I said, remembering that I was. “Listen Pose, Ben cheated on me.” My hands were shaking so badly, I had to pull over and put on my hazard lights while I told her everything. She punctuated my story with interjections of “That bastard!” and “That bastardy bastard!”
“So that’s it,” I finished. “It’s not a direct dump, like Stephen, but once again, I feel like a fool.” I looked out the windshield at the dark countryside, feeling very alone.
She paused, then said, “Thank God, Jubes. I am so happy for you.”
“Happy? My heart is broken, I’ll never be loved, I’ll die old and childless and, once again, it proves that Juliet cannot follow through on a plan, just like my mother always said.” I fished for some tissues to wipe my runny nose.
“Plan, my arse! Come on, then. Plans are for old fogies, and schoolmarms, and, and, city planners!”
“But how can you say you’re happy we broke up? I thought I got it right this time. Now I’m alone!” I practically wailed.
“Nonsense. You’ve got me.”
“I don’t want to go back to the States on my own. You know, without Ben.”
“So don’t go back to the States.”
“Then what would I do with my life?”
“Um, you’d live here and work as a chef like you have been doing! And love it! You get hired by the coolest clients. Liz Hurley calls you ‘Sister,’ for eff’s sake! You’re at the top of your game. It’s what you do. You’re brilliant at it. Screw being a boring old therapist. You’re a hot chef. Chin up! You could be me, with my boring ex-boyfriend and my crap job,” Posy scolded me.
“In what way is your job crap?” I asked. I didn’t question the ludicrous boyfriend.
“Well, it’s not as good as yours,” she replied stubbornly.
“It’s apples and oranges. Besides, don’t you think going the therapist route is the right thing to do? Food is just a stopgap to pay the bills for now.”
“You’ve been saying that for years, and when you do, I hear your mother talking. If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you—”
“You always do.” I interrupted.
“—Here’s what I think: You’re mother wants you to be her mini-me, so she puts down your career as a chef. I think you’re avoiding the issue. Hey, listen to me. Maybe I should be a therapist!”
“I wouldn’t give up the day job just yet: your job’s awesome. You work at a sleek, sexy publishing house, surrounded by brooding, bookish young sexpots who wear glasses and corduroy, and seduce you at launch parties when the cheap Chianti is flowing.”
“As an assistant! And they only keep me because I speak French, and keep reeling in richies and B-list celebs from Dad’s world to-do memoirs and cookbooks.”
“Well of course that’s why they keep you,” I told her. “You’re a star. There’s no shame in leveraging your assets. Admit you love your job!”
“I’ll admit I love my job when you admit you love your job. Say it! Say you love being a chef.”
My mouth started forming the words, then I hesitated, tapping the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”
“It looks simple from where I’m sitting! Embrace what makes you happy, even if there’s no guarantee. You’re trying too hard for the sure bet, and your mother’s like a siren calling you back to her version of stability. You gambled by taking a chance with Stephen and you’ve been beating yourself up ever since. You grabbed what made you happy, then it was gone. So what? You’re still alive, and you had a bit of good fun. Nothing lasts forever. Speaking of taking a chance, what about that scrummy resident chef Edward at Thornton Hall?”
“What about him?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic. I undid my seatbelt and wrestled off my hoodie, phone pinned between my shoulder and ear.
“You could have had him for twenty pence and a slap on the arse.”
“I was with Ben!”
“Not at first, you weren’t.”
“Anyway,” I said, rebuckling, “you witnessed how Stephen diverted me off course. And then Ben. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go looking for another man to rain down chaos on me.”
“Why go looking? Won’t Edward be doling out the goodies this Christmas?”
“Posy, Thornton Hall is where I work! There’s a quaint saying in America, ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’”
“Oh, I know that one!” she squealed, like she’d won a prize. “Only we say shit.”
“Why won’t you let me be a good girl?” I asked, exasperated.
“Because deep down, you’re not,” she said.
“Just you watch,” I said. “I’m going to learn from my mistakes, like a mature woman should. I’m almost 30!”
“No you’re not!”
“I’m 28.”
“Well that’s positively ancient! Better start saving for vaginal rejuvenation surgery.”
“Vaginal what? Never mind! I’m about to start the next chapter of my life, and you’ll see how making sane, adult choices leads to contentment. No Edward. No drama.”
“Right. Maybe your mum’s satisfied to bed down with her psychology journals, but I predict you won’t be wearing socks to sleep in for long. Besides, thirty is the new hot. Let’s neither of us sign our death certificates just yet. Once you’ve had true love, you can’t very well settle for a substitute.”
“When have you had true love?” I asked.
“God, is that the time? Forget stupid, bastard Ben and ring me when you get to Fancypants Manor. Love you loads. Byeee!”
I cautiously pulled back onto the highway, tires crunching through the gravel in the thick darkness. I put Posy and Ben out of my head and kept my eyes focused on the black road ahead. It’s amazing how remote this part of the country can feel, given its actual proximity to London’s bright lights. Music of the season blared from my speakers. “I’ll have a bluuuuuue Christmas…without youuuuuu…” I didn’t feel blue or even angry. I felt nothing, and was glad to be headed for a job, where the preparation and clean-up would propel me forward. There was always something to be done in the kitchen of a full house. I longed to sleepwalk through my days. I welcomed the loss of myself.
I finally turned off the last shared road onto the mile-long private drive on the estate. Thornton Hall, arguably one of the grandest
