humiliated me. But, even with everything I’ve been through, I don’t have it in me.
I’ve hurt too much to hurt others.
I like that I’m not Gretel.
I like that I’m me.
And I like that, despite everything, no matter how hard I’ve tried these last few months, I’ve found it impossible to run away from myself.
In fact, I love that.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, to the table full of couples who think I belong now. I get up from my tastefully-decorated chair. ‘I need the bathroom.’
I dash in the direction Josh went, grinning like nothing is wrong when everything is. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I find him, but I need to find him. I dart around waiting staff who are refilling glasses and scooping up empty plates ready for the pork or chicken or goats-cheese tartlet main course. Chrissy’s laughing at the top table, her meal untouched, sharing a joke with her mum. I know I should stay and eat and pretend life is great for her, but the urge to find Joshua is too much. I feel ill at what I’ve done, the look on his face, at what I need to explain.
He’s not in the hallway. He’s not in the conservatory. He’s not in the entrance hall where we left our wet umbrellas. My heart feels like it’s rehearsing for a full-on attack and I’m shivering even though it’s not that cold as I pace the stately home, dodging the glances of stressed staff. I wait outside the toilets for a while, listening to more well-mannered laughter from the dining room, but he doesn’t come out.
He’s left, I realise. He has gone. And I can’t even blame him.
The loss is more intolerable than I imagined. I head back into the empty conservatory and wilt into a chair, feeling tears itch my eyes, as the echoes of wedding thud down the hallway. I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I sniff again. The rain beats against the glass in pitter-patters. I remember Josh coming to my house in the rain. I remember him saying sorry. I remember feeling in my guts that he meant it. I don’t remember ever feeling like that when a man has apologised to me before. I close my eyes. They’re wet when I open them. I look up at the glass ceiling, the dollops of grey rain hitting it. I wonder whether or not I should try to call him; if there’s any point. Another shriek of laughter ripples from the wedding and I turn my face out towards the rain-smudged view. The stately grounds are hiding in the deep-grey mist of the storm. I can just about make out a patio, a gravel walkway lined with topiary hedges and sodden benches. And, on one of them, I see the huddled figure of Joshua.
Without forethought, I’m outside, soaked instantly. It’s so much quieter out here, just the steady pounding of raindrops in puddles. I run over the gravel, arms crossed, and come to a stop at the bench he’s sitting on, head in his hands. My heartbeat cranks up the amp. He looks broken, his body physically bent over on himself, hands shaking. I feel a twist of pain in my ribs as I examine what I’ve caused. The privilege of guilt …
‘Joshua?’ I say. His wet and sad body doesn’t answer me. ‘I thought you’d gone …’
He straightens, and pulls the sopping lapels of his jacket across his chest. He doesn’t reply.
‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask. Every part of me wants to touch him but I know I’ll be swatted off. I’ve lost the right to brush his skin. It’s been left on the table, alongside the packets of sugared almonds. ‘You’re soaking.’
More silence. I think he may stand and stalk off. He didn’t ask to be followed. I don’t dare sit. I don’t dare break the silence again. And, finally, through gritted teeth, he talks. ‘I’ve been sitting here,’ Joshua tells me, his voice hardly a murmur, ‘in the fucking rain, trying to work out why I keep getting myself into these situations.’
‘What situations?’ I ask delicately.
He sinks his head back into his shaking palms and I see his eyes are watering before they’re hidden again. ‘Throwing myself headfirst into relationships with women who lie.’
I freeze. I was not expecting that reply.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ Josh asks himself, rain spilling into his collar. ‘Why am I always here? Who the hell even