I sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I don’t understand. You and Percy have been together since you were old enough to date. You got engaged last Christmas, right on schedule. Mummy signed off on it. My office have been ready to announce it for months. Yet you tell me to sit on the news. Then you tell the poor chap you need a break. Whatever that means. Now this. You’ve gone and ended the engagement entirely rather than ending that ridiculous break.”
He finishes his drink. Pours another one.
“Yes, well, I told both you and Percy that I needed a moment to process things—”
“The time for processing is before you say yes,” he says.
“Is that so? It seems to me that the time for second thoughts is before one engages the divorce lawyers.”
He grimaces at me.
“Why should there be any question of a split?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you and Mum had the world’s nastiest divorce when I was little. As have several members of the family, come to think of it. Mostly because that ring on my finger started to feel like a tiny handcuff and I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life in the dull English countryside with Percy. The entire idea made me, I don’t know, seize up. Once I realized that, I didn’t want to string him along.”
“Well, now you’ve returned his ring and broken his heart. Disappointed me terribly. Does that matter to you?”
“Of course it does. I feel terrible about it.”
I revert to a glum stare out the window. I still cringe every time I remember that final conversation with Percy three weeks ago. The way his bright happiness slowly turned to disbelief, quickly followed by horror and, finally, heartbreak as he realized I intended to make our break permanent. I remember his initial refusal to take back his ring. His insistence that we could work things out and that he planned to wait for me. My insistence that we couldn’t and he shouldn’t because I want to make my life here in New York City.
Not my proudest moment, admittedly. Percy is a great person. One of my oldest friends and my first love. All that means something to me. He deserves someone who will fall passionately in love with him. Who will live for his smile and count the seconds until his return. Who can’t wait for the adventure of marriage with him.
None of that is me.
The whole truth?
Percy bores me to tears. There’s no challenge. No excitement. And I don’t just mean the wild initial phase of sexual passion, although God knows that could have used some work. I mean that there were no surprises. I never held my breath to see what he would say or do next. Why bother? I always knew exactly what he would say or do next. Percy has no career ambition. No driving hunger to make something of himself. No need to bother with that, either. Not when your father is an earl worth close to a billion and all you need to do to come into your own fortune is to outlive him.
As for me? I can’t wait to get out there and take my bite out of the world. To make my way. To challenge myself and see what I can do and learn and be with my painting skills.
How will I manage that? No bloody idea. Yet. But figuring it all out is part of the challenge.
The idea of spending my life on Percy’s drafty country estate, popping out children and carrying picnic baskets to his weekend polo matches, sounds like a diabolical form of purgatory.
Still, I completely understand Percy’s bewilderment. The poor man is the same today as he always was. It’s not his fault that it took me this long to realize that his steadiness and reliability are no substitute for excitement and desire. But can’t you have both in a marriage? Shouldn’t you want both?
Not that I know anything about marriage, clearly. My most intimate example is the way my parents scorched the earth between them on their way to their divorce decree. I’m no expert. But I’m quite sure that the idea of spending the rest of your life with your fiancé shouldn’t fill you with dread. I’m quite sure that’s a bad sign.
So, yes, I’m sorry I hurt Percy. But am I sorry to have narrowly avoided the worst mistake of my life?
Fuck no. I’m relieved. Relieved.
“How terrible do you feel?” my father asks hopefully. “Perhaps you lovebirds can still work it out.”
“I’m not in love with Percy. Not the way I should be.”
“Oh, that.” He flaps his hand dismissively. “Romantic love is wildly overrated. Other things are so much more important.”
“Exactly. Like common interests. Understanding. A true connection—”
“Financial security.”
There it is again. One of my father’s vague references to financial concerns, which is quite odd, considering that his mother the Queen is personally worth upward of a billion pounds. He’s made these sorts of comments several times in the last few months. I’ve also heard faint rumblings about my father’s debts—the tabloids have referred to a gambling issue—but I’ve always assumed they were lies generated to sell newspapers and magazines. Now I have to wonder.
“What are you on about, Daddy?”
His expression sours and his movements turn choppy as he helps himself to another drink and downs half of it before answering. My anxiety level grows.
“My beloved brother is tightening the purse strings on my branch of the family,” he says bitterly. He and his older brother, the heir, share all the love that Churchill no doubt felt for Hitler during the Blitz. “Mummy’s not doing anything to stop him. We’re all going to feel the pinch very soon. I’d rather hoped to have a wealthy son-in-law as a buffer while we get things sorted.”
I gape at him, my mind spiraling through all the things wrong with those few sentences. I hardly know where to start.
“He’s cutting us off?” I ask, my stomach dropping as I think about my allowance, which allows me to live and travel comfortably while I plan my next steps.
“Not yet. But the writing on the wall couldn’t be clearer.”
I breathe a little easier. “I’m sorry it’s coming to this, but I’m planning to work for my keep, and I’m sure you’ll figure something out. And I’m not some sixteenth-century princess to be married off to form some advantageous alliance. Kindly remember that.”
“Of course, poppet. I’m sure you’ll be tripping over career opportunities very soon with your degrees in, what was it? Art history and studio art.”
“I’m a painter,” I say, stung. “I can paint.”
“It’s all fine to set up a studio in one of Percy’s barns and dabble on the weekends,” he says darkly. “How you think you’ll pay the rent here by painting is beyond me.”
“Thanks for those stirring words of confidence and support,” I say, feeling my self-esteem shrivel like a man’s willy after a dip in an icy swimming pool. Because he’s right, of course. I majored in art because I love it. Not because I ever expected I’d have to support myself with it. “Can’t tell you how moved I am.”
“Sorry, poppet.” He softens immediately and leans in to peck my cheek, his breath pungent with alcohol. I wonder how much he’s been drinking these days. “There will be some heavy hitters in the art world there tonight. A discreet word or two to the right people and I can sell several pieces from my private collection. Build up something of a war chest for both of us when times get tighter.”