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Chapter Twenty-one

Francesca

There’s so much I want to ask Gemma – about Kayleigh, about their friendship, about her relationship that just ended.

There’s something else I want to ask her too, something far more pressing about Marcus, but it’s such an ugly question that I can’t stand to dwell on it, let alone ask it.

From my stints social media stalking Kayleigh – and by extension, her friends – I always thought Gemma had everything together.

She wears such lovely clothes, is always posting that she’s out somewhere doing something.

Drinks with the other bridesmaids, her old school friends; day trips with her (ex-)girlfriend; dinner parties and movie nights with bougie snacks.

I would never know she’d been passed over for a promotion, trying and failing to move, had a relationship fall apart around her – one serious enough that she was picturing their wedding.

It makes me feel so silly to realise it; because of course she’s not put her entire life out there on Instagram. Don’t we all just pick and choose the better moments we want to share?

It’s sad, though, that she must be going through so much. It doesn’t sound like she’s even – or maybe, especially – been able to talk to Kayleigh, her best friend, about any of this. I get the impression she’s been bottling it all up, until now – something I know about plenty .

I’m not sure it’s my place to ask about it all, but even if I wanted to, Gemma steers the conversation away so quickly I can do nothing but go along with it.

Returning to the makeup stands, she cleans the lipstick swatches off the back of my hand with a wipe from one of the counters, and has settled on a dark, almost purplish, red that I would never normally have chosen. She finds it boxed up on the shelf and presses it into my hand.

‘This is the one,’ she declares.

‘I don’t know. I’d normally go for something … more subtle.’

‘Let me guess – like this?’

She searches the testers, and finally comes up trumps in Clinique, with a pale, shimmery pink. It looks a lot like the NYX lip gloss I normally wear, and I feel sheepish when I nod.

Gemma shoves it back into place. ‘I’m telling you, it’s not doing much for you, Fran.

Like, I’m sure it looks fine, but it’s not going to wow anybody.

It’s probably just washing you out, if anything.

That’s not a lip colour that’s going to make a man abandon his fiancée for you.

That ,’ she says, nodding at the one in my hand, ‘is.’

My fingers clutch it tighter, but it feels more like guilt than excitement that makes my stomach swoop.

Part of me suspects that she’s doing this to be mean – to cut me down, to bully me into wearing something that will make me look clownish rather than sophisticated, to humiliate me in my hopes of grand romance.

But she’s so upfront, so matter-of-fact, that I don’t really believe that’s what’s happening.

Gemma seems to be very face-value – what you see is what you get.

And, honestly, I do quite like the colour she’s chosen. It’s a far cry from anything I’d normally gravitate towards, but I’ve always envied women who find that perfect, bold makeup. It’s amazing how something so simple can elevate your look, can make you feel like a different person.

Like … someone like Gemma. So at ease with who she is, so confident and unapologetic about it. I’d like to feel a bit more like that.

I say, ‘Thanks. Really. I think I probably got gifted a lipstick when I was a teenager, and it was what everyone else was wearing, and I’ve sort of stuck with it ever since.

I don’t think any of my style has really developed in the last few years, you know.

I’m so rubbish at keeping up with trends, so I just … stick with what I know.’

‘I get that. It’s comfortable, it’s reliable. You don’t have to take any big risks, so you never have to worry about a big failure.’ She nods absently, strolling to the miniature travelsized toiletries to rummage through, but I stand stock-still, the words hitting their mark a little too well.

How has she got me so figured out in the space of a couple of hours? In the space of one conversation, even, about something that feels so trivial?

‘You’re right,’ I murmur. My mind is racing so fast it’s practically come to a standstill, a singular blur.

‘That’s exactly what I’m like. In everything .

I never take risks, I never try anything different or new or …

Not in any significant way, anyway. I’m always just sort of doing what I think I’m supposed to do. ’

Gemma gives me a sidelong look and a conspiratorial smirk.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. Chasing the man you’re in love with to Barcelona to break up his wedding is a pretty big risk.

’ Then she cocks her head to one side, studying me for a moment.

‘So what changed there? They do call it retail therapy , you know, Fran. Consider this the therapy part. Terms and conditions apply, you waive any and all right to sue over the fact I am not a licensed therapist.’

I laugh in spite of myself, then admit, ‘The risk of not doing it and losing him forever was bigger than the risk of him rejecting me. And I thought …’

‘You thought there was no way he would reject you. He was a safe bet.’

‘Yes. He is.’ I feel her tense, hear her click her tongue as she’s about to argue, and cut her off.

‘I know you think it’s all in my head, but it’s not.

The way he makes me feel … I couldn’t make that up if I tried.

