Over You by Lucy Diamond

she actually felt sorry for him. He genuinely seemed to mean it. Then he ruined everything all over again. ‘She’s called Sabine,’ he said haltingly.
    ‘Sabine? Sabine? What sort of name is that?’ Josie shrieked, sympathy out of the window. ‘Is she French?’ she demanded. ‘Is she?’ Please don’t let her be French , she thought despairingly. That sexy accent, chic wardrobe, adventurous sex romps, all that va-va-bloody-voom . . . Josie knew Sabine would win hands down if she were French. How could she, Josie, with her British pear shape, ever compete with la belle Sabine and her je-ne-sais-quoi , her ‘ Oh, encore, monsieur! ’?
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s not French.’
    ‘Well, where did you meet her? How old is she? What does she look like?’ she asked. The sobs were giving way to a sneer. She wanted to know everything about her, everything – yet at the same time there was a part of her that wanted to know nothing, just needed to cover her ears and run away.
    ‘I met her at a conference,’ he said, his voice a sigh. A sigh of what? Sorrow? Nostalgia? Lust? ‘She’s thirty. And she looks . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s important.’
    ‘Why? Too scared to say that she’s sexier than me? Better-looking than me?’ Her voice rose to a scream. ‘Better in bed than me?’
    ‘Josie . . .’ he said, putting a hand on her arm.
    She threw it off, rounding on him. ‘Did you ever think about our sons , while you were shagging her? Our boys? What about them? What am I going to tell them?’ Her voice wobbled and broke as she thought about their earnest pink faces, the lack of comprehension. What words can you use to four-year-old boys who think their dad is the all-time superhero of the universe to tell them that, in actual fact, he’s nothing but an out-and-out . . .
    ‘Tosser,’ she said, fresh tears springing to her eyes. ‘You shit . You’ve wrecked everything, you and your stupid dick. Had to go and conquer something else, didn’t you, had to go and—?’ She stopped again, hands over her face, weeping uncontrollably.
    ‘Maybe it’s best if I just go,’ Pete said. ‘We can talk about it when you’ve calmed down.’
    The coward! ‘What, so that’s it?’ she asked incredulously. ‘It’s all over – easy as that?’
    He stood up awkwardly, not sure what to do with his hands. They stretched out in her direction as if to comfort her, but then he snatched them back, as if that was beyond his remit now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘But . . .’
    ‘You’re not bloody sorry,’ Josie spat. ‘If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be saying all these things, walking out on me, while upstairs our sons – our sons – are asleep.’ Her voice was shaking; the thought of the boys made her feel furious. How could he do it to them?
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, like a cracked record. Josie imagined him using the same calm tones when he fired people, or told them he was making them redundant. Sorry – but not that sorry. Sorry, but I’ll have forgotten your name after fifteen minutes. Sorry, but I’ve been shagging your mate, and now I’m leaving you for another woman. ‘I never wanted to hurt you, or the boys.’
    ‘Too late for that,’ Josie snivelled. Tears streamed down her face, snot too, but she didn’t care. ‘Too bloody late for that, mate. You just did! You just have!’
    ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a shock. We can talk about everything when you’ve had time to think.’ He took a cautious step towards the door, as if worried she was going to rugby-tackle him if he tried to escape. ‘I’ll just grab a few things then go.’
    Josie sank down in the chair as he went upstairs. Go after him, beg him not to leave, a voice urged in her head. Maybe if she calmed down, stopped swearing at him and calling him names for two minutes, she could talk him into staying. Promise him whatever he wanted – more sex, more fun,