Chapter Three
Juliette
We go out of the bar, and I pause on the pavement, looking up and down the street. It’s busy everywhere. All the restaurants and bars are bursting at the seams, oozing music and laughter. To our left, a fight breaks out in front of one of the noisier pubs, and people start gathering around, cheering. In the distance, the first sirens begin to wail.
I feel miserable and a mess, close to breaking down, and I don’t know where to go. I don’t want to be around people, but I don’t want to go home, either.
“Come on.” Henry leads me away to the right, resting his hand in the middle of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I let him steer me, then stop at the end of the pavement, not sure where we’re going.
We cross the street and continue down a side road toward the Avon, then turn toward the Cedar Hotel. It’s one of the small, boutique hotels that he stays at from time to time when he doesn’t want to drive to his house out at Sumner Beach. I think he’s staying here tonight.
“It has a great bar,” he says. “Hopefully it’ll be quiet there.”
If it were any other guy, I might feel nervous that he’d taken me back to his hotel without asking, but Henry is the definition of a gentleman, and I’ve known him a long time. We’re often alone together—at the office, or in the car on the way to meetings, and he’s never once acted inappropriately. I think it’s one reason why I find Cam’s insinuation that there’s something between us so upsetting.
He leads me through the front door and into the lobby, then stops, surprised. It’s bustling with people—it looks as if a coach load of visitors has turned up. The queue for reception is about twenty people deep. We walk along to the bar and find it packed, with all the tables and chairs occupied.
“Shit,” he says. “That’s Christmas for you.”
My ears ring with all the voices and music, and I feel overwhelmed by everyone’s energy. I can’t face the thought of battling our way to the bar, or going back out into the busy, noisy streets. “I just want to get inebriated in silence,” I say miserably. “Is that too much to ask?”
“You want me to order you an Uber?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to go home.” My throat tightens, and I swallow hard.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” His blue eyes study me. “Look, we’re friends, right? And you need somewhere to stay. I’d get you a room, but I’d imagine they’re fully booked now. I’m in a studio apartment. How about we go there, order some booze up, we’ll get trashed together safely and you can cry until all your mascara has run, and when you’ve had enough, you can pass out on the bed, and I’ll take the sofa?”
My eyes water, and I rub my nose. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’d only be watching Die Hard on my own anyway. Come on. Fuck everyone else.”
I nod, my spirits lifting a little at the thought of escaping with him. “Yeah, fuck everyone else.”
We go across the lobby to the elevators, and we ride up with some of the visitors. We stand in the corner, not touching, not speaking, but I can feel his concerned gaze on me. I think Henry sees himself as the father of Kia Kaha. He’s the oldest of the guys, if only by a few months, and he’s the one who always organizes a designated driver or transport home when we go out, who insists any women don’t walk home alone, who makes sure nobody’s feeling left out in a group, and who—more than any of us—is inclusive and supportive no matter of the person’s age, gender, color, or sexuality. I love all the guys at the company, but I feel safest with him.
Not that I think of him as a father figure. I’m acutely conscious of how gorgeous he looks tonight. He’s wearing black jeans and a burgundy-colored Henley that clings to his muscular torso and bulging biceps. The undone top button reveals his Adam’s apple and the hollow at the base of his throat. His dark hair is shaved at the nape of his neck, with a fade that leads to a longer section that tends to flop over his forehead at the end of the day. He has a five o’clock shadow across his cheek and jaw. He’s so big all over—big shoulders, big hands, big… feet.
I wonder if any other part of his body is larger than usual?
Juliette! That’s so inappropriate. I turn my gaze away, embarrassed by my thoughts, and rub my forehead. I hate Cam for making me feel guilty when I haven’t done anything. I like Henry; he’s my friend. He’s a good guy. He’s kind and supportive, and I know without having to ask that he’d never make a move on a girl who was in a relationship. I hate that Cam turned what we have into something cheap and tawdry.
I blink as the elevator stops and the doors open, and Henry gestures for me to precede him out into the corridor. It’s quieter here, and we walk all the way to the end, where he unlocks the door and opens it to reveal the apartment. I go in, looking around. It’s large and stylish, the walls white, with Art Deco furnishings—all geometric shapes, florals, animals, and sunrays. There’s an open-plan living room and kitchen, and through a separate door I can see a bedroom with a king-size bed covered in a black-and-white duvet and matching pillows.
“Make yourself at home,” Henry says, toeing off his Converses. “I’ll order some drinks. What are you in the mood for?”
“Alcohol,” I reply vehemently.
He chuckles. “Any particular sort?”
“My relationship is over, Henry. I don’t care what alcohol it is, as long as it makes me not care anymore.”
He stares at me. “You’ve broken up with Cam?”
“After he walked out, I texted him and asked if he was coming back. He said ‘No, I’m done.’”
“Did you message back?”
“No. I turned my phone off.”
He frowns. “I doubt he means it’s over. He probably just meant this evening.”
