Page 78 of The Whole Package

Typing that felt illegal. I felt like I should be arrested for even entertaining the idea of sorting.

Mum: The Blythswood! Canny hide money! As long as you’re OK. Don’t worry about us xxx

I paused, thumb hovering over the screen. Don’t worry about us. Of course, she’d say that. Even when everything was on fire, my mum would be standing there with a wooden spoon ready to take care of others, like it was all fine and she’d manage. Guilt twisted my stomach.

Me: Not sure if I’ll be home. All my stuff’s here, so don’t wait up xx

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

Mum: OK. Don’t worry about tomorrow. We’ve got the dinner sorted, you’ve already done so much. You just sort your marriage if that’s what you need xx

Jesus. No pressure then. I let my head fall back against the bath. Guilt washed through me properly this time, heavy and unavoidable. I’d made so many promises for tomorrow. I actually had plans. People were counting on me. My mum. Jamie. The community. And now I was here, soaking myself in a five-star hotel bathtub, with my husband next door waiting for me. The one who’d wrecked everything, the man who had destroyed my self-esteem so much that I eventually sought validation elsewhere. So much so, I’d let some random pump me in the middle of the woods in the winter. I’d waited so long for him to fight for us. To show up. To say sorry like it meant something. Now he finally had, and I was surrounded by expensive bubbles while stressing about everyone else.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I lay in the bath for nearly an hour, uninterrupted, topping up the hot water every ten minutes. It should have been bliss. At my mum’s, I’d have had a knock on the door after five minutes, my dad shouting that his Bovril was running through him and he needed on the pan. Or my mum warning me not to use all the hot water in the tank. But not here. This was silent. Calm. Mine. But my brain wouldn’t shut up and let me enjoy it properly. I kept coming back to what Rupert had said about feeling inferior to me – and, annoyingly, I got it. He sort of was, too; well, on my channel at least. But not to me – I’d always put him on a pedestal.

Then I thought about Mum and Dad, and how disappointed they’d be once they realised I was going to miss my first Christmas with them in years. And no matter how hard I tried not to, I thought about Jamie, his eyes, his laugh, his kindness. The way he listened to me, how he never took anything too seriously. I squeezed my eyes shut and sank lower into the water.

No. Absolutely not. He is casual, I reminded myself. He’d said it himself; it meant nothing. I was Harriette Hope. I could only begin to imagine the discourse and the memes if I quit my lavish life for a hot ned who ran a soup kitchen in Glasgow. It would never work. We lived entirely different lives. This wasn’t what anyone could call a perfect wife swap.

Eventually, I dragged myself out, dried off and wrapped myself in a thick, ridiculously luxurious robe that had been hanging in the bathroom like it belonged to someone far more put-together than me. I twisted my hair up into a towel, then went through my skincare like I was reapplying my personality. By the time I’d finished, I felt almost normal again. As I headed back out, I spotted Rupert sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, with an ice bucket of champagne and two glasses beside it. In front of him were two plates piled with food. He looked up, caught me staring, then raised a brow.

‘I thought you might be hungry, my darling.’

I lifted my head a little, spotting a burger, upon which my stomach immediately betrayed me with a loud rumble. ‘I’m starving, actually.’ I crossed the room and dropped down onto the floor beside him, tucking my legs under me as snow fell quietly outside, turning everything into something that looked suspiciously like a Christmas advert.

Rupert picked up the bottle and poured us both a glass.

‘Well, I suppose we don’t have a lot to toast to this year,’ I said. The second those words left my mouth, I regretted them. It wasn’t an intentional dig, but somehow I just couldn’t help myself.

He lowered his head, clearing his throat. ‘How about . . . To reconciliation?’ he said, eventually.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before clinking my glass gently against his.

‘And to many more brand deals,’ he added, glancing at me. ‘You’ve been a popular girl since you left, my darling. I’ve been inundated with requests for you.’

I forced a grin. Work. That fake smile, fake accent, pretending everything was perfect – it was the last thing I felt like dealing with right now. Still, I kept my glass raised. ‘Cheers, Rupert.’ I took a sip of the fizz, then immediately got stuck into the burger. It was unreal – juicy, messy, caramelised onions cooked to perfection. ‘Oh my God,’ I said around a mouthful, rolling my eyes. ‘This is so good.’

Rupert watched me, picking at his own food. ‘Did you sample any restaurants while you were up here?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I didn’t fancy going out. My mum made everything from scratch. She’s a great cook actually, it was mostly stews, stovies, pies . . . that sort of thing.’

He gave a small nod, but there was something off about it – like he felt guilty at the way I’d been slumming it.

‘But I’ve really enjoyed my time up here,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, not initially. But I think I’ll come back more to visit.’

Rupert took a bite of his burger, then dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, taking his time before replying. ‘We could both come,’ he said. ‘I’d actually love to lean into my wife’s Scottish roots a bit more. I could even buy a kilt!’

I wondered how many kilts he’d seen since arriving in Glasgow. Because unless he’d been attending a wedding, or maybe an international football match, absolutely no cunt wore them.

‘We could film it,’ he went on. ‘A vlog, maybe. We’ve never really explored your heritage properly – people would love that.’

I gave a slight smile. ‘Yeah, I’ve actually been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a few ideas for new content. This trip’s kind of opened my eyes a bit.’

He glanced at me, a flicker of interest there now. ‘Go on.’

I shifted, tucking my legs in. ‘I’ve been helping out at the soup kitchen. The one you found me at – it’s part of the local community centre. I’ve been cooking, helping with the kids, making decorations with them for Christmas . . .’ I couldn’t help it – I smiled properly this time. ‘And I’ve honestly really loved it.’