3

MARTHA'S voice is hesitant over the line. I adore Martha; she's the most efficient and skilled lawyer I've ever known, but sometimes she does get hung up over questions like you're certain about this? and are you sure?

"Now, are you very sure about this, Iris?" There she goes again. "You're certain you want me to prep all the documents and submit them to court, asking for a divorce from Jared Darling?"

"Yes yes, Martha," I say impatiently. "Now, it's important that I'm doing the divorcing, not him. Did you get that?"

"Yes, I got that part. I just want to make sure that you're sure."

"I've never been surer of anything else in my life." I take a swig of whisky, draining the bottle.

"Only last time, you told me you were going to sue Jared for negligence because he forgot your birthday. And then you changed your mind the next day."

"Did I?" I wave it away. "I won't be changing my mind this time. If I do, I'm giving you all my bags, Martha. I swear on it."

"Even the Balenciaga?"

"Even the Balenciaga."

"Oh." Martha sounds surprised. "That means you're really serious about this."

"I told you." I raise the bottle high, my voice echoing off the walls of the train station. "I, Iris Monet, am divorcing Jared Darling, one of the richest men in London!"

"Right then." Her voice turns brisk, and I know she's gone into business-mode. Probably grabbing a pen and notepad to scribble on as we speak. "Any children?"

"Nope."

"Prenup?"

"Yes."

"Grounds for divorce?"

"Sex with the kitchen maid."

Martha hesitates. "I'll just put that down as irreconcilable differences now, shall I?"

A minute passes where I can hear her rustling some papers. Then she's back.

"Looks like I've got all the details. Tomorrow I'll type it up and submit it. Once the court receives the petition, they'll serve a copy to your spouse, and all Jared needs to do is sign it. Since there's a pre-nuptial, the messy parts are already settled, and everything should go fairly quickly."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Martha. You're a life-saviour."

There's a slight pause. "Of course, you can still retract the petition anytime. Just tell me. And I promise I won't take your bags."

I laugh. "You're a great lawyer, Martha. And a better person. But no. I won't be changing my mind."

I hang up. Outside, the rain is really coming down. The sound of it hitting the station roof is like a thousand cymbals clashing out of rhythm. I take a step, and nearly fall over. Gosh, the whisky is a lot stronger than I thought. My hand grapples at the back of a seat before I finally collapse into it.

I'm divorcing my husband. I repeat the line in my head and wait for tears to come to my eyes. But they don't arrive. Funny how I can cry over a dress but not the person who paid for it.

My head throbs, reminding me that I still need a place to sleep for the night. Preferably somewhere far, far away from anything that can remind me of Jared.

Squinting at the screen of my mobile, I scroll through the contacts list until it lands on H, and then Heather. My sister picks up on the third ring. When I tell her my story, she's immediately sympathetic.

"Of course, you can stay at my place, sweetheart." The line crackles in the heavy rain. "I'm sure we can sort it all out. How are you getting here?"

"By train," I reply. "Which reminds me, what's your address again?"

Static. Heather's voice fizzles in and out.

Taking a deep breath, I yell upward at the rain. "Shut up!" Then I put the mobile back to my ear. "What did you say?"

"27, Sutton Boulevard, -fair."

Catching sight of a ticket vending machine, I shuffle myself and my dress over. My feet hurt. Six-inch heels are meant for sitting in, not walking. I peer at the machine screen. How do people use these things? Jabbing at it doesn't give me a response.

"Um, ma'am?" It's a man in a janitor's uniform. "Do you need help?"

"Yes." I make a vague gesture. "Do you know how to use this thing?"

"If you can just give me the destination, I'll key it in for you. One-way ticket?"

"Absolutely." I press the mobile tighter to my ear. "Heather. Repeat your address, slooowly."

Heather repeats it. The thunderstorm drowns out most of her voice, but I fancy I caught the important part. And just in time too, because the second her lips finish the last word, her voice disappears like a blackout.

"Heather?" I say loudly. Nothing. Trust my mobile to die in the most inconvenient of circumstances. Did I even bring my charger?

Standing beside me, mop in hand, the janitor waits patiently as I upended my purse to reveal three lipsticks, two eyeliners, a Dolce & Gabbana receipt, and a pearl earring I lost over a month ago. But no iPhone charger.

He clears his throat. "Maybe you want to wait until you can call her again ...?"

"No." I shoot down the suggestion immediately. "There's no way I'm spending the night in a train station. Besides, I already know where I need to go."

It takes me a few seconds of squinting to identify the correct name on the screen. When I find it, I point it out with triumph. "That one."

The janitor follows the direction of my finger. "Ryefair?"

"Mhmm."

"You sure, ma'am?" His voice is full of doubt.

What is it with everyone questioning my decisions this evening? Do I not look like a responsible adult who has full capacity to make sensible, sound decisions? Granted I may be a tad bit drunk, but that's no excuse to question my mental faculties. Or hearing, for that matter.

"As sure as I am divorcing my husband." The janitor raises an eyebrow at my vehemence. "Now. If you can kindly select a one-way-ticket to Ryefair for me. Please."

He looks at me for a second, then shrugs. "It's your money. Ryefair it is."

Fifteen minutes later, the train rolls in. Just before I get on, I open up my purse and take out all of my credit cards. Every last one of them is registered under Jared's name. I slap them into the janitor's hands.

"Here." My voice is a little slurred, but very determined. "Spend as much as you like. I want you to spend until the bank calls and says Jared Darling, you are in very serious debt, and we will have to revoke all your cards and take away your house and two Porsches."

I whirl my dress around, nearly catching it in the train doors as I board. The doors shut, and I can see the janitor standing there goggled-eyed, his hands full of Mastercards and Visas. I bob my most elegant curtsey – only to lose my balance and topple backward as the train chugs away.

Sighing, I sink gratefully down into my seat.

Heather, my sister. She's the only family I have left. Okay, technically not true. My father's still alive, but he's dead to me in every sense of the word. Our relationship is so estranged that even the word strangers doesn't cover it. So yes, my sister is the only family I have left.

Like me, Heather also married rich, but the difference is she runs her own business and doesn't need her husband to stay alive. That and the fact that I met mine half-drunk in a post-graduation party, while she met hers during a national convention on astrophysics.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven't eaten any dinner. I've never been to Heather's house before, but I've seen photos. It's about as big as Jared's, but with a smaller-sized staff. I know she keeps a rose garden, and her husband owns a Mercedes. I can picture myself now – being welcomed at the door, Heather fussing away in that maternal manner of hers. Getting me silk pyjamas to wear as she drapes a thick blanket around my shoulders. My feet are snug among a lush Persian rug as the maid brings me a mug of hot chocolate, and Heather's voice is soothing as I spill my troubles.

"Of course, you can stay here as long as you like," Heather will say, "you're family and I won't have it any other way."

The corners of my mouth curl up in a lazy smirk as I snuggle deeper into my daydream. Ha. And Jared had the nerve to say I'll be crawling back tomorrow. Clearly he doesn't know me very well.

I yawn sleepily, warmed by the prospect of seeing my sister. The train rocks on, a rickety bumbly rhythm. The monotonous clacking of wheels drums down my eyelids, and soon, I'm fast asleep.

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