My eyes sting. “I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve tried so hard, you have no idea, and he’s just mean to me. I’m always the one who ends up apologizing because I can’t stand the bad atmosphere. I’m a nice person. I don’t deserve this. I deserve better than him. I don’t want to be with him anymore.”
Upset, furious, and heartbroken, I can’t stop the tears, and they tumble over my lashes.
“Ahhh…” Henry sighs.
He directs me over to the sofa. “Sit there,” he instructs. He passes me a box of tissues. “I’ll call room service. We need alcohol, stat.” He picks up the phone and dials.
I try to stop crying as Henry talks to the person on the other end of the phone. He asks for a bottle of Jameson, a bottle of London gin, and another bottle of vermouth. He knows I like dry martinis.
Then after he hangs up, he goes over to the kitchen and takes a few miniatures out of the minibar. He opens a can of GT and pours it into a glass, opens a tiny bottle of whisky and tips it over ice, then brings them through to the living area.
“Here.” He passes me the GT and sits beside me. “If you want to get drunk, you’re going to have to drink more than one an hour.”
I have a big mouthful, cough as the alcohol sears through me, then have another.
“But don’t drink it too quickly,” he says hastily, taking the glass from me and putting it on the table.
I cover my face with my hands. “I just want it to stop. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Ah don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart.”
I don’t mean that I want to die, but I do want the pain to be over. I don’t want to have to deal with Cam and his moods and problems. I want to stop being so unhappy.
The tears come for real, and this time I can’t stop them.
“Come here.” Henry holds up an arm. I turn toward him and bury my face in his neck. He lowers his arms around me, and I dissolve into wracking sobs that I couldn’t control any more than fly.
He strokes my back and kisses the top of my head, and murmurs comforting things like, “Everything’s going to be okay,” and “It’s all right, I’m here.” I know I’m soaking his Henley, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s big and warm, and he’s holding me tightly. I wish I could stay here forever, safe and secure in his arms.
When was the last time Cam held me like this? I honestly can’t remember.
My tears are just starting to die down when there’s a knock at the door. I sit up and wipe my face. “I’ll just go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, it’s through there.” He gestures at the bedroom.
I rise and leave him to answer the door, go into the bedroom, and close the door.
He wore a suit to work today, so I’m not surprised to see it hanging on the outside of the wardrobe door. His discarded shirt lies over the top of his suitcase. I pick it up and press my nose to it. It smells of his cologne, something masculine, exotic, and dark—the scent of leather, wood, and incense.
I blink, embarrassed at the thought of him catching me sniffing his clothes, put the shirt down, and go into the bathroom. Yes, there’s the bottle—Louis Vuitton’s Nuit de Feu, no doubt several hundred dollars a bottle, knowing Henry. He’s not ostentatious by any means, but he likes his expensive colognes, his Omega watches, and his sleek cars.
Next to the cologne is his razor, shaving foam, hair product, and toothbrush. Water pools on the floor of the shower, and the towel over the rack is damp. He had a shower before he came out, although he obviously didn’t shave, judging by his five o’clock shadow. I feel oddly shy at this glimpse into his life.
I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. The kohl and mascara have run—I should have worn waterproof makeup. I look like a panda. Using the hotel’s complimentary items, I remove it all. It’s not the first time he’s seen me au naturel, and he won’t care.
When I’m done, I go out and discover Henry seated again, this time at the other end of the sofa. He’s put the bottles on the coffee table, along with a jug containing a few ice cubes and a spoon. He’s also retrieved a small box of chocolates and a tube of Pringles from the minibar.
“Everything a girl needs when she’s had her heart broken,” he says. He smiles at me. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.” I sit back on the sofa. I finish off the GT, cough, and hold my glass out to him.
He pours out a large measure of gin into the jug over the ice, adds a splash of vermouth, mixes it with the spoon, and pours it into my glass. “A bit rough,” he says, handing it back to me, “but it’ll do the job.”
I have a mouthful and sigh. “God, that’s good.” I gesture to his glass. “You’ve got to keep up with me, come on.”
He tips a large splash of Jameson into his glass and sips it. “Are you feeling better now?”
“A bit. Sorry about the…” I gesture at my face. “You know.”
“You look beautiful,” he says. “With or without makeup.”
I blush and poke him with my toe. He just smiles.
We sip our drinks, and gradually I feel the tension fade from my spine. I put down my drink, lift my sari, and take off my sandals. Then I slide down on the sofa a bit and stretch out my legs, curling my toes over the edge of the coffee table. Henry watches me, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You put the TV on if you want,” I tell him. “Or some music.”
“I don’t mind the quiet,” he replies.
Opposite us, he’s opened the doors onto the balcony. I can hear people in the distance, outside one of the bars by the river, talking and laughing. The sound of ducks quacking and oars splashing in the water also rises to my ears.
