Haley Hill - Love Is...

I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.

‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’

I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’

Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’

‘Relieved?’

‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.

I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’

He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’

I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’

‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’

‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.

I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’

Nick screwed up his face.

‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’

Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’

I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’

I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’

Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’

I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’

He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’

Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’

Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’

He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’

Chapter 4

Matthew stopped at Cassandra’s front gate and scratched his head.

‘I’m not sure balloons are entirely appropriate for a divorce party,’ he said, gesturing to the bulging bunches tied to each post.

Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me’ was blaring out through the open windows and, as we walked up the path, I could see silhouettes gyrating under a disco ball. The sunken roof of the Georgian townhouse looked as though it might collapse with the shame of it all.

I knocked on the door. There was no answer.

Matthew turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.

I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’

Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’

I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’

He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’

‘She’s going through a rough time.’

Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.

‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’

I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.

She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’

I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.

Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.

‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’

Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’

I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend .’

Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’

Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’

I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.

‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.

He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.

I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.

He shrugged his shoulders.

I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’

He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.

I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’