The Break-Up Clause by Niamh Hargan

Chapter Fifty-One

Exactly one week later, Fia sits on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, drinking from a takeaway coffee cup. It’s 8.30 a.m., rush-hour traffic in full flow, the street vendors on 5th Avenue attracting a steady stream of customers.

On the steps, too, there are clusters of people dotted all around. NYPD cops and up-and-at-’em tourists, office workers, and kids from the various Upper East Side prep schools. This is a meeting place, a vantage point, distinct from the museum itself. There is so much activity that Fia doesn’t notice Susan Followill until the other woman arrives right beside her, towering over her. Fia cranes her neck to look upwards, taking in Susan’s tunic and trousers, the chunky wooden beads around her neck.

‘Oh! Hi!’

‘We have to stop meeting like this, huh?’ Susan replies, with a grin. She shifts a little to take in the building behind Fia – the scale and beauty of it. ‘I gotta say, this is definitely a first for me. No Benjamin?’

Fia just about manages a wan smile. ‘Not so far,’ she says.

Because the truth is, she hasn’t ruled out the possibility – not altogether. The morning’s meeting must surely have popped up on his calendar, just as it popped up on hers. It’s Alyvia and Jonathan’s big day – so to speak.

‘I do think you guys might have mentioned a little earlier that you were also lawyers – and divorce lawyers, at that!’ Susan continues, with remarkable good humour, all things considered. ‘But then, I guess yours was a pretty unique situation. I can’t remember ever having less contact with clients of mine! How does it feel to have everything done and dusted?’

Over the course of the past week, Fia somehow still hasn’t entirely worked out the answer to that one. ‘Well, we definitely really appreciate all your help with it,’ she offers instead.

It seems to satisfy the other woman, at least. Susan nods towards the museum again.

‘Guess I’d better head inside, get set up. You coming? Looks like it could take a minute to find where the hell we’re meant to be. A Midtown deli it ain’t, am I right?’

Fia musters another smile. ‘I’ll just finish this,’ she says, gesturing with her coffee cup. ‘I’ll see you in a sec.’

And, as Susan takes off, she settles back down on the steps, absently scanning the surroundings once more. She looks out at all the bodies scurrying up and down 5th Avenue, letting herself imagine what lives they might be headed towards or coming from.

Five minutes later, she drains the last of her latte, but still she makes no move to leave.

It’s not that she’s waiting on Benjamin, she tells herself.

It’s sure not that she’s hoping he’ll come. She’s actually somewhat dreading the thought of seeing him.

Moreover, on his end, she can only imagine he feels similarly. She hasn’t had so much as a ‘hey, nice divorcing you’ text from him this past week. On Wednesday, their paths crossed briefly in the lobby at ZOLA, and he practically looked through her, hurrying straight into a packed lift. He left her standing there, her heart pounding, her stomach churning, as though she were a stranger to him.

Fia does think Benjamin is invested in this case, though – invested, maybe more so than anything, in the little boy at the centre of it all. On that level alone, she hasn’t been able to shake the suspicion that he might show this morning. The entire thing was his idea in the first place, after all.

8.40 a.m. becomes 8.45, though.

8.45 a.m. becomes 8.50.

Still, Fia sits on the steps, wondering how best to react to him if he appears. Cool indifference? A contemptuous tongue-lashing?

Her biggest fear is that, when it comes down to it, she might be able to pull off neither of those things. How can it be, that he was the one to behave badly, to mistreat and humiliate her – not just on the rooftop, that night, but every day since then …

And yet somehow, she’s the one left feeling frozen, ashamed?

She doesn’t know what that’s about. It is bound to be the patriarchy, somehow.

‘Fia!’ someone shouts then, jolting her from her reverie.

On the kerb in front of the Met, a yellow cab has pulled to a stop. Stepping out of it – dressed to the nines – is Alyvia Chestnut. Despite the stilettos, she does an impressive job of dashing up the steps in double-quick time.

‘Aren’t you sweet to wait for me?’ she says, before her eyes dart about a little. ‘And where’s that handsome intern of yours?’

Fia gets to her feet, brushing the crumbs from a blueberry muffin off her skirt and feeling like a wholly different species to the woman now before her.

‘Not here,’ she replies flatly. She’s irritated – not at Alyvia but at herself. Suddenly, she can see clearly that Benjamin is not going to make an appearance this morning. She can’t believe she even remotely imagined otherwise.

After all, on ZOLA’s rooftop right now, a farewell breakfast is beginning in honour of the summer associates’ last day. There will be Bloody Marys and mimosas, while the firm’s lawyers pop in as and when they can to offer their thanks and best wishes. The summer associates will hold court until noon, enjoying the view and the sense of achievement, before they all head back to their Ivy League institutions.

Fia reminds herself that of the two Benjamins – the version she met at Camp Birchwood and the version with whom she’s more lately become acquainted – only one is actually real.

And when has Fia ever known the real Benjamin Lowry to turn down anything approaching a party in favour of anything approaching work?

‘Susan’s at the helm today,’ she tells Alyvia now, by way of reassurance. ‘Even I’m just here for a little moral support. Same with Jonathan’s lawyer.’

Alyvia seems remarkably unconcerned by any of this. ‘I’ve had a very special morning,’ she says instead, her eyes twinkling.

