Page 32 of I Know How This Ends

I spend the next three days frantically preparing for my interview.

“It’s not an interview,” Polly says yet again as I go through my notes.

I nod—it’s an interview—while attempting to cram fifteen years of collected meteorological knowledge into a fifteen-minute

slot.

“Margot.” Polly laughs and takes my notepad off me. “Relax. This is a casual chat over a cup of coffee, and I shall be there

as a buffer. Charlie is lovely. She just wants to say hi, spitball a few ideas, see if there’s a click.”

Then she pauses and looks at the front of my purple notepad with her eyebrows raised, flipping through it slightly.

“Oh!” Flushing, I grab it from her. “Don’t look at that.”

“Margot’s List of Dating Criteria?” She cocks her head, like a curious Labrador. “That seems very...”

“Sensible.” I bridle slightly. “Sage and informed.”

“I was going to say meticulous .” She looks at me calmly. “Has it helped?”

“Absolutely.” I’m weirdly protective of the data I’ve collected. “Very much so.” But she’s still watching me, so I clear my

throat. “Mostly.” Polly’s eyes are locked on mine. “Not really, no. Not at all. Happy now?”

“I was genuinely curious,” Polly grins. “I’ve never ap proached love like that, I guess. I just wanted to know how it’s panning out.”

My stomach twists: this is the perfect bloody segue, and I know it.

I’ve not only been making lists of ways to impress a total stranger tomorrow, I’ve also been making a list of the pros and

cons of telling Polly about Peter, and frankly, it’s not been very helpful at all. On the pros list, I have: the right thing to do, compassion for Polly, friendship, female solidarity, exposing the bastard and straight-up

honesty.

On the cons list, I have: I don’t want to .

It probably didn’t need its own notepad, which I’m really glad now I left in the bedroom, because Polly seems to have no problem

reading other people’s private information.

“So...” I feel sick. How to gently introduce this topic? “Peter. Is your husband.”

Yup. My famous lack of nuance is very much still intact.

“He is, yes.”

“Yes. Peter is your husband.”

“Yes.”

I clear my throat: this is going well. “You met...”

“At Oxford,” she fills in for me, smiling. “Freshers’ week. I was inexplicably attracted to the handsome guy standing on a

table in front of all his rugby friends, downing a pint with a boiled egg at the bottom of it.”

“Wow.” OK, so Peter’s always been a dickhead. “That’s...”

“A terrible meet-cute, I know.” Polly stands up and walks to my closet. “It got better, though. We just kind of... grew

together. Time and three kids will do that to you. Gosh,” she says, slightly bemused, as she opens my closet door. “What an

awful lot of navy and black.”

“And... you’re happy?” I don’t know why I’m foraging for information like this: just say it. “With Peter? And the kids?”

“Sure.” Polly smiles. “It’s marriage, you know how it is.”

“I don’t know, no. I was dumped at the altar.”

Where did that come from?

“Gosh!” Polly turns to me with a horrified expression. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize...”

I grin at her, suddenly realizing that I feel nothing for myself anymore: no sadness, no self-pity, no heartbreak, no rage.

In fact, I now appear to find the whole situation quite funny.

“Not at the altar itself,” I laugh. “About fifteen feet away.”

That always seemed to be the ironic cherry on the whole wedding cake: when I caught Lily and Aaron, he was wearing a suit

and she was wearing a long satin dress, and they were standing so close to the perfectly arranged floral bower I’d chosen

and paid for that I felt like the one getting in the way of a big love story. Which I suppose I was, really.

“It’s fine,” I say with a smile. “I’m just saying I don’t really know much about what it’s like to be married. Not really.”

Because what I had with Aaron wasn’t “practically a marriage”: not even close.

“It’s... complicated.” Polly frowns. “But... good.”

I open my mouth to say: It isn’t good—he’s trying to sleep with women on the internet using photos that presumably you took. Then I catch myself. That is not how to do it, Margot. This is Polly’s life , not a dramatic plot twist. Do it sensitively and compassionately or don’t do it at all.

