I come here expecting I’ll see her. It’s one of her mum’s things, The NSPCC Gala. Raising money for the children. Don’t know what children and I’m a prick for it, but I didn’t come here for the children, I came here for the girl.
I’m so sure she’ll be here that by the time I arrive at One Marylebone I’m already three lines deep, all steeled to watch her walk in, hand in hand with fucking England, in a dress that makes me want to top myself and feel her up at the same time.
I watch the door feverishly.
“Sweetheart,” my mum pats my arm, “give her a minute, she’ll be here.”
She fixes my hair and I unfix it with a bleak look.
“Mum—”
“What? It’s messy—”
“I styled it.” I frown.
“Yes,” she nods. “Messily, darling. It looks like you just rolled out of bed.”
I lift my eyebrows at her. “That’s the idea.”
“Stupid idea,” she mutters under her breath, then glances over at me. “Is Magnolia coming here with that Tom England?”
“Probably,” I say and nod. “They’re dating.”
“He’s probably never cheated on her,” Mum says, rueful.
“No, probably not,” I give her an exasperated look and throw back my drink in one go.
“Ooh, eggrolls!” she sings and scurries after the waiter.
I sigh, a bit relieved she’s gone and then I check the door again and then Magnolia’s dad walks in with Marsaili on his arm.
Everyone sort of stares at them for a few seconds, the volume of the room dropping right off—and then it’s as if everyone there realised there was silence at the same moment, and the room sings back to life.
My heart’s in my throat waiting for her. I don’t care that she’ll be with England, I’ll just be happy to see her. Her eyes that’ll glare over at me angrily—her pouty mouth. Maybe I’ll start a fight with her, so she’ll say something to me?
I miss her voice.
How she sucks in her bottom lip when I do something she doesn’t like; I wonder who’s here that I can kiss in front of her to make her angry?
And then a Parks walks in.
Bridget, not Magnolia. Our eyes catch and I feel my face falter. She gives me a sad smile and walks towards me gingerly. Looks a bit like Cinderella, actually.
“Two social events in one calendar year?” I gawk, kissing her cheek. “Pick this one out yourself?”
She flicks me a look. “She thinks I’m her life-sized doll.”
I nod a couple of times. “She avoiding me?”
Her mouth pulls tight. “She’s in Switzerland.”
“Avoiding me.”
“Can you blame her?” she asks, brows up.
I pull out my phone, check the date. December 1st. “When’s she home?”
“Um,” she says, plucking a champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, “tomorrow, I think.”
I don’t mean to, but I sigh, a bit relieved.
Bridget watches me for a few seconds. “Who are you here with?”
“Came with Mum.” I give her a cheesy grin.
She nods, coolly. “Does your mum know you’re high?”
I squint over at her, a bit annoyed. “She doesn’t.”
Bridge raises her eyebrows for a few seconds, then shakes her head. “Are you trying to drive her away?”
“What?”
“This.” She gestures to nothing. “It seems like self-sabotaging behaviour.”
I grind my jaw, not in the mood for an unsolicited Bridget Parks diagnosis. “It’s not,” I tell her.
She ignores me. “It’s just—you did the one thing that you knew she’d never forgive you for.”
I shake my head, annoyed. “Why is there something that even exists that she won’t forgive me over? If she loves me.” I shrug and I mean it. “Shouldn’t it be enough? Love conquers all and that shit?”
She sits down at a table, not ours—chin in her hand.
I sit next to her. Happy to be with her. Makes Parks feel less far away.
“She’s watched you now with what”—she shrugs aimlessly—“how many girls?” Answers it for herself. “Too many, actually. It’s manky—get tested—”
“I do.” I smile at her smugly. “Regularly.”
“Wouldn’t brag about that myself, but okay—”
I roll my eyes.
“She knows you cheated on her. She knows what you’ve been like since you broke up—you hurt each other, it’s your thing, I get it. It’s what you do to feel close to each other, but still, it’s fucked up and it’s dumb and you’re stupid for doing it but it’s not uncommon for two co-dependent idiots—” I frown, even though an equally appropriate response would be to laugh. “The only thing she’d find categorically unforgivable is you dying.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not d—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” she interrupts me. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see her after.”
“She hit me.” I give her sister an incredulous look. “In front of my parents and my doctor—in a hospital bed.”
“Good.” Bridget nods, merrily. “She should have. You overdosed. You nearly died. You did it to yourself—”
I sigh. “Not on purpose—”
I promise, not on purpose. I’d not do that to her.
Bridget looks at me thoughtfully. “It was worse than when you cheated on her—”
And I don’t buy it for a second. Not for a second. After we broke up I read the articles the Daily Mail and The Sun ran about her. Shit like, “Close sources say sorry-looking Parks is on her way to rehab after worried parents obsess over weight-loss,” and other ones about her having diabetes, one about her picking up a parasite, but really she was just sad.
So Bridge’s lying.
It couldn’t be worse than that.
“She wouldn’t shower. She sat in a ball in her bed for nearly a week. She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink—”
“She eats like a bird anyway,” I say and shrug, like none of what she’s saying is killing me.
“She blacked out,” Bridget nods. “We had to take her to the hospital for dehydration.”
My heart sinks. Parks never told me that.
Fuck.
Bridget shakes her head at me. “You can’t make someone love you how she loves you and then be as reckless as you are. It’s not fair—”
I scowl at her. “And she can’t make me love her how I love her and then keep me at arm’s length because I fucked up once three years ago—”
Bridget scoffs. “You’ve fucked up more than once—let’s get that straight first. So has she,” she adds when I open my mouth to complain. “I’m not saying she’s blameless—she’s not. She’s more gormless than you are some days.”
I smile at her, a bit validated.
“But the root of what she’s doing here is self-preservation,” Bridget keeps going. “She thinks if you die, she’ll die.” She gives a small shrug, happy with her conclusions.
“Bridget.” I give her an uneven smile because she’s being stupid.
“And obviously that’s ridiculous,” she says loudly over me. Bit big for her boots for a twenty-one-year-old, if I’m being honest. “And untrue. But can you imagine—if you did die, what that’d be like for her? Because she has. That’s all she’s imagined since it happened.” Takes a sip of her drink. “Plays it on a loop in her mind.”
“She doesn’t.” I frown.
“She does. She told me.” She drums her fingers on the table. “And then here you are—doing the thing that caused it.” I open my mouth to say something. “Are you trying to hurt her?”
“No,” I say and glare.
“Are you trying to see how robust your love is?”
“No.”
But it’s more robust than you know, Little Parks.
She gives me a long, curious look.
“Then what the fuck are you doing?”