I guess some people would find the silence uncomfortable, but I don’t, and I don’t think he does, either. He’s very restful to be with. He stretches out his long legs, resting his glass on the arm of the sofa, and we look out at the setting sun, watching the light slowly fade.
We sit there, sipping our drinks, and my thoughts gradually settle, like silt that’s been stirred up at the bottom of a stream. Eventually, though, I feel guilty for not talking, and wonder whether he’s bored.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the bar?” I ask.
“Nah. Everyone will have gone by now anyway.”
“Do you think James and Aroha left together?”
“Maybe.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “You never gossip.”
“It’s their business. I don’t want anyone speculating about what I’m up to, so I don’t speculate about them.”
“Fair enough.” I rest my head on a hand. “You’re a very private person, aren’t you?”
“You think?”
“I do. I didn’t even know you were having trouble with Shaz until you’d been apart over a year.”
He drops his gaze to his drink and has a mouthful of whisky.
“You don’t have to talk about it now,” I say awkwardly.
“I don’t mind. You know what relationships are like. They rarely break overnight. Maybe they do if someone’s having an affair or something, but mostly it’s an erosion, like the sea eating away at the coastline.”
I nod. “I know what you mean.” It’s the same with me and Cam—a slow, steady, painful breakdown.
I study Henry’s face, which I know so well—his wide nose, generous mouth, and dark blue eyes. “Was the main reason you broke up because you can’t have children?”
He swirls the whisky over the ice in his glass. “It was a symptom, not the cause. There were other factors.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. He sips the whisky, watching me over the rim of the glass.
I said he didn’t have to talk about it, but he replied that he didn’t mind, so I give in to my curiosity and continue. “You lived together for a while after you separated, didn’t you?”
“It was a big house. She moved into the other wing, and the courts took the day she moved as the start of the two-year separation. We did try and rekindle it a couple of times, just because we were both so sad it had ended, I guess. But eventually she told me she’d met someone else, and she moved out a few days later.”
“I’m so sorry she’s pregnant now,” I say. “I mean… well, you know what I mean. Not sorry for her, but sorry for you.”
He sighs. “Ah, I’m pleased for her. They’re getting married in a few weeks. She’s happy now.”
“But you’re not.”
He just shrugs. “I’m happy enough. I have a great job. I like my work.”
“You’re very successful in your professional life.”
“Yeah. It’s just my private one that sucks.” He rolls his eyes.
I finish off my drink. I’ve had several glasses of mulled wine, the GT, and now a martini, and I’m starting to feel loose and relaxed. While he pours me another, I study him, thinking how gorgeous he is. I wonder how many girls he’s been with since Shaz. He hasn’t talked about dating since he broke up with her, even though it’s obviously been more than two years. I study him with a frown, puzzled. “Why aren’t you dating anyone else?”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he finishes off the whisky in the glass, then leans forward to pour himself another measure. I watch as he picks up the box of chocolates, takes off the wrapping, and opens it up. “Go on,” he says, “I know you want one.”
I examine them. “If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not going to work.”
He just sighs.
“I’m guessing you don’t want one,” I say, choosing a caramel truffle.
“That’s correct.”
“You’re the only person I know who doesn’t like chocolate.”
“I’m sweet enough.”
“Sweet isn’t the word I’d use to describe you,” I say with feeling.
“What word would you use?”
Tasty? Gorgeous? Mouthwatering?
He takes the lid off the Pringles, peels back the seal, extracts a pile, and takes a bite out of it as he waits for me to answer.
“Monster,” I choose. “Nobody eats Pringles like that.”
“Life’s too short to eat one at a time.”
I nibble the caramel truffle, enjoying the flow of soft caramel onto my tongue. “If life’s too short, why aren’t you on Tinder, dating a different girl every night?”
“Because I’d be a withered husk if I did that. I’m not twenty-one anymore.”
I giggle. “All right, not every night, but once a week, say. You’re young, single, and gorgeous. Every woman would swipe right on you. You’d be able to pick and choose.”
He shudders. “I can’t think of anything more horrific. Companionship is based on having common interests. You can’t tell that from three keywords on a bio.”
I eat the other half of the truffle, amused. “Companionship? You’re practically Victorian, Henry. I’m talking about sex.”
He leans back and sighs. Finally, his gaze rises to meet mine.
My heart skips a beat. “There is someone,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply. He just sips his whisky, his gaze meeting mine over the rim of the glass.
I’m shocked at the way I feel at that revelation—as if I’ve been punched in the stomach.
“Who is she?” I ask.
He looks into his drink and sighs again.
“Have you told her how you feel?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “She’s with someone.”
“Do I know her?” I wonder if she works at Kia Kaha. Rachel, on reception? Or Clara, from accounts? She’s gorgeous. Oh God, don’t let it be Clara…
He meets my gaze again, though, and just tips his head to the side and gives me a look that’s part exasperated, part amused.
I stare at him. And slowly, my jaw drops. “You don’t mean… me?”