“Great.” I smile at her encouragingly. “That’s... great!”

It is so not great. Not only is your husband a cheater, he has lied about his age to manipulate younger women. Nope, that’s not it either.

“Thanks.” She smiles, distracted. “I’m really excited about tomorrow. I’ve got so many great ideas for branding, marketing, setting up a new page and—”

For fuck’s sake, Margot. Just say it .

“Um, while we’re on the topic of dating and whatnot, I need to—”

My phone beeps and I stare at Henry’s name, my insides torn. Ignore the phone, Margot. Just prioritize: tell her and put yourself out of your misery—simultaneously throwing Polly straight into hers.

“Henry?” Polly glances at the phone I’m still staring at. “You going to answer?”

I bite my lip. No. Instead I’m going to tell you that your entire life is a lie and then watch as you fall apart, unable to do anything about

it.

“Ah.” I swallow. “I guess.”

I’m a coward, a wuss, a total let-down of a woman. I pick up the phone.

Still on for this evening? I am IMPATIENT to see you again. xx

I love that Henry isn’t playing it cool or pretending he’s not interested just to try and invoke my deepest and darkest insecurities,

thereby manipulating me into liking him more. He likes me, he lets me know he likes me, he lets me like him back, no mind-molding

games here.

Glowing in spite of myself, I quickly type back:

VERY MUCH ME TOO. Xxx

Another beep.

No grammatical sense there but I’ll take the caps lock as a yes. ;)

Meet you at mine at 6:30 and dress up—I have A PLAN. xx

When I look up, Polly is watching my bright expression with a warm, sweet smile. It makes it worse, somehow. That I’m so smitten

and happy while her relationship is about to implode with the force of a supercell thunderstorm.

“So I guess the dating list worked after all?”

I think about it briefly: without my list, without my data experiment, I wouldn’t have been in that Italian restaurant, I wouldn’t have met Henry, I wouldn’t have realized that I didn’t give a flying crap about my list.

“Actually,” I smile back, “I suppose it did.”

I try to tell Polly three more times and fail. Because I’m weak, because I truly like her, but mostly because I know exactly

how it feels when the life you’ve built abruptly crumbles. So I let her return home and attempt to push the guilt aside for

one more evening. I’ll try again tomorrow. For now, Henry has A PLAN and I need to give it my full attention.

Spurred on by Polly’s visible disappointment at my sartorial choices, I dig around in my closet until I find the only visible

bit of color: a bright red dress I bought for Jules’s wedding and which went unworn because she impulsively ran off to Las

Vegas without telling anyone. It’s exactly the right combination of sexy and fun and puffs up when you walk, as if you’re

a 1950s film star. I put it on and turn in circles in front of the mirror, trying to see what I look like from multiple angles.

Then I try to walk past and catch myself unawares, to get an idea of how Henry will see me.

I am genuinely surprised by the change in me: the brightness .

With a tiny wink at myself (hoping nobody saw that through the window), I give a happy little wriggle, grab my jacket—my Henry

jacket, the one that gave me another chance with him—and slip on my shoes.

The future is coming, I can feel it.

And I am finally racing toward it with both arms held out.

“Shit!” Henry greets me at his door. “Didn’t you get my text?”

I blink in disappointment: this is not the reaction to my dress I was hoping for. I actually took my jacket off just so he

could see it in its full glory, and now I’m bloody freezing for no reason at all.

“Comment on my dress first,” I say bluntly. “It’s very pretty and I made an effort—and now I’m going to put my jacket on because you ruined it.”

“Sorry.” He laughs. “You look beautiful. That was very impolite of me.”

“And no, I didn’t get a text.” I pull my phone out of my bag and stare at it. “Oh, wait. Yes, I did.”

So sorry but can we take a rain check? xx

Presumably, I got it while I was twirling around in front of my mirror: that’ll teach me to be so inordinately pleased with

myself.

