‘I’m sorry, Clara, are you all right? We can do this another time if you prefer.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine, God, I’m so sorry …’ She looked up at Rose now. ‘It’s just things with my boyfriend. They are, erm, tough, I guess.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s okay,’ Rose replied.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
Milo’s face instantly sprung into her head, and suddenly her whole body had tensed. Rose shivered, shaking her head and shoulders to erase the image.
‘No,’ she mustered. ‘But I’ve had some …’ She paused, unsure what she was trying to say. ‘I know that men can be disappointing.’
‘God, tell me about it.’
‘How long have you been with your boyfriend?’ Rose needed to shift the attention away from her.
‘Four years. It’s been pretty rocky for a while. If I’m being completely honest, we probably should have broken up after a month.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Rose, instantly regretting the formality of her words.
‘He told me to get out of the house this morning, called me a narcissist … all of the usual insults he flings my way when he’s angry. So I’m just trying to figure out my next move.’
‘Is it his house?’
‘No. I’m the primary earner, which he loves just as much as you can imagine.’
‘Do you have somewhere else to go?’
‘I can go to my mum’s. It’s just complicated. And now he’s apologising and begging me to come back to the house, promising he won’t ever say that to me again, telling me I’m the love of his life and he wants to marry me,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just exhausting.’
Rose sat and listened as Clara talked about all of the times her boyfriend had made her feel small, criticised her career and pulled her away from friends. The arguments were dramatic and frequent. The apologies, long and heartfelt. He’d had a difficult childhood, she explained, and took things out on her without meaning to. She loved him a lot. They’d been to couples counselling a few times and the counsellor explained all the necessary steps they needed to take in order to make it work. She had to prioritise him over her work, he had to cut down his drinking. But none of that seemed to work, leaving them trapped in this endless cycle.
‘He thinks I need to go to the Priory for depression,’ she said.
‘Do you think you’re depressed?’
‘No. Don’t get me wrong, I have my moments. But he’s the one opening a bottle of wine at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday and doing a line of coke on his own just because he found some in his bedside drawer. And somehow I’m the one that needs help.’
Clara went into detail about more of their arguments, how he’d compare her unfavourably to his exes, how he’d make snide remarks about what his friends thought of her. But he could also be so loving towards her, showering her with gifts, planning trips away and making her feel adored. Clara was still crying. And Rose noticed that the waiters had been avoiding their table for the past twenty minutes.
‘Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom,’ whispered Rose, taking Clara’s arm.
Rose waited outside the cubicle as Clara sniffled and blew her nose.
After a few minutes she emerged, all shallow gasps and flushed cheeks.
‘God, I’m so sorry. Thank you so much,’ she said, steadying herself on the sink as she took a packet of make-up wipes out of her Gucci tote bag and began to erase the smudges under her eyes. Then she took a large Burberry pouch out of the bag and, pulling out an eyeliner and mascara, started to reapply.
‘I know you won’t,’ she said, holding one eyelid out so she could carefully put her liner on, ‘but I just have to ask for my own peace of mind …’
‘I won’t tell anyone, Clara. Don’t worry.’
She turned to face Rose and smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Can I ask, is that why you don’t post about him? Because you’re not happy?’
Clara scoffed. ‘I post about a lot of things that don’t make me happy,’ she replied, flicking her eyeliner with the ease of a conductor.
‘In all honesty, it’s just a bit embarrassing,’ Clara continued. ‘He’s always told me that what I do doesn’t matter.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He works in insurance. For superyachts.’
Rose couldn’t help but laugh.
‘I know,’ Clara replied. ‘Anyway, he hates the idea of me sharing our relationship online. To him, the idea of telling strangers about your holiday is like telling your family which STDs you’ve had. He’s never liked that this is my job. So I keep him out of it.’
‘Would you ever leave him?’
‘Yes. And I have, many times. And for about two days I have this incredible freeing feeling, like I’ve just climbed a mountain or something. Everything feels lighter. But then he gets in touch again. He apologises. He sends presents. He tells me everything I want to hear. And after a while, it just … starts to sink in.’
‘You start to miss him?’
‘I know that probably sounds ridiculous. But in spite of it all, I really do love him so much. And a part of me thinks, well, love isn’t supposed to be easy, is it?’
Clara explained how they met. She was a naive twenty-three-year-old model for Topshop; he was a cocky thirty-five-year-old accountant. They crossed paths at a nightclub in central London. She hated him at first, writing him off as an arrogant city bloke. But, after much insistence, she reluctantly gave him her phone number. He soon charmed her with his self-deprecating sense of humour, his culinary prowess and his childlike obsession with cartoon-covered socks. Also, he was kind to her. The first man to tell her she was beautiful and really make her feel like she was. The first man to say he was in love with her and make her feel like it was true.
‘In those first four months, I honestly felt like I was living in a Disney fantasy world,’ said Clara. ‘Everything happened so quickly. We moved in together and that’s when he started to turn.’