‘Oh?’ Fia replies mildly. She is aware, suddenly, of being very tired. She’s been so incredibly tired all week.

Alyvia nods. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

It seems very much as though she is going to reveal one regardless, and Fia braces herself.

‘I’m pregnant!’ Alyvia exclaims. ‘I literally just found out! Can you believe it?’

Fia lets out an exhale of disbelief. Caught unawares, she really can’t believe this. Joy is very clearly radiating from Alyvia, though, so Fia rushes to offer her congratulations.

‘Gussy is going to have a baby sister!’ Alyvia continues delightedly. ‘Or brother. But, like, hopefully a sister.’

Fia tries hard to keep her smile in place. Every time Alyvia edges towards likeability, she seems to slightly ruin it. And, on this occasion, she’s not even done.

‘I’ve already got a bunch of content lined up for when the baby gets here! I’m collab-ing with a diaper brand! Think about the longevity of that! Can you believe it?! With Gus taking a step back, it honestly just could not work out better.’

Again, Fia’s smile stays fixed. ‘… Awesome!’ she says. There is a reason Americans so love that word. It covers all manner of absurdities.

For a second, there’s silence between them, as Alyvia beams.

‘Uh, you probably shouldn’t mention that in the mediation today,’ Fia adds then, her professional brain kicking in. ‘The new baby. If you’re going to agree to stop featuring Gus on your page, you’re going to want that to seem like a major concession – a huge loss of income – and you’re taking the hit for Gus’s happiness, and so on.’

Alyvia nods, tapping the side of her nose exaggeratedly. ‘Gotcha. See? Who said you were just moral support?’

Suddenly, a new thought occurs to Fia. ‘Alyvia, this baby, it’s not …’

She trails off, unable – when it comes down to it – to make herself say Jonathan’s name. The prospect doesn’t seem out of the question, though. Yes, it is true that they are here today to more or less put the nails in the coffin of the Chestnut marriage. It’s true that things between Alyvia and Jonathan have apparently been extremely unpleasant over recent months. But then, Fia knows better than most people that loathing and longing can sometimes sit fairly close together.

Suddenly, the adultery pops back into her head, too – the adultery that Jonathan had alleged at the start of this whole thing, and that Fia has, on Alyvia’s behalf, very vociferously denied. Could Alyvia have had this new … content partnership lined up some time ago? It’s an option. Really, there are a lot of options, Fia realizes, and none are any of her business. Alyvia’s looking at her expectantly now, though. She’s too far in – she has to find some diplomatic way of either asking the question or not asking it.

‘What I mean is … well, whose is it?’ she blurts.

Perhaps not a roaring success, as far as tact goes.

Alyvia, however, seems about as steady, as grounded as Fia has ever seen her. She just takes a breath in and out. The little smile that rises to her lips seems somehow calm and triumphant at once. ‘Mine,’ she replies.

And Fia can’t argue with that.

For another moment or two, they stand there together, chatting idly about the traffic, the plan for the morning ahead, the huge television casting opportunities that are apparently available to newborn infants.

Then, just as they’re about to make their way inside, Alyvia clutches at Fia’s forearm.

‘Oh, look. There’s Jonathan now!’ she exclaims. ‘Not to mention his new woman.’ A second later, though, her tone shifts into something more conciliatory. ‘To be honest, I can’t even say anything bad about her. She’s been all right. Gus likes her.’

Fia turns slightly on the steps, following Alyvia’s gaze – she recognizes the man striding towards them immediately: Jonathan Chestnut looks just like he does in the photos she’s seen.

As for the woman beside him, Fia recognizes her immediately, too.

Jet-black hair, green eyes … every bit of her is as familiar to Fia as her own form.

The sight takes over, makes it hard for her to process anything else. Is this real?

It certainly seems to be.

The shock pulses through her like an electric current, even as Jonathan introduces himself and introduces his girlfriend to boot. His lawyer, he says, is running a little late.

‘That’s fine!’ Fia hears herself splutter in response. ‘Um … actually, Susan said she’d like to see just you and Alyvia to start with, anyway.’

Of course, it’s a bare-faced lie, and she doesn’t know where it comes from. The words just seem to spill out of her mouth.

Jonathan looks a little unsure about the idea, glancing over at his girlfriend. However, if it’s permission he’s seeking, she provides it fairly readily – a chirped ‘Sure! That’s totally fine!’ that Fia recognizes as just a tad strained, even if Jonathan apparently does not.

He turns to face Alyvia, then, and for a second the two of them just regard each other, frosty but – perhaps – thawing. Alyvia’s eyes flick over towards the entrance to the Met, and when she looks back, something silent seems to pass between her and Jonathan. Evidently, not all the layers of a long history can be erased. This is the place they brought their infant son, once upon a time, to welcome him into the world. It occurs to Fia that maybe Susan Followill, though not half so glamorous or slick as the lawyers at ZOLA, might well beat most of them on a basic understanding of human nature.

The next thing Fia knows, she’s nodding along as a quick flurry of practicalities are exchanged. She’s watching as Alyvia and Jonathan head into the museum, side by side, braced for whatever lies ahead of them.

… And then there were two.

Still standing on the steps, amid the glorious sound and the technicolour of a Manhattan summer’s morning, Fia looks across at George Ferarra.

Together again, at last.