Friends. He doesn’t even like half the guys he was out
with, but I say nothing.
‘I know it feels dire right now, Nick. But—’
‘It’s not dire for you, Amy. Not for you, it never will be
dire. But for the rest of us? It’s very different.’
The same old. Nick resents that I’ve never had to worry
about money and I never will. He thinks that makes me
softer than everyone else, and I wouldn’t disagree with him.
But I do work. I clock in and clock back out. Some of my
girlfriends have literally never had a job; they discuss
people with jobs in the pitying tones you talk about a fat girl
with ‘such a nice face.’ They will lean forward and say, ‘But
of course, Ellen has to work,’ like something out of a Noël
Coward play. They don’t count me, because I can always
quit my job if I want to. I could build my days around charity
committees and home decoration and gardening and
volunteering, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with
building a life around those things. Most beautiful, good
things are done by women people scorn. But I work.
‘Nick, I’m on your side here. We’ll be okay no matter
what. My money is your money.’
‘Not according to the prenup.’
He is drunk. He only mentions the prenup when he’s
drunk. Then all the resentment comes back. I’ve told him
hundreds, literally
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