Page 34 of Beautiful Ugly

“Yes.”

“Do you think he still loves you?”

I think about that question before answering.

“He loves who I used to be. I don’t think he’s noticed that I’m not that person anymore.”

We were at a friend’s birthday party when the cracks in our relationship became a little too wide to ignore. One ofmyfriends, not his. My husband has never liked parties, he prefers spending time with his characters and the dog. He complained the entire car journey, all the way to London, but when we arrived he turned on the charm. He drank and he danced and he became the person they all thought he was, the man I had fallen for when we first met. The author. The public persona he presented to the rest of the world and the person I knew had very little in common by then.

Seeing him like that—confident, fun, the life and soul of the party—made me feel strange. I worried that perhaps it was me making him miserable at home. He was often moody when it was just the two of us, especially if one of his precious books wasn’t going well. I felt jealous of the women he was talking to and smiling at. I didn’t like the waythey looked at him, or how they laughed at his jokes, even the ones that weren’t funny. One of them even asked him to sign their copy of his latest novel and he was like a pig in mud.

“Your other half is on good form, isn’t he,” said the friend who was hosting the party. It was a statement, not a question. We’d been friends since school and had always been close—she even named her daughter after me—but our lives had taken us in different directions. She had a child; I had a career. I was very fond of her daughter, having known her since she was born, and my friend thought my job was far more exciting and glamorous than it was. She owned this amazing town house in Notting Hill and was always hosting extravagant parties. There would be caterers with trays full of expensive-looking canapés, and endless champagne; she even hired a string quartet once. It was as though she needed the world to think she was happy, even though she wasn’t. Looking back, maybe we were both a little jealous of what we thought the other had. I found myself irritated by the way she and all her mom friends stared at my husband that night. As though he were a genuine celebrity, like a film star, not an author. My opinion of writers changed a little after I married one.

I wanted to leave.

I followed him to the upstairs bathroom and waited for him to come out.

“I think we should go,” I said as soon as he opened the door.

He looked genuinely concerned. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, then Iamin trouble. Whenever you say nothing is wrong it means that everything is. Did I do something to upset you?”

Yes.

“No. It’s fine.”

“Clearly it isn’t. I give up. I didn’t even want to come to this party, but you insisted, so here I am and you’re still not happy.”

“Wouldyoube happy if you had to watch me flirt with other people all night?”

He laughed. “I haven’t beenflirting. I don’t think I even remember how. I’ve been talking to people because that’s what people do at parties. Would you rather I stood in the corner, stared at the wall, and didn’t speak to anyone?”

“I’d rather you spoke to me.”

The words rushed out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I hated how jealous I sounded.

“We talk all the time,” he said, looking confused.

“No, we don’t. We don’t talk anymore. We don’t laugh anymore. I can’t remember the last time we had sex...”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Keep your voice down. Someone will hear us.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit distant—”

“A bit distant? We’re like two strangers sharing a house.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You don’t even touch me anymore. Not even to hold my hand.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking my hand in his. It felt warm and strong and nice. “You know I had a deadline and the book—”

I shrugged his hand away. “I don’t care about your books. I’m sick to death of listening to you talk about your books as though that’s all that matters. I care about us. I get that you love the way women look at you while you blather on about yourself and your stories, but—”