Chapter 35

I've eaten all four mango trifles, and now I'm sitting on the sofa in the kitchen thinking that I should go home but without the energy to get up and make it happen. All I want to do is put my head down and sleep for a week. Not that I have time to sleep for a week, because I've got new contracts to negotiate and new deals to do and new authors to sign. But for the first time in my life, none of that makes me feel any better.

I keep hearing Charles's words. I love you, you know that. What I know is that he once loved me but that he doesn't now. And that he said what he said to comfort me. But what really bothers me is that I needed to be comforted. Because usually I don't. Usually I can comfort myself, thanks very much.

I feel like a character in an Edwardian novel, where the downstairs staff gossip about the upstairs drama and a cook or a parlourmaid falls hopelessly in love with the lord of the manor, who leaves her pregnant and marries a third cousin to keep the stately home. I always thought I should be an upstairs sort of person, but here I am, huddled in the kitchen nursing my sore hand and scoffing food meant for the toffs.

I definitely should go, although the kitchen is still a mess and I hate to leave it like this. But it's not my kitchen, is it? Nothing here is mine. Not even the eaten trifles.

I retrieve my coat from the utility room and am putting it on, gingerly avoiding my sore hand, when I see Ellis at the kitchen door.

‘You're leaving?' She sounds surprised.

‘Of course.'

‘Come upstairs and have a glass of wine with us first.'

‘Are you joking? I can't imagine Charles wants his ex and his fiancée in the same room. Besides, I have to drive home. I can't drink wine.'

‘Iseult has gone.'

‘She has?'

‘She was a bit overwrought by everything.'

‘I'm not surprised. I'm a bit overwrought myself.'

‘I don't blame you,' says Ellis. ‘Seriously,' she adds. ‘Leave the car. Have a glass with us. We need to talk.'

‘Why?'

‘Charles is a mess. He needs sorting out. And you're the only one who can do it.'

‘Charles made his choice,' I say. ‘He can sort himself out.'

‘He needs closure, Ariel.'

So do I. I drop my coat on the sofa and follow her up the stairs.

Charles and his mother are sitting opposite each other, tumblers of whiskey in front of them. He gets up when I walk into the room.

‘Are you OK?' he asks.

‘I will be.'

‘What d'you want to drink?'

‘I'll have a whiskey too,' I reply.

He pours a generous measure for me and then mixes Ellis's requested gin and tonic.

‘So,' says Pamela. ‘The night of the long knives.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Mum,' says Ellis. ‘It was a misunderstanding, that's all.'

‘Yet Charles's wife is here and his fiancée has gone,' she observes.

‘I called her. She's not answering,' says Charles.

I can't help thinking that this seems to happen a lot between them. And I suddenly wonder if she's the one who's in control of the relationship, not him. In which case, she's doing better than me, because I always come running when he calls. Even tonight.

‘Can you blame her?' asks Ellis. ‘I'm sure it wasn't the sort of evening she was expecting.'

And that's my fault. I stepped in to help Charles because I always do, but this was a step too far and I don't understand why I didn't see it before now. I'm so used to being his fixer that I thought I should fix this too. Although that wasn't the entire reason, I admit to myself as I recall spiking Iseult's quiche with jalape?os. What has happened to me? What have I become? Who have I become?

I take a tissue from my bag and blow my nose.

Charles has his phone in his hand and is composing a text. I'm sure it's to tell Iseult that he loves her more than anything and that he's going to fire me as his agent. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we should never have stayed together in a professional capacity. He glances up and sees me looking at him. I can't read the expression in his eyes. He can't love both of us. At least . . . he can't be in love with both of us.

He's not in love with me. He's used to me. He depends on me. But he's not in love with me.

‘I really do have to go.' I drain the whiskey and take out my own phone to call a cab.

‘I'd feel better if you stayed,' says Charles.

‘I don't honestly care how you feel,' I tell him.

According to the app, the cab will be here in fifteen minutes.

I decide to wait in the hall.