It was a late night. An evening I would prefer to forget.
A party, jointly organised with the economist, at his club. The same club we spent an afternoon together, touching, kissing, talking and deciding to have an affair all those months ago. He had warned me she was coming. That initial stab of jealousy had become a constant knot in my stomach. I had spent days trying to gloss over that fact, trying to persuade myself I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Yet as I walked into the club last night, finding just the two of them (no other guests had arrived yet), I couldn’t help but feel a wave of panic hit me. I wanted to turn and bolt. Instead, we greeted and hugged. Their cocktails arrived. He had ordered her a ‘Perfect Lady’. I felt sick.
He disappeared for 5 minutes, leaving just her and me. I made inane small talk, trying desperately to think of topics to discuss and taking deep sips of my G&T to numb the senses. Once other guests arrived, I mingled with them, keeping a safe distance. The economist and I barely spoke all evening. At the end of the evening, they left together. I still have the image of them walking arm in arm down the street. And I still feel sick.
The prospect of spending a weekend away with them and Moriarty in a few weeks time fills me with horror. I didn’t expect to feel like this.