No.’
‘I think, to be blunt, Rachel, that you should try to keep this as civilised and simple as possible. Buy yourself a DIY divorce kit and start the ball rolling.’
‘But what if he refuses?’
‘Then you’ll have to go to court and prove that the marriage had irrevocably, irretrievably broken down. Or you could wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Wait for a two-year separation.’
‘You mean stay married for another two years?’
‘Yes. But live separately.’
‘And then I wouldn’t have to prove anything?’
‘Uh-huh. Exactly.’
‘Or explain anything?’
‘Correct.’
Rachel nodded, a small jerk of her head, as this option landed and settled. It had taken her nearly thirty-three years to find one man to marry. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t find another any time soon. In fact, she was pretty sure she had no intention of ever marrying anyone ever again. She would focus on the business. On her friendships. She would go to yoga every week. And spend time with her dad. She would stop using dating apps and stop pursuing relationships. She would, she decided, be celibate. For two years. She could do that. She was sure she could do that. She would come out of the other side of her separation from Michael cleansed of the shittiness of men and of the ways in which she behaved when she was around them.
‘I think’, Rachel said, the display on her phone telling her that they were about to hit the fifteen-minute mark, ‘that that is what I will do. Yes. That’s what I will do.’
Thea’s face softened. She clearly felt that Rachel had made the right decision. ‘But in the meantime,’ she said, ‘make sure that you and Michael remain civilised. Or, ideally, estranged.’
Estranged.
