Page 13 of Pretend You Love Me

The rest of the consultation passes in a blur of questions that feel increasingly intrusive, how did you feel when you found the messages? Did you confront him immediately? Have you told anyone else? Each delivered with the eager interest of someone gathering material for a particularly salacious anecdote. I answer politely, my voice on autopilot, while a growing part of me wonders how I ended up here, explaining the worst moment of my life to a stranger who’s taking notes on how “effective” my emotional reactions are likely to be in court.

When Rose finally finishes, sliding a brochure across the desk with the practiced movement, I take it without looking at it. “I’ll need to think about it,” I say, standing up. “And check my schedule for a follow-up.”

“Of course,” Rose says, her smile firmly in place. “These are important decisions. Take your time. But I will say…“ she leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “…you have a very strong case. Emotionally speaking. Judges respond to that.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and make my way back through the waiting room with the geometric-haired receptionist calling “It was so lovely to meet you!” after me as I grab my coat from the unicorn hook and escape into the cold afternoon air.

In the car, my phone sits in the cup holder, the screen dark and peaceful, and after a moment I pick it up and call Luca.

He answers on the second ring. “Els,” he says, his voice warm with the tone he uses when he’s trying very hard not to sound worried. “How did it go?”

“No,” I say, the single word containing everything I can’t voice right now.

There’s a pause, brief but noticeable, and then Luca says, “Understood, moving on,” without asking for clarification or details or anything else. Just complete, immediate acceptance of what I’m ready to share.

It’s one of the reasons I love him.

“I’m coming to the café,” I say, putting the car in reverse. “I need to not think about this for a bit.”

“You got it,” Luca says. “I’ve got a blueberry scone with your name on it. Literally. I wrote your name on it in Sharpie because Barry tried to claim it was his.”

I laugh despite myself, a short, startled sound that doesn’t quite make it all the way to a real laugh but is closer than I’ve come today. “See you in ten,” I say, and hang up before he can hear the catch in my voice.

Page & Grounds is as I left it this morning, warm and slightly chaotic, with the comfortable disorder that comes from a space that’s seen too many real conversations to worry about looking perfect. Luca is behind the counter, his back to the door as he restocks the pastry case, and Liv is at the small desk in the corner, her headphones on and her expression focused as she works on something that requires both a ruler and a significant amount of swearing.

I hang my coat on the hook by the door and slip behind the counter, reaching for an apron on impulse. Luca glances up, takes in my face with a single, careful look, and says nothing, just slides a mug of coffee across the counter with the right amount of milk and an extra shot that I didn’t ask for but definitely need.

The next hour passes in the particular rhythm that only happens at Page & Grounds, the constant background noise of conversation and coffee machines and Liv’s occasional outbursts when her design program does something unexpected. I make three flat whites, restock the new arrivals shelf with Harper’s latest paperback, and listen to Luca explain to a confused tourist that no, we don’t have Nespresso, but we do have a very large coffee machine that can make her something else.

It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s what I need.

Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, a voice note from Harper. I press play, turning slightly so my back is to the counter.

“So, I’ve hit a wall with chapter fourteen,” Harper’s voice fills my ear, cheerful and slightly frustrated. “The wife has just found out about the husband’s affair… six months with his assistant, classic midlife crisis stuff… but she only discovers it because the assistant’s best friend feels guilty and tells her at a school fundraiser. It’s a great reveal moment, but I’m worried it’s too convenient? Like, would the friend really do that? And also, does it make the wife seem passive? That she only finds out because someone else tells her? I’m trying to balance making the husband appropriately villainous, but also not making the wife too naive or too vengeful, and I’m honestly considering just setting the whole manuscript on fire and starting something about competitive knitting instead. Thoughts?”

I listen to it twice, my jaw tight, before sending back a thumbs-up emoji and turning to make myself another coffee I don’t need. My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the portafilter, grounds spilling onto the counter in a small, brown heap.

On the shelf behind me, Harper’s latest novel sits faced out, its bright cover showing a cartoon woman with her hands on her hips. I stare at it, at the woman’s exaggerated expression of shock and something in my chest twists.

In fiction, cheating husbands get exposed at school fundraisers. Wives discover the truth in time to make dramatic speeches and meaningful choices. The narrative has structure and, eventually, some kind of resolution, even if it’s just the main character driving off into the sunset with a better understanding of herself and a really good playlist.

In real life, you find a notification on your husband’s phone while your babies are napping. You sit on a stranger’s white sofa while she tells you your trauma is “compelling.” You make coffee and change nappies and hand your husband the salt at dinner and pretend, for just a little while longer, that you don’t know what he has been doing.

I dump the coffee grounds into the bin with more force than necessary, watching as they scatter across the bottom in a dark, bitter cloud.

***

Clara Hayes’s office is in a narrow building two streets back from the high street, no marble, no exposed brick, no diffuser pumping lavender into the air at assault levels. Just a small waiting room with four chairs, a watercooler in the corner, and a spider plant on the windowsill that’s grown so large it’s developed its own gravitational field. The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with a cardigan and reading glasses on a chain around her neck, looks up when I enter and offers me tea like she actually wants to know the answer.

“Yes please,” I say, suddenly aware that my throat is dry. “Milk, no sugar.”

She nods, disappearing through a door behind her desk while I take a seat in one of the chairs, a sensible, upholstered thing that doesn’t try to swallow me whole or force me into a strange posture. The room is quiet, the only sound is the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of papers from the receptionist’s desk. No motivational quotes. No abstract art. No signs reminding me to “live my truth” or “embrace the journey.”

The receptionist returns with my tea, in a proper mug, not a paper cup, the steam rising in a gentle curl, and a clipboard with a single page of questions. “Clara will be with you in just a moment,” she says, her voice warm. “She’s just finishing up a call.”

Five minutes later, a door opens and a woman appears, moving from one room to another with the unhurried quality of someone who has already decided she has enough time for whatever comes next. She’s in her late thirties, with reading glasses pushed up into dark hair shot through with a single streak of grey at the temple. Her suit is well-cut but not flashy, her earrings small gold hoops. Nothing about her announces that she’s important or powerful or any of the other adjectives the previous lawyers seemed determined to project. She just looks like someone who knows what she’s doing.

“Elsie?” she says, her voice steady. “I’m Clara Hayes. Come through.”