Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll

the one who wanted to get married in the first place, when we’d only been seeing each other for about a year. And I use the term, ‘seeing each other’ loosely, given that you were off on business trips more often than not. So I did what you wanted and proposed.

      Then you were the one who bloody well insisted on a three-ring circus of a wedding, which was basically anathema to me, but I kept my mouth shut, just so you could have your dream day. Even though the sight of myself in the wedding photos, beaten into that poncey-looking morning suit still makes me want to vomit.

      Thirdly, you were the one who made the decision that if you were ever going to have a child, then now was your chance. Again, I had virtually feck all say in the matter, but still went along with it. I actually wanted us to have a family of our own, and for the record sweetheart, I thought we’d have made grade A parents. You’ve have instilled discipline in our kid, whereas I’d have taught them when and where it was okay to wave two fingers at anything remotely resembling authority.

      Not only that, but may I point out that I’ve stood by you through everything else that’s been heaped on us since? I’m blue in the face at this stage reminding you that what you’re soldiering through, I am too, as it happens. I know that minor, inconvenient fact tends to be overlooked by you, but just take a moment to really dwell on it, my love.

      Why would you think that a miscarriage followed by several failed IVF treatments would be any less painful for me? Where’s it written that you get to have the monopoly on disappointment and heartache and just what a fucking nightmare we’re both stuck in here?

      As an aside, on that very point, I spoke to Bash’s pal Emma about what we’ve been going through. She’s a maternity nurse and says your behaviour and the way you’re acting so unlike your usual self is actually perfectly normal. It’s just all those shagging hormones and fertility drugs they’ve been pumping into your body for the last eighteen months. That’s all and it will pass.

      Lastly, dearest love, you asked me to move out. Ergo, I did.

      But over my dead body am I going to make this divorce easy for you. No, you don’t get away from me that easily.

      Your ever-loving husband,

      Dave.

      Jo had landed in Heathrow by then, having spent the entire flight doing all the lovely calming exercises she’d been taught at the clinic she’d been attending as an outpatient. But the very second she switched her phone back on and read that particular gem, somehow every bit of the deep breathing and meditation went right out the window.

      Don’t reply, she warned herself. If Dave wants the last word that badly, then let him have it. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself and a few seconds later, her fingers were busy tapping away.

       From: [email protected]

       To: [email protected]

       Re: The last of your things.

       April 17th, 11.17 a.m.

       Dave,

       If you ever even think about discussing the ins and outs of my medical history with some random stranger ever again, I’ll not only hit you with a divorce petition, but also I’ll personally see to it that you’re hauled through the courts for breach of privacy.

       Jesus Dave?!! What next? You going to start standing on street corners, handing out flyers with photos of my lady bits on them?

       And just so you know, this is categorically NOT hormones. It’s you, driving me insane. End of.

       Jo.

       Chapter Six

       Lucy.

      ‘So you’ve really left him then?’

      ‘Be more accurate to say we left each other,’ Lucy answered, knocking back the dregs of the margarita in front of her and crunching loudly on an ice cube. It was her third and she probably should have left it at that, but somehow she found herself waving over to the barman for the same again. To hell with it anyway, she thought. My marriage just ground to a shuddering halt this week, why the hell not?

      ‘Oh Lucy,’ her pal Bianca said, shaking her head sadly and dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a Kleenex. ‘I just can’t believe it. I mean, this is you and Andrew we’re talking about. You were like the gold standard of happy couples! If you guys can’t make it, then what hope is there for the rest of us?’

      Lucy managed a weak, watery smile back at her. Bianca was a sweet, lovely girl who meant well, but who actually did nothing but make Lucy feel guilty, for having the barefaced cheek to have marital problems in the first place.

      Bianca, it had to be explained, was a die-hard romantic, who’d watched one too many romcoms starring Jennifer Aniston, and was convinced that once you sealed the deal with a bloke and had a ring on your finger to show for it, it would inevitably lead to happy ever after. And the sad thing was that at one time, Lucy had bought into all that too.

      Whereas now she thought, what a load of my arse.

      Besides as far as Bianca knew, what she believed was the absolute truth. After all, she and Andrew had once been loved up and happy together, hadn’t they? So happy; Hollywood-ending happy. In fact, that was the whole bloody tragedy of it. Lucy had honestly thought this was her soulmate; the man she’d happily grow old with. The two of them should have ended up old and grey, worrying about their cholesterol and going off on Nile cruises, with a prescription for Viagra stuck in his back pocket on account of the age gap.

      Not, for the love of God, with her sitting on a barstool, with the hangover from hell, yet already onto her third margarita and wondering how many more it would take for her to get so completely hammered that it would somehow numb the pain a bit.

      Lucy had never really been much of a drinker, but these days booze was the only thing getting her through this. Lovely, lovely booze and lots of it. It was completely unlike her, not her normal carry-on at all, but then she figured, if this wasn’t a dire emergency, then what was?

      ‘None of this was your fault, you know,’ Bianca told her firmly. ‘If it hadn’t been for … well, you know. Circumstances.’

      ‘I know, sweetheart,’ said Lucy, squeezing her hand, flushing with gratitude to have a genuine pal like this in her corner. ‘Circumstances. That’s all it came down to in the end really, wasn’t it?’

      But she certainly didn’t need reminding of the circumstances that had suddenly propelled her out of her beautiful marital home with a husband she loved, to sleeping in Bianca’s spare room and effectively living out of a suitcase.

      ‘Well, all I can say is, I hope Alannah and Josh are finally happy with themselves now,’ said Bianca, nibbling crossly on the bowl of peanuts in front of her.

      ‘Are you kidding me? You can bet the pair of them are out celebrating getting rid of their beloved stepmother tonight with a bottle of Cristal …’ Lucy broke off here a bit, but then when it came to Andrew’s grown-up children from his first marriage, it was bloody hard going, keeping an even temper.

      Sweet Mother of God, where to start about Alannah and Josh? They were twins and at twenty-eight, just two years younger than Lucy herself, so initially when Lucy first came into their lives, she’d made the critical error of trying to befriend them both. I’m dating their father, she’d naïvely thought back then. So can’t we all just get along and be friends?

      Right from day one, she’d really gone the extra mile with both of them. She constantly put herself into their shoes and realized how incredibly awkward this whole icky situation had to be for both of