Breaking Joseph by Lucy V. Morgan

me.
    “I know that.”
But she didn’t believe it.
    “He wouldn’t
propose just for the sake of it, and he wouldn’t stick around after
you said no if he didn’t think you were special.” I nudged her
hand. “You’re allowed to marry him because you love him, you know.
It doesn’t have to be a strategic decision.”
    Her posture
softened. “Yeah.”
    “And you do
love him. The two of you are quite sickening.” The smile crept up
on me and wouldn’t be tamed, and like all wanton creatures, its
teeth were sharp. Kenji was the Matt that fit her. “He trusted you
enough to tell you his fantasies. That’s huge. Be flattered.”
    She swallowed.
“Even if they weren’t all about me?”
    “It’s sex. It’s
fleeting, momentary. Marriage…isn’t.”
    “So when did
you get so clever about all this stuff, huh?” She gave a mock tut.
“Do they teach sexual politics along with British law?”
    “I. Um.” I
fucked men for money and saw this entropy all the time. “I did a
night class.”
    When I got back
to the hotel, a note lay on the dresser from Joseph, stating a
change of venue for dinner. He would send a car at eight. The
address appeared to be an apartment–if it was, I’d be seriously
overdressed.
    As beautiful as
the Leger dress was, as much as I loved its subtle suck at my
hips–it didn’t feel right. I twisted in the mirror a dozen times
and all I saw gazing back was a creature like Elise, thinking of
offices in frosted glass and desks in shiny mahogany because they
were the things easiest to get.
    I was not that
girl.
    Somewhere
behind the wardrobe door, blue silk whispered. Beckoned me. I still
don’t know why I packed the dress I’d first worn for Charlie–one of
the oldest things I owned–but it made sense. I slid into stockings
and suspenders, draped the cool fabric of the skirt so it skimmed
midthigh. I didn’t need a bra beneath the crossover bodice, but
then Joseph appreciated such touches. The shoes went on last.
    In the mirror,
I smiled at my reflection in relief. Those were my red curls
tumbling down to lick at a pale slither of cleavage. No Charlotte
here. On the other side of the world and dabbling with a man I
barely knew, it was too easy to forget who I was…and I had to cling
to something.
    * * * *
    The doorman at
the apartment building was expecting me. He ushered me into a lift,
pressing the button for the top floor with a gallant nod of the
head. I was so used to creeping into these places with my eyes
down, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.
    Joseph answered
the door barefoot, his shirt untucked and collar open. In my
skyscraper heels, I didn’t have to stretch to peer over his
shoulder.
    “This is a
funny-looking restaurant,” I said.
    He stepped
aside. “I couldn’t be arsed.”
    “And they say
romance is dead. I–is this yours?”
    The apartment
seemed small enough beneath the milky lamplight. His London flat
had a minimal feel to it, but with its thick carpet and aged
leather sofas, this was cosy. Bookshelves tapered into sloped attic
ceilings, and the cityscape poured through glass doors to paint the
walls in shadows. Outside lay a wide terrace with curved railings,
and the wooden rise of a hot tub. Leather, glass and outdoor baths:
he’d brought a little of Sweden to New York.
    “Hungry?”
    Next to the
doors, he’d set out a picnic, blanket and all. “Joe. You are
secretly so twee.” I sank down beside him on the soft throw and
arranged my legs awkwardly.
    “Fuck off.
Blini?”
    I plucked one
from the tray he offered.
    “And before you
say anything about the cupcake stand,” he went on, “Sadie hired it
from…somewhere.”
    “Of course she
did. Have we got ginger beer too?”
    “It’s ginger
ale over here. And yes. With whiskey.” He sprang up toward the
kitchen area. “Ice?”
    “Please.” If I
even liked whiskey. Erm. I’d been offered it a hundred times on
networking dinners and always associated it with those
bleugh-tastic