Memoirs of a Wild Child by Cassandra P Lewis

I stared at it for a second, trying to avoid the temptation to open it and look inside. I bit my lip, but I never was known for my restraint. I took the lid off and pulled out the velvet covered ring box inside. My heart was pounding as I gripped the box and started to pull it open.
    The cushion-cut diamond, set in the most sumptuous platinum, was stunning. My breath caught in my throat; it was exquisite. He was actually going to propose. I put the ring back and practically pranced into the dressing room to finish getting ready.
    We ate a beautiful dinner, we talked and laughed, ate and drank and as the end of the meal approached, I was sure it was coming, but it didn’t. I waited, every day for the next week, but it still didn’t happen. I considered telling him that I had found the ring and confronting him about it, but I was distracted by a bigger issue. My period was late.
    I knew in my heart that if I were pregnant, it would be over with Simon. I wasn’t ready for that to happen, I wasn’t ready for a baby, but I was so confused. All I could think was how disappointed my parents were going to be with me.
    I told Simon that I needed to go away with work for a few days. I booked a train ticket to Paris and a flat for a week. I don’t know why I felt the need to run away, but flight mode was well and truly activated. I spent a lot of time walking around the city, taking photographs and just thinking about what was I going to do. I still hadn’t done a pregnancy test, I was a couple of weeks late, but I was sure my period would come soon enough. Stress, I thought, it’ll just be stress.
    I sat in the window of a café. It was a cold wintery day in Paris. The kind of day that makes everything and everyone look a little brighter, as though a filter has been applied. Cheeks were rosy; eyes were watery, and the sky was a perfect blue.
    I watched as Parisians went about their business, chic young women rode past on bikes and made me envious of their tiny frames and effortless style. Tourists flooded in and out of the café and all around on the street outside, posing for photographs, ordering lunch in broken French and laughing as they sat together, couples, families and friends. I missed my friends; I felt like I hadn’t seen any of them properly in so long. I picked up my phone to call Rosie, and it rang in my hand. It was Simon.
    I shouldn’t have answered, but I took it as a sign.
    “Hello,” I said, quietly.
    “Where have you been Philippa?” He asked sternly. I hadn’t spoken to him in days; he knew I was busy, but I had never ignored his calls before.
    “Simon, I...” I hesitated. “I’m in Paris; I’ll be home soon.”
    “I’m coming, text me the address.” My heart skipped a beat. He wanted to be with me; this was all going to work out.
    “Okay. I’ll send it to you.”
    I texted Simon the address and by that evening I was blowing him on the sofa of the flat. You would think he had been sex starved for a year the way he was that night, he was incessant, insatiable, I loved it, I needed it.
    We took a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower the next day and then, after handing back the keys to my flat, took a late flight back to London. In the car on the way back to Simon’s apartment, sleepy and a little love drunk, I told him, while I rested my head against his large chest, that I thought I might be pregnant.
    Immediately Simon banged a hand against the window to instruct the driver to stop the car, before aggressively pushing me off his chest and away from him. He looked at me, his eyes boring into me angrily before he searched, for the words to say.
    “Slut.” He spat out venomously and tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t speak as my throat tightened in shock. “I should have known it was only a matter of time before a whore like you tried to trap me. You’re not getting a penny of my money, you tramp.”
    I sat there open-mouthed, stunned at his words. For a start, it came out of nowhere; it was