“We’re rain-checking?” I frown. “Do I have to go home?”

“I’m ridiculously sorry.” Henry pulls on his coat with a guilty grimace. “The restaurant called me an hour ago. Literally

all the staff have rung in sick. There’s nobody left but me and the chef, and the place is fully booked. Plus—”

“Oh!” Winter appears behind him. “Hello! Are you here to clean while we’re out?”

“Mum and Dad were supposed to take her, but they’re feeling rotten too.” Henry looks stressed. “So you’re coming with me tonight,

aren’t you, Winnie? A nice five-hour shift of sitting with an iPad in the corner on your own, asking for more garlic bread

and Diet Coke and eating us out of profit.”

“I can stay here,” Winter says emphatically. “I’m big enough now.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.” She crosses her arms. “I’m nearly seven. I’ll be totally fine. If there’s a problem, I’ll just scream really loud.”

Henry looks at me with flared nostrils, then back at her.

“Comforting, but no. Put your coat on. We’re already late.”

I put my jacket back on too and assess the situation. Yes, I’m slightly disappointed that I don’t get my swanky date with

Henry—whatever it was going to be—but it’s just another example of him being a decent person. And isn’t this an opportunity ? To try and correct things before they go wrong? A chance to... bond? Or is it too soon? Does he even trust me enough? Should he trust me enough?

“I...” I clear my throat. “I can take her.”

Henry pauses and stares at me. “What?”

“I don’t mean take her , like I’m a child-snatcher,” I correct quickly. “I just mean... you know. Look after her for a few hours.” Winter is staring

at me curiously too, so I add: “Babysitting is actually on my list of... jobs I do. As well as cleaning, obviously.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Margot.” Henry is firm. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t need to. I’m offering.”

He hesitates and I suddenly realize he hasn’t seen what I have seen: he doesn’t know what our future potentially holds. I’m

just some woman he barely knows, offering to take his precious offspring without a background check.

“Unless,” I say, panicked, “you don’t think that I—”

“I trust you,” Henry says quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just... she can be a bit of a handful sometimes.”

“I cannot !” Winter is indignant. “Dad! Please can the cleaner stay with me? I don’t want to sit in your restaurant. It’s very boring and smells like chicken.”

Henry smiles at her and then looks toward me. “If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Winter says in a clear voice.

“I didn’t mean you, you little plonker.” He faces me and I nod to let him know that I, too, am sure. “I should be able to

get out at about half ten, if I convince the chef to cash up for me. Actually, I stole his very expensive black truffle to

try and impress you, so he may not be up for that. But I’ll try my hardest.”

Henry doesn’t notice the little line appearing between Winter’s eyebrows, but I do.

“You’re amazing,” he says, leaning forward to give me a quick, distracted kiss on the lips. “ Thank you. Behave, Winter! I mean it! And show Margot where the snacks are, but don’t eat too many, because you won’t sleep. See you guys in a few hours.”

Realizing the time, Henry jumps down the iron staircase and starts jogging along the road toward the train station.

Slowly, I turn to Winter. I can’t believe Henry just did that.

Yup: that’s the face of a six-year-old who is neither blind nor stupid.

“You’re not really the cleaner, are you,” she says clearly.

“No.”

“Because Daddy doesn’t kiss our cleaners on the lips.”

I should hope not. “No.”

“Or steal things to try and impress them.”

“Probably not.”

I watch her process this information, her entire face moving as her brain desperately attempts to piece it all together. Who

am I? What will happen to her life now? Her face settles on a scowl, and I feel a sense of doom in my stomach.

I cannot believe Henry just accidentally landed me in this mess and then ran away.

“So if you’re not the cleaner,” Winter says, crossing her arms and glaring at me, “then you’re just a big fat liar , aren’t you.”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Don’t touch my rocks,” she says, stalking back into the flat with her shoulders tight and bristling. “You’re not even properly

trained .”

And so it starts.