Page 3 of Ex in the City
I smile brightly back at them, my heart warmed by their gesture.
‘Thank you, boys. You’ve made my day,’ I tell them.
Archie, with his mini-Rowan demeanour, leans forward, his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘Do you like your breakfast?’ he asks, his eyes fixed on mine.
I’ve never dated a man with kids before. It is strange, seeing these small, cute versions of him around all the time, so sweet and innocent – but so easy for said man to use as a shield in all sorts of situations, it turns out.
I nod, trying to maintain a straight face despite the bizarre combination of cereals. Thankfully, my expression doesn’t betray me.
‘It’s delicious, Archie,’ I tell him. ‘You guys make the best breakfast.’
‘Is it better than the breakfast Daddy makes?’ Ned asks, his blonde locks bouncing as he tilts his head inquisitively.
Ha. Not that Daddy ever makes any of the meals in this house – not unless it’s some dumb Instagram thing someone is paying him to film himself cooking, but even then that’s never anything the kids – or even I – want to eat.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I reply. ‘In fact, I think you guys should start making breakfast for Daddy.’
Rowan grins at my suggestion. He knows it can’t be as nice as I’m making it out to be. I hope he also knows that there is no combination of cereal known to man that he could eat that would make me forgive him for what he’s done.
‘Okay, boys, how about we give Nicole her present?’ Rowan suggests, his voice packed with excitement.
The boys cheer, excited too, so I smile and do my best to seem like everything is okay. I’m doing all of this for myself, and for the boys, because we shouldn’t have to suffer, just because Rowan is a wanker.
‘Nicole, put this on,’ Rowan instructs, his voice a mixture of anticipation and excited impatience, as he throws me my dressing gown. ‘And meet us downstairs. We’ll go make sure your present is ready.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Okay,’ I say simply.
I get out of bed, as I’m told, but instead of throwing on my dressing gown, I grab a pair of trackies and a hoodie from my drawers to put on instead. I just don’t feel comfortable here anymore, this doesn’t feel like my house, I don’t feel like I can walk around in a dressing gown.
My bedroom, the one I used to share with Rowan before everything went tits up, is a room that I worked long and hard on. I redecorated it myself, with contemporary panelling, trendy muted tones, new furniture and a large bed at its centre. I wanted to make the ultimate bedroom, a tranquil space, somewhere that guaranteed a good night’s sleep. And I succeeded, I made it perfect, but I soon found out that you can make the room as perfect as you like, but you will still find that you have very little control over what goes on inside it. Now it’s simply a reminder of what used to be, a space that once felt like ‘ours’ but now hardly feels like mine, and with my plan being to move out as soon as the mess Rowan made is cleared up, soon it won’t be mine at all. I’ll never sleep in it again, I’ll no longer be able to dig my toes into the plush rug as I read in the snuggler chair I deliberated over for weeks because I wanted to make sure I got one that was perfect for both of us. And while, yes, I could take the chair and the rug with me when I eventually leave, I don’t actually know where I will be going when I do move out, so I can’t exactly plan to take the furniture with me.
I wind my long blonde locks into a messy bun on the top of my head, take a deep breath, and leave the sanctuary of my bedroom. Right now, it’s the one space where Rowan isn’t (usually) allowed, the one place where I can drop the act. But out here, in the hallway, in the rest of the house – in the rest of the world, even – it’s all about keeping up appearances. The show must go on, and I’m the leader of this particular shitshow. The ringmaster in the circus that is my life, and just when I thought I’d finally put my silly, messy days behind me, and that I could live a normal life, happy ever after.
I step out onto the landing. It’s a large space with a polished wooden floor that gleams in the soft lighting coming in fromthe south-facing floor-to-ceiling window. Even on a cold March day like today, the room is flooded with natural light, which is something I’m really going to miss about living here. Four bedrooms branch off from the landing, and with two more bedrooms up another flight of stairs (we call the top floor the kids’ floor) and more bathrooms than we could possibly use, the house feels so big, and kind of empty. It’s as though, since my and Rowan’s relationship went sour, the love that filled the rooms is gone, leaving cold, open spaces in its wake. Still, there’s always the natural light, and even on the dark days it keeps me here, pushing on, until I can make things right.
The grand staircase is the centrepiece of the house, winding elegantly from the landing, its mahogany banister curving ever so smoothly as it leads the way downstairs. The steps themselves are made of rich, dark wood, covered with a cream carpet that runs down the centre. Most of the steps creak as you step on them, because this is an old house, and no amount of trendy paint colours or smart lighting can remove decades and decades of memories from a well-used staircase. It survived the renovation. It’s too beautiful to replace, even if a new one might be silent, with a glass balustrade that would be far easier to take care of. As corny as it sounds, this staircase is kind of like my relationship with Rowan now. It looks perfect but get too close and you’ll see how broken and tired it is.
I almost lovingly glide my hand down the banister as I head downstairs, as though I’m going to miss it, hoping that Rowan will care for its wood like I have been doing for the coming-up-to three years I’ve been living here – happy for a bit more than two of them, so it’s not so bad.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I find Rowan and the boys eagerly waiting for me by the front door.
‘Are you ready?’ Rowan asks excitedly.
‘I am,’ I reply, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I can, as I pull on my Ugg boots.
‘Okay, boys, let’s do it,’ Rowan announces.
He practically throws open the large front doors and the boys charge out. Rowan hangs back for me and, as the two of us walk outside together, my jaw drops.
There, parked on our front driveway, is a shiny white Porsche, wrapped up in a red ribbon, with the biggest golden bow I’ve ever seen stuck to the bonnet, like some kind of extreme hood ornament.
‘Happy Mother’s Day,’ Rowan practically sings as he snaps a photo of my reaction on his phone. Christ, no doubt that will be on his Instagram later.
He’s bought me a car. Why the hell has he bought me a car?
