glasses. A kind gesture, but too little too late. Funny how I’d once thought that Kate was the loyal one. You never know who people are, do you? Jen, despite her pouts and demands and bolshie behavior, seemed like she cared, just a little. Or were her efforts some kind of good cop/bad cop trick? I didn’t even need my glasses anymore. No phone to look at, and I could enlarge the print on my e-reader. My glasses were useless to me now.
The chocolates were a nice thought though. Nobody had gifted me chocolates since Juan. He was so generous at birthdays and Christmas: fancy chocolates galore, huge bouquets of flowers, and always jewelry. Juan was great like that—surprising me with presents, making me feel like a million dollars… well, he tried to make me feel like a million dollars. It wasn’t his fault that I was so unsure of myself and still felt like a freak inside. I closed my eyes, wishing him back, savoring the day he proposed to me. Or at least, proposed that we got engaged.
Well. Sort of.
After dating him for several years, I began to badger him about getting a ring on my finger—I felt “less than,” felt insecure. Wanted to know, like any normal woman, where our relationship was heading.
“Is that what’s bothering you, honey, that you don’t have an actual wedding ring?” he asked one morning as I was knotting his tie. He always dressed elegantly. Italian suits, Turnbull & Asser shirts, handmade shoes. I’d polish those sleek shoes; it gave me great satisfaction to do that.
“Well, yes. We’ve been together for four years now. I want to know what this relationship means to you,” I said, with a spike of bravery. “Where it’s going.”
“Okay, I’ll get you a wedding band.”
My face lit up for a second, but my smile then dropped. “People usually get engaged first.” I couldn’t deny I felt a tad hurt that he was “relenting” to marry me, that it wasn’t his own free will.
“You’ll get that too. An engagement ring. We can kill two birds with one stone. Go shopping today, if you like.”
Kill two birds with one stone? “I don’t understand,” I said, my heart dipping with disappointment.
“You want rings, I’ll get you rings. You like Tiffany, right?”
“You make me sound so grabby, Juan. It’s not just about the rings. It’s—I want to know we belong to each other.” I’d dreaded this conversation and hoped it would never get to this point: me begging him to marry me. I had dreamed of a white wedding. The big dress, the posy of flowers, bridesmaids. It dawned on me that expecting more than a registry wedding was absurd, or any nuptials at all. Girls like me didn’t get men like Juan. Looking a gift horse in the mouth was risky.
He took my hand away from his tie then kissed it. “You know what, sweetheart? What you’re suggesting is a good idea, actually. Rings are a good idea.”
“Rings usually go hand in hand with a wedding though.” The word “wedding” came out as barely a whisper.
“Can’t do that,” he said, throwing down my hand.
The moment had come, I thought. The moment when he’d dump me for good. I should have kept my trap shut. Too pushy! But I ventured, “Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
I could feel a lump gather in my throat. “Is there someone else?”
“Babe, I do not have a relationship with another woman.”
“That’s what Clinton said, or something along those lines.”
He winked at me. “Look, you have to believe you’re the only woman I have a loving relationship with. Apart from my mother.”
“Loving relationship.” What did that mean? Was he sleeping with someone else?
“Then why can’t we get married?” I asked, tears welling.
He regarded me for a long while as if weighing up various possibilities, before saying, “Fiscal reasons. Like I said, it’s complicated. Trust me, it’s better this way. We’ll get rings, hell, you can even change your name to mine. For the world at large, and my parents, you’ll be my wife. We can even throw an engagement party, if you like. But let’s just not tie the knot legally, okay?”
I nodded. A tear slid down my face. Pathetically, it was a tear of gratitude. I’d be his “wife.”
Even if only make believe.
Thirty-Six
A spike of rage about Juan—and the triplets’ malevolence—coursed through me as I wallowed in the bathtub, planning my escape. In their “sweep-outs” they had overlooked my makeup bag. Pretty Brit Widow was going to strike.