Chapter 11 December 11th
The office is sparse of employees, all having used the snow as an excuse not to come in to work.
Flakes. I left home half hour earlier than usual this morning, sporting a sophisticated pencil dress and my Merry People wellington boots, my heels in my bag, but I still made it to the office.
I look over to the radiator that’s buried under my coat and boots.
I was soaked through, my lips blue, but I made it.
Trying to find warmth has been a waste of time, the tips of my fingers still slightly numb come four o’clock.
I’ve been lost in the draft accounts for most of the day, silently seething.
Not just because of what I’m reading, but because Thomas isn’t here, and the snow is a perfect excuse for him to avoid me.
I’m also wondering why I’ve not heard from Dec.
I’ve typed out endless messages to him when I’ve taken breaks from the carnage that is the draft accounts for TF Shipping, but I didn’t send any of them.
My heart is willing me on, demanding I reach out to him.
It's screaming, “Heal me, save me.” My head wants nothing to do with the madness.
Debbie enters after knocking and gives me an apologetic smile, having me immediately worried about what’s happened. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s my husband.”
“What about your husband?”
“Well, you see, the schools are closed, and my husband’s day was cancelled, but he’s had an emergency crop up and needs to go into work. Do you mind if I shoot off? I’m up to date, and I’ve cleared my in tray.”
“Your husband’s job is more important than yours?”
“He’s a surgeon.”
“Oh.”
“All his ops were cancelled, given the weather, but there’s been an RTA on the M25.”
I flinch, nodding. “Sure, get yourself home.”
“Thanks, Camryn. Just give me a call if you need anything.”
I nod, the door closes, and I blink rapidly, fighting back the flashbacks that come at me without mercy.
“Fuck off,” I murmur, dipping and reaching into my bag, dragging out my divorce papers and slamming them on my desk.
My pen is a weight in my hand as I flick through to the final page, finding the empty signature line and staring at it.
Unreasonable behaviour.
They’re the only words I see.
Unreasonable. Behaviour.
We’re getting divorced because I was behaving unreasonably.
I toss down the pen and scrub my palms down my face.
My phone ringing makes me jump and drop my hands, and his name on the screen throws me into an infuriating conflict of hope and hate.
It’s been three days since he kissed me and walked away.
He’s left me hanging, waiting for contact, and he chooses now to call me?
At gone four o’clock on Monday? Is he checking if I’m going to the bar?
Will he tell me not to if he can’t make it?
I breathe in, not liking the direction of my thoughts.
Why else would he call now? Why wouldn’t he just head to the bar and see me there?
Where was he on Saturday and Sunday? With not even a message—anything after that kiss to tell me . . . I don’t know. Something.
It could be my low mood after such a shitty weekend—seeing her in the store, seeing Mindy at Mum’s care home, the extra pressure my ex is putting on me through my family, and his persistent calls.
It could be my disappointment that Dec kissed me like he was breathing life into me again and then left me to survive all weekend alone.
It could be the battle my heart and head are having.
Get close. Don’t. I don’t know, but I reject his call, dropping my mobile into my bag, then I knock my divorce papers away with an angry sweep of my hand, and yell at thin air.
Not surprisingly, the bar is dead, only one guy in the corner on his phone, and Julio is slicing lemons.
I don’t miss his surprise when he clocks me, but he doesn’t say a word as he prepares my drinks.
“Just one,” I say as I dump my things on the second to last stool.
Another inevitable fleeting look of surprise comes my way, but, again, he doesn’t say a word, making me just one dirty martini instead of my usual two.
My eyes follow his working hands as he prepares my drink, waiting for him to speak up.
Ask me what I’m doing here. Ask me where Dec is.
He doesn’t. “One martini,” he says, sliding it across the bar and wiping his hands on the towel hanging from one of the belt loops on his trousers. “Enjoying the weather?”
“Do I look like I’m enjoying the weather?” I ask, on autopilot, reaching down to my boots and pulling them off, replacing them with my heels.
“I can’t tell.” He gets back to his lemons, pulling his chopping board closer to us so he can keep his voice low in the quiet bar. “You’re hard to read.” One quick flick of his curious eyes up to me. “Your friend not joining you?”
“What friend?” I ask, picking up the cocktail stick and pulling the olive off with my teeth.
“So it’s like that, huh?”
“Like what?”
His knife lowers, his hands bracing on the bar as he takes an inhale. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn but, Christ, lady, you’re cooler than the sub-zero temperature out there.”
