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“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. Just ignore me. I’m being grouchy. Come on, eat your dessert and then we’ll go and watch a movie.”
I stare at the chocolate pot, boiling with resentment, guilt, and shame. But he’s apologized, and I can’t say anything because I don’t want to draw attention to how I’m feeling. I have to move on with this or it’s all pointless. I have to learn not to react to every little thing he says. I need to let things wash over me.
I peel the lid off the pot and begin to eat.
“I wonder how much money they’ve spent on this wedding,” he says. “I bet it’s a small fortune. Paying for all their guests to spend three nights in a hotel. All that food and drink. And they’re hiring a whole set of staff for the event, aren’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“Crazy waste, don’t you think?”
I eat a spoonful of the pudding. “Some might say it was romantic.”
He snorts. “Yeah, the same people who spend three times the going rate on a bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day.”
I put down my spoon. I know his thoughts on it. But this is the kind of thing I need to talk to him about. How’s he expected to put it right if I don’t tell him how I feel?
“You’re right,” I say slowly. “They do charge more for flowers and chocolates and in restaurants in the middle of February. It is highly commercialized. But the thing is that most people still buy their loved one a gift because it makes them feel good.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “Are you saying that’s how you feel?”
“Maybe. It’s nice when your partner buys you gifts.” I try not to think about the earrings in the box in my bedside table.
“I do buy you gifts,” he says, a tad hurt. “I’ve got you something nice for Christmas.”
“I’m sure you have, and that’s really nice, thank you. But sometimes it would be cool if you got me something when it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas to show me you were thinking of me.”
“I think of you all the time,” he says.
I swallow and pick up my spoon, then carry on eating. I remind myself he bought these puddings because he knew I liked them. He does buy me things. He does think about me. It’s me who’s at fault because I’m judging what he does and expecting him to change to suit me. My expectations are too high, and I’m being unfair.
When we’re done, we go and sit on the sofa. He puts on Love Actually, which we’ve seen half a dozen times, but it feels like a silent acknowledgement that we need some Christmas spirit, and so I don’t complain.
We sit side by side, Cam with his arm stretched out along the back, almost, but not quite, around me. I curl up next to him, and we watch the movie from beginning to end.
The only time we speak is when Cam asks me if I want another glass of wine, and I decline.
When it’s over, I tell him I’m tired and he says he is too, so we go into the bedroom and get ready for bed. While he’s in the bathroom, I put on my pajamas, then go into the bathroom when he comes out.
I let down my hair and braid it, take off my makeup, and go back out into the bedroom. He’s already in bed, reading on his phone. I slide in beside him and lie back.
He puts down his phone and rolls onto his side to look at me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I look up at him. “For what?”
“Everything.” He looks sad. “I… I do love you, you know,” he says falteringly.
It’s a big admission for him to make. He doesn’t say it often, so I should feel thrilled. But I don’t. He says it, but I don’t feel it.
Then he leans forward and kisses me.
I freeze. We haven’t made love since my birthday on the tenth. We tried a few nights ago, but it ended in disaster.
He cups my face and turns it toward him, pressing soft kisses across my lips. Then he moves his hand under the duvet to the bottom of my pajama top and slides his fingers beneath the hem, onto my belly, and moves them up.
Henry. Oh God, Henry, Henry, Henry.
I roll away from him and sit up. “I can’t do this.”
