Page 5 of P.S. I Loathe You

Three

Wes

“So, how was it?” Natasha asks as I slide into the seat next to her at the Bell and Bear, a Limehouse pub run by an old mate of mine.

I reach for her beer and let out a little grunt of annoyance when all I get is the last mouthful at the bottom of the glass. Gross and not remotely fortifying. Catching the attention of Adam, who’s working behind the bar tonight, I hold up two fingers and then sit back in my chair, comfortable in the knowledge that beer is on its way. “It was bearable,” I tell Natasha. “Just barely.”

“It can’t have been that bad…”

“Okay, okay, the food was pretty great. But why do those fancy places always insist on smearing the plates with weird purees and garnishing them with little seeds that get stuck in your teeth?”

“I’d have no idea. You’re the blueblood, not me.”

“I’m not rich,” I clarify. “My parents are rich.”

“Wes, that’s the kind of thing only rich people say. I, meanwhile, will just have to continue waiting for a billionaire to come along and take me to all those fancy places,” she says dreamily.

Adam swings by the table and sets two pints of pale ale down in front of us. “You two need anything else?”

“All good,” I tell him.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Natasha says, holding up a hand to stall Adam. “We haven’t all just come from a fancy French dinner.”

Adam arches a questioning brow at me but I just shake my head.

“What’ll it be, Tash?” Adam asks.

“Just some chips, thanks.”

He nods. “No worries. Won’t be too long.”

“Is that what you tell the people who write to you?” I ask after Adam heads back to the bar. “Just wait for a billionaire?”

She nudges me playfully. “Shut up. I know you think what I do is stupid.”

I shrug. “It earns you a living, doesn’t it? I just don’t want you giving up on youractualwriting dreams if you get too busy with the column.”

Natasha writes a love advice column for an online women’s magazine. It’s kind of ironic because she has to be one of the unluckiest people when it comes to her own love life, but for some reason she’s actually really great at doling out advice to others.

“I’m still finding time for my essays,” she assures me. “I’m actually planning on entering one in a competition later this year.”

I offer a broad grin and bump her shoulder with mine. “Tash, that’s amazing. Have you written it yet? Can I see?”

She sighs indulgently and starts digging in her bag for her phone. “It’s just a draft so—oh, hang on, I have a newDear Sophieemail,” she announces, swiping at the screen.

Dear Sophieis the column she writes. Apparently there really was a Sophie once upon a time, but that was back when the magazine first started in the 1950s or something like that, and since then they’ve just kept using the original name for the column.

“I have ten quid on ‘my boyfriend doesn’t want to use a condom’,” I say, grinning into my beer.

“You lose,” Tash pronounces, her eyes gleaming. Then she turns serious as she reads. “Oh, wow. Listen to this:Dear Sophie, I don’t know why I’m writing to you, I don’t even read your column (no offense or anything, it’s just not my thing), but I need some advice from an objective outsider and I feel more comfortable talking to you than to the weirdos on reddit (no offense if you’re on reddit). So, here goes…I’m supposed to be getting married soon but I’m not sure if I should be going through with it. Everyone keeps telling us how perfect we are together and on paper that’s true, but it doesn’t FEEL perfect, you know? Lately everything with him feels like so much work. We’re both under a lot of stress and for a while I’ve been putting these doubts down to that. But I just feel like I’m wading through quicksand, and I’m worried this feeling won’t magically go away the second we say our vows.

I DO love him. I know that. I’m just not sure if I’m IN love with him anymore. And I’m sure he’ll deny it, but I think he feels the same way. He doesn’t even seem to want me physically anymore…

Every time I try to broach the subject, he brushes me off and tells me I’m just stressed and that everything will be fine once the wedding is over.

What do I do?”Natasha glances up from her phone and stares at me, her eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

I let out a hissed breath. “Jesus. What are you going to tell her? Or them, I guess I should say—they didn’t specify their gender, did they?”

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