Whether it’s warranted or not, I bristle. I can’t help it. “You’re definitely speaking out of turn.”
“Then I don’t suppose I’m getting a tip today.”
I laugh on the inside—it’s sardonic—and take my first glorious sip of the martini. “You know, you make the best ones.”
“Is that why you come here most?” I tilt my head, and Julio smiles out the corner of his mouth as he gets back to slicing, this time limes. “My brother works at The Regent.”
“Ah,” I breathe. “Short guy, receding hairline, charming twinkle in his eyes?”
“That’s him. Ren.”
“And how did you two come to make the connection with me, The Regent, and here?”
His smile stretches, the kind of smile that’s somewhere between cheeky and embarrassed.
“He mentioned a lady in her thirties, dark, mid-length hair, an attractive mole on her cheek, on the slimmer side of slender, stoic, always orders two dirty martinis, one of which remains on the bar while she drinks a further three, four, five, sometimes six, before she finally drinks that initial second martini.”
What he hasn’t finished with is, and then leaves with a man. “I guess that second martini gave the game away, huh?”
He chuckles as I sip, and he loads his sliced fruits into a tub. “Do you know what I’m wondering?”
“I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to.”
The lid clicks onto the pot with a few loud pops, and he leans across the bar, making me recline back on my stool. “You’re right. You probably don’t.” He nods past me, and I peek back to see the guy in the corner looking this way. “Someone’s got his eye on you.”
“Hasn’t he just,” I muse, turning slightly on my stool. “How do I look?”
“Cold. But he looks like he wants to warm you up.”
“Ha ha,” I drone, maintaining eye contact with the man. He’s handsome, in a Hugh Grant kind of way. A bit preppy. A lot floppy. He’s too far away to see if there’s a ring. No married men.
I inhale and face the bar again, having a little argument with myself. Dec’s married. I’m married. Take the distraction. Irritatingly, it’s not just my past I need distracting from.
Dec.
I growl under my breath and neck the rest of my drink.
Leave. I should go home before I find out if that man behind me has a ring on his finger.
Before I succumb to brief, mindless pleasure.
Before I return to old habits. “One more, please,” I say, pushing my glass to Julio.
He gets to work, as my phone vibrates on the bar, the screen lighting up.
Camryn, the next step is for me to apply to the court so we can move forward. That’s a lengthy and expensive process for both of us. Please, can you just sign the acknowledgment form and hire legal counsel so we can start to get the financial settlement agreed and both of us can move on?
My phone hits the marble bar with a thud when I drop it, and Julio delivers my second martini at the perfect time. I throw it back and gasp after swallowing hard. Move on? So we can both move on? I will never move on.
“Want some company?”
I turn toward the voice, looking him up and down. There’s no ring. “Yes,” I say without much thought, indicating the stool. “Why not.” There are a dozen reasons, all of which, in this moment, I’m prepared to ignore. “What are you drinking?”
“Negroni,” he says to Julio as he perches on the stool, resting his forearms on the bar so the overhead bar lights shine down on his hands.
I’ve seen this move endless times before.
A subtle demonstration that there’s no ring.
He doesn’t know that I already spotted that, except I didn’t have the benefit of light on his hands then. And I do now.
“When did you remove it?” I ask, tapping the base of my glass with my fingertip.
“Excuse me?”
“Your ring. Was it off before you saw me, or did you take it off before you decided to come over?”
Laughing under his breath, he starts doing the motions, spinning the wedding band that isn’t there. “Caught red-handed.”
“American?” I ask.
“New York.”
“Here on business?”
“And now stranded.”
“How inconvenient,” I murmur, crossing one leg over the other and turning slightly toward him.
“I thought so too until a few minutes ago.” His eyes drop down my seated body as he extends a hand. “Hugh.”
I laugh on the inside at the irony. “Camryn,” I say, accepting and shaking. “That’s a strong shake.”
“Touché.” He narrows his eyes, my hand still in his, his unspoken intentions clear.
“You’re staying here?” I ask.
Julio clears his throat and places two fresh drinks on the bar. “Would you like me to charge these to your room, Mr. Colton?”
“Yes, good man.” Huge takes a cool sip of his drink. “Six-one-eight.”
“Subtle,” I say quietly, laughing to myself. “What do you do?”
“Financial technology. You?”
“CFO.”
He can’t hide his surprise, or his delight. “Really?”