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George almost manages to convince himself that Bertha’s constant presence doesn’t affect him, and for two days straight, he nearly succeeds.
It’s the third day that gets him. Because on the third day, Bertha doesn’t come in.
Damn, damn, damn, damn.
It’s not that he enjoys her being around exactly. He’s just used to her, that’s all.
Even though he knows she won’t be there when he gets in at 6 am, a stupid part of him finds himself hoping she will be, so they can begin their day together. He wonders what she’s like, first thing in the morning. If she’s cranky until she’s had her coffee or if she makes a lot of noise clattering around the kitchen, if she sings in the shower.
He caught her humming once, some trashy pop song from the early 90s that didn’t remotely match the carefully curated Spotify playlists he’s secretly saved to his library or the operas she posts to her stories from some box or other.
It’s not like she’s some goddamn Disney princess, either. He finds himself missing the slight furrow of her brow when she’s confused or annoyed and the irritated purse of her lips or rolled eyes just as much as that ridiculously genuine delighted toothy grin. He doesn’t even think teeth could be particularly attractive, but hers are.
He takes a deep breath and pretends it doesn’t hurt that she isn’t choosing to spend her day with him when she doesn’t have to.
He was fine before he met her. He was fucking fine. Surely he can get back to that - he’ll have to, once she’s married. She’s hardly going to be popping in to discuss a wedding cake she’s already eaten, and it’s not like there can be much more content to get out of him and his kitchen. This isn’t Bon Appetit in the middle of a pandemic, it’s a working patisserie.
And yet…
She’s just nice to have around, that’s all. A pretty girl with legs that go on for days, a voice that sounds like smoked velvet which isn’t even a simile that makes sense.
So she’s going to marry this Andrew Goldsmith guy. Who George can already tell doesn’t laugh at her jokes, probably doesn’t even realise she makes them. What a fucking stupid thing to do. It’s not just cruel to George, who has no right to be hurt by it, it’s cruel to Bertha. She deserves better than this. He’s hurting her already and they haven’t even made it up the aisle yet. She’ll regret it and George can’t stop her without looking like a goddamn psycho stalker. Which at this point, he probably is.
It’s not like he wants to think of Bertha as someone who’s marrying for money and status, but he knows on some bone deep level that she is. That it’s because she feels like she needs to prove herself, that she’s as good as any of those snobby society assholes. George doesn’t really understand the economy outside of the supply chains he needs for his work, but he’s pretty sure they’re heading into - or maybe they’re already in - a recession, and Andrew is clearly someone who got his hedge fund gig because of his last name and where he went to college, so there’s every chance he could fuck up and then she’d be left with nothing.
Not nothing, obviously, she has a career. But what if she gets caught up in her husband’s fucking Ponzi scheme, because assholes like that, they’re always running something? And her reputation is trashed and her partnerships are gone and she ends up hawking MLM products or some shit like that? Bertha isn’t the kind to fade away in the background, she’d be hustling even as Andrew is lounging around some fancy country club masquerading as a prison, getting three square meals a day while his wife is struggling to stay afloat.
And yeah, that’s dramatic, but George refuses to believe that in a year or so, she won’t have realised what she’s signed up to and be kicking herself. When the money is gone and she’s got her first grey hair and it’s getting harder and harder to Photoshop out the bags under her eyes. Andrew will be fine, his kind always are. He’ll end up with a second wife half their age and a second act running a charity foundation to show how sorry he is.
But this is still George’s fantasy. And if, in that fantasy, he wants to swoop in and play the white knight, he will. He’ll hire her as his social media manager or something, and she can produce videos for him where she tastes cake and makes that little moan, and she’ll be so grateful that she’ll…
He’s lost it. He’s fucking lost it.
He’s staring into a bowl of half-folded cake batter, violet buttercream on the side, imagining the woman he can’t get out of his head miserable and lonely and crying and who fucking does that? Even Mr I’m Probably Committing Tax Fraud doesn’t do that. George isn’t always a nice man, he isn’t always kind, but he at least tries to be good most of the time.
He’s just used to her greeting him with that wry little smile of hers. To trying to figure out her real mood beneath the layers of glossy, picture perfect influencer. And the worst thing is, he thinks he’s gotten pretty good at it.
All he needs to do is snap out of it. He’s never had a problem moving on from women before, even women he’d actually dated. She’s just a habit to be broken, that’s all. He’ll go to the gym more, try and sweat it out. He’ll travel, he’ll call his mother. Hell, maybe he’ll even visit his mother. He’ll move on like she already has, like she doesn’t have to because she doesn’t feel the same way about him, and in a few months time he’ll look back and laugh and he won’t want to die every time he adds a drop of rose water into some frosting because there’s a note of it in her perfume.
He’ll be fine.
He’s just used to having her around, that’s all.