What I spent was a fraction of what’s in the account, a mere drop in the bucket.

Best not to argue with her though. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Mum.”

That’s a lie.

I know exactly what I was thinking when I drunk-married Georgia, and it goes something like this: As soon as I saw her on the other side of the room at the rugby house, I wanted to know her. If she hadn’t come over to me, I would have eventually gone over to her.

What she did was immature, but it didn’t harm anything other than my ego, and let’s be honest—it’s not that fragile.

I’ve had enough smoke blown up my arse from random people growing up because of who my father is, enough women who make passes at me to know I’m not an ugly, unworthy piece of shite.

So, it bothered me, but…one look at Georgia and all that irritation and ill humor flew out the window. Now she’s my wife and I kind of want to keep her.

Just to see what it’s like, even though she hasn’t behaved like a wife once.

“As soon as your term is over, you are coming home. Do you understand me, Ashley Arthur Calum Dryden-Jones?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Repeat it to me.”

I flush, not wanting to repeat any of that shite with Georgia still standing at the counter listening to every word I say, but Mum isn’t going to end this phone call until I do.

“I’m coming home as soon as the term is over.”

I sneak a glance at her and her brows rise, a raisin cookie halfway to her mouth.

“Not a day longer at that school, do you understand? You are coming home and you are bringing your wife.”

“Mum…” Another glance at Georgia lets me know she is in fact very intently listening. “I told you I’d ask, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Is she with you now?”

“Yes.”

“Please put her on the line.”

“Mum…”

“Ashley Arthur.”

I lower the mobile after she uses two of my names and cover the receiver with my hand.

“Mum wants to speak with you.”

Georgia makes a choking sound, cookie going down the wrong pipe, and coughs several times. She’s bright red and takes a drink of water from the glass I poured myself before she came through the door.

“She wants to talk to me?” She swallows, wiping her crumby cookie hands on her athletic shorts. “Um. Okay…”

Slowly, as if walking in a funeral processional, Georgia comes to me and holds her hand out for the mobile.

“Hello?”

She pauses, listening carefully as Mum speaks, her face still red from choking on the cookie, embarrassment, and humility. I can’t for the life of me imagine what the hell Mum is saying to her, and waiting to find out is proving to be torture.

“Yes, ma’am.” Georgia nods. “Thank you.” Pause. “Yes, he is.” She glances over at me, meek smile on her face; it’s a confusing smile, one I can’t read. Is that a pity smile or an encouraging smile or an—

“Are you sure, Mrs.—uh, Lady Jones, um…” She flounders, unsure how to address my mother. “I don’t think it would be…” Mum must have cut her off because her voice fades, sentence unfinished. “Are you sure?” Pause. “That’s only in a few short weeks. Maybe I could make it work, but—” She gets cut off again, and frustration that my mother is talking over Georgia has my chest constricting. “Of course I will.”

She’s quiet for a few more moments, then, “It was good speaking with you, too. Have a good weekend, ma’am.”

Georgia is so polite, and I stare at her wordlessly as she hands me my mobile, placing it in my palm.

I bring it to my ear.

“She hung up.” My roommate-wife laughs, though it’s a sound laced with nerves and tension.

An anxiety cocktail, if you will.

“Well?” I say. “What did my mum say?”

“I’m sorry, but…can we talk about it later? Please? My head is spinning.” Georgia leaves the room with two fingers pressed to each of her temples. “I’m going to take a bath.”

A bath.

Okay.

Yeah, sure—I can wait until she’s done with her soak to learn my fate. To know what she and my mother spoke about, what Georgie thought she could maybe make work.

She’s going to fly back to Britain with me.

She just needs more time to get used to the idea.

“Here you go.”

Georgia looks up at me as she soaks in the tub, surrounded by so many bubbles I can’t see her tits.

“Thank you.” She takes the wine glass I hand her and doesn’t hesitate to take a small sip, closing her eyes when she leans her head against the edge of the basin. “I think I needed this.”

“I think we both do.”

The past six days haven’t been nearly as stressful as the phone call from my mother. We have basically all but ignored the looming annulment hanging over our heads, and leave it to Mum to bring it crashing down on us like a cold bucket of water poured on a coach after a winning match.

Neither of us say much whilst we’re in the bathroom together, bubbles making a crackle-pop sound as they gradually dissolve. Eventually the water gets cold, and Georgia asks for me to pass her a towel.

I hand it to her and give her privacy, going to my closet to grab sweatpants and a t-shirt—something to change into after my shower.

“I think what we both need is to go to bed early.”

She nods, wrapped in a towel.

Climbs into bed with me an hour later wearing flannel shorts and a tank top, long hair dry and combed straight.

She sighs and lies facing me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

And.

She’s wearing her wedding band…

…which she’s done only a few times since we’ve been back.

“What? It’s pretty and I might never have a ring this beautiful again,” she said to me the night I caught her wearing it whilst typing a mass comm paper.

It glittered and sparkled under the light from the lamp on her desk.

I watched from the doorway and she put her hand out, turning it this way and that as it reflected prisms onto her bedroom walls.

“Your mom would like to meet me.”

I nod. “She does—they all do. I’m afraid she…” Let’s see, how do I put this. “Mum may have told a few people I got married. I’m not sure why, but I think she lost hope that I would.”

Georgia gapes at me. “Lost hope? You’re twenty-two!”

Her expression of horror makes me laugh, and I reach out to brush away the hair that’s fallen into her eyes.

“It’s just that generation,” I explain, to little avail.

Georgia is having none of it. “That generation? Your parents aren’t ninety years old, they’re what—fifty? Maybe? Why are they so consumed with getting you married off that they’d let you settle for someone they haven’t met?”

I pull her over.

She’s a feisty one.

“What else did Mum say?”

“She’d like to meet me, and she’d be happy to fly me over. First class, of course, so I’m comfortable. As soon as the semester is over.” Georgia pauses. “She wants to have a gathering.”