Marcus has not only confessed all of this to the police, but he’s also sent me a long detailed letter explaining everything, assuming that by coming clean, I would forgive and go back to him.
I’m not sure if he’s suffering from some type of mental breakdown, but he is most definitely delusional, and I can’t help but feel just a little bit guilty. His life and his business are in pieces, along with my brother’s and my parents. But it’s the little boy involved that I feel the sorriest for. Henry’s not an attractive or likeable child, there’s nothing warm or loving about him and I know that in the past, he’s been bullied at school. I just hope all of this doesn’t affect him long term.
The scandal has been all over the newspapers and my mother has resigned from her ministerial post. If it wasn’t for the impact this is having on Henry’s life, I’d be happy because all of it has nothing to do with me. Not that that’ll stop her from blaming me. My family wanted nothing more than for me to marry Marcus and just look at what it’s achieved. My brother and mother have lost their jobs and Marcus is facing a conviction and will most likely be struck off.
Who would’ve thought that my boring husband could be leading such a double life? Not me.
I come into the kitchen wearing Conner’s Shift T-shirt, the one I wore the first night I stayed here.
I’ve been out of the hospital for just over two weeks and in that time we’ve only left the house once. We made a trip to Harley Street to meet the obstetrician Conner had arranged for me, and then to the solicitors to sign the final paperwork for the divorce that Marcus had finally agreed to.
I’m approximately nine weeks pregnant. Our baby was very probably conceived right here on this kitchen worktop, the first weekend we got together, which makes me feel kinda slutty but happy.
Conner has Ed Sheeran on shuffle over the loudspeakers, he sings along to ‘Photograph’ while boiling milk on the stove for me. I would normally just throw it in the microwave, but he’s banned me from using it. In fact, he’s gone as far as having it removed from the house.
He pours my milk into my favourite china mug and turns around and notices me, just as ‘Thinking Out Loud’ starts to play.
He smiles his eighteen-year-old Conner smile and I melt a little bit.
“You look beautiful,” he holds his hand out as he speaks.
“I look horrific like someone threw up rhubarb and custard on my face and I had an allergic reaction that made my hair fall out.” My bruises have faded to pale yellow and a pinkish-purple in colour and are barely noticeable now.
He spins me around, before tilting me backward over his knee, then pulls me upright to start dancing around the kitchen with him.
“Well, I love the rhubarb and custard look. I might even taste it later too. Especially if you put your green shoes on for me.”
“You’re obsessed with those shoes.” He licks up my neck to my ear. “I’m obsessed with you,” he says right in it.
Eargasm?
Whispergasm?
I don’t know, but it feels good. So good.
We dance around the kitchen in silence for a bit, until he says in my ear, “Meebs?”
“What?”
“Marry me?”
“Of course.”
He pulls back and looks at me. “Are you serious?”
“As a brain bleed.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Well, neither is calling me a metal head.”
“Yea, now that’s funny.” He bends his knees so we’re eye to eye. I’m not laughing.
“Oh, come on, metal head is funny?”
“You called me bruised brain the other night too. I didn’t laugh then either.”
He throws his head back and gives a big belly laugh. “Bruised brain, now that one was hilarious.”
“D’ya wanna marry me or what?”
His face straightens. “Yeah, sorry. So is it still a yes?”
“Yeah, it’s still a yes.”
“Thank you. Let’s make a baby.”
“We did, it’s still cooking inside me.”
“Well, let’s practise so we know what we’re doing when we make the next one.”
So, right there, right then. With Ed serenading us, we practice.
“I swear to God if you rub my back one more time I will chop off your fucking hands and beat you with them,” she growls at me through gritted teeth.
“No you won’t.”
“Yes. I. Will.”
“I love you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I. Don’t. This is all your fault. I didn’t sign up for this.”
I reach out to rub her shoulders, but move my hand back to hers when she gives me the look.
I hate seeing her in pain like this. I’m torn between being pissed off and admiring her stubbornness and determination.
“How we doing?” the midwife Sian asks, as she breezes back in.
Meebs gives her the look too.
“Like I’m trying to pull my top lip over my head, but apart from that, fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Meebs,” I warn her.
“What?” She glares at me.