After You

Chapter Twenty-seven - This Woman's Work

'You know I love Rhys!' I insisted, my temper fraying. 'You can be pissed off and you can feel betrayed, but I loved Rhys and I always will. He's dead though, and that means I have to live my own life. You can't try to make me feel bad for moving on,' I told her, with a confidence I didn't really feel.

'And if you'd waited a few years, then maybe I'd get it, but it's f*cked up, Merry. Is five months of mourning all my brother's worth?' But I wasn't going to dignify her question with an answer. 'You're not who I thought you were.'

'Don't be like that,' I pleaded, my voice cracking as all strength fled my body, and I felt myself reach my limits. 'You know I love your brother. I just... I just didn't want to be alone, and - '

'Well guess what?' Hannah cut in. 'You are alone, because after this, you're dead to me, and when I tell Mum and Dad, you'll be dead to them, too. And Rhys; if he's up there looking down on all this, he wouldn't even want to know you.' There was a clunking noise and she promptly hung up on me.

I stood there, in the crappy, concrete stairwell, looking at my phone through tear-filled eyes. I was shocked, but not surprised. I'd always known Hannah wouldn't have taken the news very well, and yet I'd never let my mind conjure up a script for how the confrontation might go. Dead to her, I said to myself, aghast. Then I re-played Hannah's words once more. "When I tell Mum and Dad, you'll be dead to them, too!"

Your parents... She was going to tell your parents. Your mum, who had taken me under her wing and did everything she could to make me her friend so that she could keep you close... Carol deserved to hear it from me; not an irate Hannah. I didn't have time for personal drama - I had a hideous, over-the-top wedding to oversee - but I couldn't delay. Not if I wanted to soften the blow and have a chance to explain my side of things.

I tried your parents' number, but the line was engaged. Are they talking to Hannah right now? I wondered, as my body was overcome by a fine sheen of perspiration. I cancelled the call and wiped my brow. I felt sick - almost feverish. I didn't think I was capable of pasting a smile to my face and getting back to work.

'Merry?' Petra from the concierge team called, sticking her head through the door to the stairwell. 'Paul's looking for you. Something about the icing sweating now that it's in ambient?' The day could get no worse. I was certain of it.

But I put on a brave face, smiled my thanks for the message, and went down to the kitchens to assess the shit-show which was a chilled cake, rapidly warming up so that it collected a layer of condensation in the process. The colour from the red iced flowers had begun to bleed out onto the pristine white, pillow-patterned fondant icing. I could have cried. I could have slit my wrists. Instead, I had the spa team send up a pack of cotton buds, and fiddled with the cake, tirelessly dabbing up the moisture, whilst Paul whipped up a batch of royal icing with which to mask the ugly, red smears. He promised me he'd pipe some "lace work", but he didn't do wedding cakes, so I wasn't confident that the end result would look good.

Run off my feet, face aching from fake smiles, I finally slumped into my office when the guests for the evening reception began to arrive. The duty manager - Angus - promised to take the helm so that I could get home, because I had another wedding the next day and by the look of things, no Ellie to help me. Rest wasn't on the agenda, though, because I had to call your mother and try to explain before she hated me forever.

'David,' I said, when your father picked up the phone, 'It's Merry. Could I speak to Carol, please?' Because I was too much of a coward to try and explain myself to your authoritarian father.