Page 41 of I Know How This Ends

“I did, yes.” I nod. “It did not go down well. Fed me for three days, though.”

“Good.” She smiles widely, reaches forward over the dining table and takes both my hands. “Thank you, Margot. For telling

me and for spending our joint-account money on... garlic bread?”

“Garlic mushrooms.”

“Even better. Let’s get out another bottle to celebrate.”

And as I watch Polly go back to the larder and start rummaging around, humming and clearly pretty hyper about her future—her

imminent freedom, her brand-new beginnings—I see her lovely face at my wedding, grinning at me.

“Hey,” I say impulsively, feeling an intense wave of warmth toward her. “Pol, how do you feel about wearing purple satin?

Like, a kind of lilac shade? Floor-length? Nothing too fancy. With sparkly shoes?”

She turns. “Oh, I’d look excellent in that. Why?”

“Nothing.” I grin at my vodka glass. “I was just wondering.”

By the time I get back to my flat, I’m extremely drunk.

It’s all of fifteen steps, and it takes me a solid ten minutes to make it: holding on to various impeccable rose trellises

(Polly’s) and slightly crumbling brick walls that I really need to sort out if I’m going to be staying here (mine). Polly

asked an extremely miffed Peter to “take the kids somewhere fun” for a few hours after school, so that we could continue celebrating

her imminent freedom from him in private. It’s getting dark now, so I presume we’ve put the world to rights; I know we finished her alcohol cabinet.

I feel warm and giddy and at peace with the world, with myself.

Actually, I’m lying.

Jules is still haunting me, asking why Polly can forgive me but I can’t forgive her.

Because it’s not the same , I drunkenly shout at her in my head. Polly was already married, for starters. It wasn’t time dependent. I wasn’t going with her to wedding fittings, fully aware

that the wedding shouldn’t happen. I hadn’t known her thirty years. I didn’t tell the truth because I got caught. I wasn’t

lying to protect someone I loved more.

I don’t love Lily more , I hear Jules say back calmly.

You must do, because you chose her over me.

“You know what?” I slur crossly, slamming my key into my front door multiple times. “I’m not having this argument with you

now, Jules. I’m drunk and you’re not actually here and you’re being really annoying.”

Wobbling, I manage to slip off my shoes by holding on to the wall and then stagger to the kitchen, where I desperately look

for some kind of sustenance. There’s nothing here: just an empty fridge, empty larder, empty life. God, I can’t wait for Henry

to move in and bring his saucepans and roasted aubergines and lovely lemon-pepper scent with him.

Then I catch myself: I’m doing it again. Waiting to build my life around a man, my entire identity around someone else.

Not going to happen, Margot. Not this time.

With extremely drunken fervor, I manage to find a handful of dried pasta and some tinned tomatoes. Then I wobble out to the

garden, where I retrieve the least burnt saucepan, and back into the kitchen to fill it up with water.

Inordinately proud of myself, I sway in front of it and wait for it to boil.

It takes me fifteen minutes to realize I haven’t turned on the hob.

“Tomorrow,” I promise it firmly. “Cook tomorrow.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I retrieve my final pot noodle from a top cabinet and apologize to my cells for giving them zero nutrients,

yet again. I manage the kettle, just about. Then I take my precious snack to the sofa, where I briefly check the time on my

way: 9 p.m. Nice one, Margot. This is what having no job does to your schedule. You are one short, slippery slope from standing

outside a pub at 11 a.m., shouting at it to open already.

I’m just waiting for the powder to turn into mush when the doorbell goes.

“No!” I shout. “No, Jules! Sod off! I don’t want to speak to you!”

The doorbell goes again.

“I said NO,” I yell into my pot noodle. Huh: there’s only one dried pea. This is outrageous. Do they think they can just get

away with this? I have been conned . “GO. TO. HELL.”

“Meg?” A much more welcome voice. “It’s Henry.”

Henry! Lovely, lovely Henry. When did I last see him? Three days ago? Two? Ugh, it’s been so long. He’s so lovely. Is he here

to cook me dinner? Is he going to physically pick me up like he did last time? Because I don’t need him to, but if he wants to, he can.

“Hang on!” I get woozily to my feet and try to find somewhere to put the pot noodle. Quickly, I stuff it under the sofa. “Coming!”

Accidentally bumping into the wall, I make it to the door.

“Helloooooo,” I say, throwing it open. “Are you here to make passionate—”

Love to me goes drunkenly unsaid—thank goodness—because I now see there’s a wailing Winter standing next to him: cheeks streaked with

tears, little chest racked with sobs, eyes closed.

“Oh my God.” I instinctively get to my knees. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

I will murder whatever—or whoever—has hurt her.

Winter throws herself into my arms with such ferocity she almost knocks me over, and I look up at Henry in surprise as she

clings to me like a small tentacled sea creature, incoherently trying to explain in between wet little hiccups.

“What she’s trying to say,” he translates with a small smile, “is that we need your help. Also, you have a noodle stuck to

your chin.”