I know he feels it, too. And I know that I’ve never come close to having that sort of spark, those feelings, that closeness, with anybody else. ’

‘So you do date. You just sack it off when you decide they won’t ever live up to Marcus.’

‘That’s not exactly …’ Oh, God, but she’s making it so easy to talk to her!

And I never get to tell anybody this stuff.

It really is a weight off to finally open up.

‘It’s more like they sack me off. No, that sounds really dirty, doesn’t it?

But I’m … I’m like the girl they date before they move on to their real relationship.

Every time I meet a guy and think, This is it, he could be the one, so what if he’s a bit of a fixer-upper?

So what if I try to fit myself into a bit of a box so they like me better?

It’ll be worth it in the long run, this is just what you do when you date – put your best foot forward, take an interest in the things they care about.

And then eventually they get bored and move on. ’

‘All fixed-up.’

‘Pretty much.’ I wince; it sounds so horrible, laid out like this.

I’ve just gotten so used to it – it’s a running joke with my friends, about how much of a sucker I am for that type of guy, how eager I am for the attention – the promise and hope of romance, of love.

How I’m always seeing the potential, instead of the reality.

‘But Marcus was different. It wasn’t just some one-night stand. He … stuck around.’

Gemma blinks. ‘He got engaged. To someone else .’

‘And he didn’t stop caring about me, or spending time with me, or talking to me. He likes me for me. He stuck around,’ I press, which sounds so paltry for how monumental our connection feels.

Whenever I see him, whenever we’ve spent time together since that night, it’s always like something clicks back into place. Like finding your favourite jumper after losing it, or sitting down to a cup of tea after a long day. It feels right, and meant to be, and …

Comfortable.

It’s comfortable .

Something about that realisation is jarring, the word not the reassurance it ought to be. It feels poisoned and bitter in the light of Gemma’s comment about how I don’t take risks and keep to what I know.

She must see something on my face, because she lays a hand on my arm and says, ‘Listen, I get it, the heart wants what it wants, it’s not rational, and all that crap.

But your emotions are written all over your face, and you’re nice , and he will have known exactly what he was doing.

You were putty in his hands. You fawn all over him, give him all this attention and affection and whatever, even if it never got physical, and it made him feel good.

And you got scraps in return, and that felt like it was enough. ’

‘That’s not true.’ But my voice wavers a little, and my lungs feel tight as the idea takes root, worms its way in and forces me to sift through memories and emotions and try to see if it might be true, after all.

I struggled to think of anything tangible that would prove Marcus was a good person earlier, when Leon was being so brutal about him, but if I’m being honest with myself – it’s that so many of the gestures in our relationship of someone going out of their way for the other are all things that I’ve done for him.

Like helping him sort out a last-minute birthday present for his mum, dashing out on my lunch break to pick up his dry-cleaning because he had back-to-back meetings, or bringing in leftovers of a meal I’d cooked for him to have for lunch.

And I’d do it without a second thought, because I always knew I’d be rewarded with his smile and heartfelt compliments and it’d feel so good , I’d feel so worthy and so special. He could have asked me for the moon, and I would’ve made it happen just to feel that way for a moment.

Always stopping by his desk with office birthday cake, just for that smile he’d give me.

How many things have I done for him like that over the last couple of years? How far out of my way have I gone to make him happy, to make his life better and easier?

What has he ever done for me in return?

And I know what I’ve always told myself: that it wasn’t fair to expect such things of him, because even if it was just friendly, it might make Kayleigh jealous, and I didn’t do any of this because I wanted him to return the favour, this wasn’t a business transaction …

That question I had for Gemma, the one I shoved deep down, threatens to rise to the surface, and I push it firmly away. I don’t think I have the strength to contend with it right now.

Or maybe ever.

My chest hurts, and my brain feels muddled, and I’m not so sure what feels true or right anymore.

But surely I’ve put too much into this to turn back now?

I say as much out loud, cutting Gemma off where she’s trying to tell me that Marcus is a waste of space and that I shouldn’t bother giving him the time of day and how he’ll never leave Kayleigh for me anyway, and she snaps her mouth shut.

‘So you’re really doing this?’

‘Yes.’

She nods once, slowly, then several more times fast, something lighting up in her eyes. She tosses aside a tiny bottle of shampoo to grab my free hand, then drags me along behind her.

‘Well, in that case, we’d better make it worth your while. If you’re going to seduce him, Fran, you should at least look the part.’

We come to an abrupt stop, the Victoria’s Secret logo glowing above us, illuminating us in pink. I blink to find Gemma suddenly holding up a bejewelled thong in my face, and the pair of us burst out laughing.