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I finish pleating the fabric and secure it with a big safety pin, then look over at Cam. He’s six-one, with dark-blond hair, and he looks handsome tonight in his shirt and jeans. I just wish he was looking at me with love rather than irritation.
We’ve been together nearly seven years now. Our relationship started well but it has gradually deteriorated, and I’m tired of the brittle atmosphere. I think about my conversation with the company director on the Zoom call. Mentioning it would be an olive branch. A sign that I want him to be happy, and I’m prepared to negotiate.
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m a bit late because I was talking to someone this evening about a Masters in Orthotics that’s available in Melbourne. And I was wondering what you thought about maybe moving there instead, as a kind of compromise?”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t want to go to Melbourne,” he states. “I want to move to Sydney.”
He waits for me to argue with him, and I have no doubt that if I did, if I employed the tactics I know he responds to, I could make him do what I want. But I want a proper discussion, with no power play, no dynamics. Just a conversation, as equals. Why can’t he see that?
He walks out.
I look back at my reflection and swallow hard as tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard and lift my chin. I’m not going to cry. He’s being snotty because of our argument this morning. Maybe later, when he’s calmed down, we’ll be able to talk about it again.
After I finish pinning the fabric, I visit the bathroom to touch up my makeup. I don’t have enough time to redo my hair, so I leave it pinned up, but I add kohl to my eyes, some glittery eyeshadow, and a new bindi, peeling off an orange sticker surrounded by tiny gold stones from a special pack and placing it carefully between my eyebrows. I slick on some lip gloss, and then I’m ready.
I go back into the living room and collect my purse. “Ready?”
He grabs his keys and heads to the door.
“Aren’t you going to say I look nice?” Even to my ears, my voice sounds pathetic, and I bite my bottom lip, trying not to wince.
He stops, though, his hand on the door handle, and turns to look at me as I walk up to him. “You always look stunning,” he says gruffly.
I hesitate, wanting to put things right. “Cam, about last night…”
His expression darkens. “Don’t,” he says. And he opens the door and goes out.
*
We walk around the block to the bar in silence. He doesn’t offer to hold my hand, and I don’t take his.
It’s a beautiful evening. The sun is low in the sky, bathing the city in a beautiful pinky-orange light. The streets are busy, the bars and restaurants full of people out having Christmas parties. Most of the shops have spray-snow reindeer or presents on their windows, and fairy lights blink around storefronts and in the trees.
I’m struggling to feel the Christmas spirit, though, and I suspect Cam is, too. It’s going to be a poor festive season if we can’t figure out this problem between us. And I don’t mean him wanting to move to Sydney. At the core of our relationship is an issue that’s like a crack spreading through the foundations. Cam is a damaged man, and although I’ve given him all the love in the world—as much as I have inside me—I’m beginning to think it’s not enough to mend whatever’s broken inside him. I’ve spent years trying to make him better, and all it’s doing is draining me and making me unhappy.
I love him, and I don’t want to abandon what I’ve spent years building. But I’ve tried so hard to be the kind of girl he needs, and for the first time it occurs to me that maybe I’m not that person. I’m just not strong enough, not good enough for him.
The thought hits me hard, and almost takes my breath away. My eyes sting again, and I have to be careful not to let the tears fall, not wanting to smudge my makeup.
It’s Christmas, a time to celebrate the birth of things, not the end. It can’t all be over. Can it?
We’re heading toward the bar when he pulls out his phone and reads a text. “Pete and Alan want me to go over,” he says.
“When?”
“At ten.”
My heart sinks. “I was hoping to have an early night.”
“You can do what you like,” he says. “I don’t give a shit.” He pulls open the door to the bar and steps back to let me pass.
I clench my jaw to stop my bottom lip trembling, and walk past him. It would be too easy to let him spoil the evening. But I’ve been looking forward to this, and I want to see my friends. So screw him. I’m going to have a great evening, and he can go fuck himself.
Chapter Two
Henry
I’m the first to arrive at the Pioneer, so I grab myself a beer, pick up a newspaper that someone’s left on the bar, borrow a pencil from the bartender, and lean on one of the standing tables to do a crossword while I wait for everyone to arrive.
