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‘Are you sure we shouldn’t let him in?’ Mum asks, as soon as Margot has bustled off.
‘Absolutely,’ I reply. ‘He’s got a bloody nerve showing up here uninvited, and I intend to make sure he knows that.’
* * *
It’s a beautiful evening, but I’m so irritated by James’ unwanted arrival that the joy I normally feel at the sensation of the wind rushing through my hair as I hurtle up the drive on the quad bike is completely absent. When I was younger, I used to hare about all over the place on it, often earning lectures from Mum, Dad, and even occasionally Gerald about treating it with respect and how badly it could hurt me if things went wrong. As the gates come into view and I see James standing there with the farm truck behind him, my irritation turns to anger.
‘Why are you here?’ I demand, as soon as I’ve shut off the engine.
‘What the hell is this?’ he replies, holding out an envelope. I approach warily and take it off him, through the gate. The Watson & Fletcher logo on the envelope is enough to tell me exactly what ‘this’ is, but I draw out the contents and read them, before sliding them back into the envelope and returning it to him.
‘It would appear to be a letter from my solicitors, informing you that I’m petitioning for divorce.’ I say, mildly.
‘I know that!’ he shouts.
‘Why did you ask then? It seems a lot of faff to drive all the way here just to have me tell you what you already appear to know.’ I’m fully aware that I’m goading him, but I can’t help it.
‘Come on, Sophie,’ he says, obviously trying to rein in his temper, ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, and I meant it. I understand how much I hurt you, and I understand why you felt you needed a bit of a break—’
‘A bit of a break?’ I interrupt. ‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘Yes. Look: what happened with Becky and me, it didn’t mean anything, you must see that. I was just confused and pissed off because I got home and you were all dressed up, cooking steak and stuff, and I thought we’d been making really good progress so I was hopeful, you know? And then you kicked off about that bloody necklace and stormed out, and I just didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t understand why you were so upset about something you never wore. I was going to go to the pub, but then I saw Becky and, well… it was a mistake, okay? Am I not allowed to make any mistakes? Can you honestly say you’ve never made a mistake? So, yeah. I get it. You were really angry and you needed some time away. But this?’ He waves the envelope at me. ‘This is totally out of proportion.’
‘Are you for real?’ I ask incredulously. ‘Let me quickly recap here, you know, just to make sure I’ve understood what you’re saying. When I caught you and Becky the first time, did I leave then, or did I come back and try to fix the marriage?’
‘You came back, but I don’t see—’
‘Shut up. It’s my turn to talk now. As part of the deal, did I not tell you that I would leave you if you ever did something like that again?’
‘You did, but—’
‘But nothing. I was very clear. Did you sleep with Becky again?’
‘You’re twisting this all around!’
‘I’m not. It’s a simple question. Did you sleep with her again? You’re obviously struggling with your memory, so I’ll help you out. You did. I caught you. Again.’
‘Technically, you didn’t actually catch us having sex.’
‘Are you denying it? What were you doing then? Come on, I’m listening.’
‘I was… umm, we were…’
‘You were both naked, and you were hiding in her bedroom. Let’s stop trying to rewrite history, shall we? So, let’s go over it one more time to make sure you understand completely. You were unfaithful; I told you I would leave if you did it again; you did it again and I left. What on earth did you think was going to happen next?’
‘I thought you’d have some time away, you’d calm down and then we’d talk and sort things out. Mum said—’
‘Stop. I have no interest in hearing any of your mother’s opinions ever again, do you understand me?’
‘Okay, but you’ll lose your title if you divorce me, have you thought of that?’
‘Dear God, you’re right!’ I exclaim in mock-alarm. ‘I’m such a fool. How could I even contemplate going back to being plain old Sophie Beresford-Smith having experienced the incredible social elevation that came with being Lady Huntingdon-Barfoot? I tell you what, give me ten minutes to grab my stuff, and we can be on our way back to Devon.’
‘Really?’ He looks delighted to have finally got through to me.
‘No, you total imbecile. When are you going to get it? I want a divorce. I don’t want your surname, your title, or anything to do with you. You have treated me exactly like the trash your mother is clearly convinced I am, and nothing on earth could persuade me to take you back.’
‘So that’s it, then? That’s all you have to say to me after four years of marriage?’ He’s sounding bitter now.
