Chapter Eight
Juliette
Cam gets to his feet as I enter the apartment. He’s wearing the clothes he wore last night, he’s unshaven, and his hair’s a mess. Before I can say anything, he walks across the room and puts his arms around me.
“Thank God,” he whispers in my ear. “I thought you weren’t coming home.”
I stand there, stiff as an ironing board. Cam is not a hugger, and usually shrinks from physical affection. I’ve learned over the years that the small things mean more where he’s concerned, like holding hands, for example. So this is huge for him, and shows the extent of his fear.
Normally I’d have lapped up this meager display of love, but all I can think about is Henry—lying in bed, stroking me, his fingers never leaving my skin; kissing me as if his life depended on it; moving inside me so gently, while his eyes watched me, drinking in my pleasure. I know I must smell of his cologne and the scent of his warm skin. I haven’t brushed my teeth, and despite the mint I had, I can taste whisky, which I rarely drink. I feel coated in him, my pores oozing him.
After about ten seconds, and recognizing I’m clearly not going to respond, Cam drops his arms and moves back. We stand there and stare at each other for a long time.
“Where were you?” he asks eventually.
Such a small question. With such a potentially lethal response.
My whole future rests on what I say next. Tell the truth. Or lie. It’s such a simple decision. But the pressure of answering feels as heavy as uranium, and just as dangerous. The words in my mouth are nuclear bombs ready to drop and blow us both sky high. I’ve constructed them. I’ve loaded them onto the plane. Now all I need to do is press the button to release the doors, watch them fall, and observe their destruction.
But I can’t. I don’t want to be responsible for detonating them and destroying our relationship. I’m a coward, and I’m frightened of change. Things aren’t right between me and Cam, but I have a good life, and I’m not sure I’m willing to risk everything for Henry. He’s a wonderful guy, and he should have women clambering over each other to get to him. But the thing is… I want children. And Henry can’t give them to me.
There are options, of course. Sperm donors and IVF and adoption. But it’s one thing to be in a partnership and discover you can’t have children. It’s another to enter a relationship willingly with that knowledge.
And anyway, although last night was amazing, I don’t know whether Henry and I are suited. Whether we’d last once the first blaze of passion wore off. He’s so quiet and private, and I know very little about him. He might drive me mad when I get to know him. I might drive him mad, despite his declaration that he’s in love with me. It’s a huge risk when I’m already in a stable relationship with a man I love.
Do I still love Cam? I’m not sure, but I did once.
“I stayed in a hotel,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Yeah, Juliette, you tell yourself that. “I didn’t want to come home.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says.
It’s a rare thing for him to say. “I appreciate the apology,” I tell him. “But it doesn’t make everything right.”
“I know.”
We stand six feet apart, but it feels like six miles.
“I didn’t think you were going to be here when I came home,” I admit.
“I only stayed at Mum’s for an hour. I kept thinking about you. I texted you again, and I tried to call, but it kept going to voicemail.”
“I turned my phone off. I’d had enough.”
He nods as if to say he understands why.
Silence falls between us. My neck suddenly tingles, as if Henry is reminding me of the love bite he placed there. I wrap my arms around my middle, full of shame and guilt and misery.
“It’s the first time you’ve ever not come home,” Cam says eventually.
“It’s the first time I’ve not wanted to.”
Our eyes meet. Something shifts between us, as if the tectonic plates are moving beneath our feet. He’s realizing how bad this is. How fragile our relationship is right now.
“Are you staying?” he asks.
“I need to have a shower and go to work.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean are you staying with me? Or are you leaving me?” His brows draw together.
My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”
Silence falls between us once more. His eyes have lit with fear again.
“I don’t want you to go,” he says eventually.
“Then you should be nicer to me.” I mean to sound sassy, but a little hiccup in my voice makes it come out pathetic.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.
“I know you have issues, but you can’t keep taking out your frustration and misery on me, Cam.”
“I know.”
“I deserve better.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all my fault. I’m an arsehole, and I don’t deserve you. I deserve to be on my own.”
“No,” I exclaim, “don’t do this. You always do this. You always turn it so it’s about you.”
“But I’m the one at fault.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about what you’ve done wrong and how you need help.” I’m getting hysterical, but this argument is following the same pattern it always does, and I don’t know how to stop it. “This is about me. What I want. What I need.”
“All right. Tell me, then. Tell me what you want me to do.”
I swallow hard. What you want me to do. It’s still about him.
If you were my girl, I’d treat you like a queen.
Tears rush into my eyes. “I’m going to have a shower,” I say, and I walk out of the room. I go into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. Then I sit on the toilet seat and burst into tears.
I cry for a good five minutes, and then the sobs finally die down. Standing, I switch on the shower, then take off my sari, trying not to think about Henry unwrapping me with such obvious delight. I strip off the petticoat and my underwear, then get into the shower.
Slowly, I wash my hair, remembering his fascination with how long it is, and how soft. Then I wash my body with the shower puff, trying not to remember his hands moving across my skin in the early sunlight.
I feel as if I’m slowly washing him away, and the thought makes me so sad that I start crying again.
When I finally come out of the shower, I dry myself, then stare at my reflection. I have shadows under my eyes, and I look miserable. I have to get ready for work, and I don’t want Henry or anyone else to think I’ve been crying.
It would be easier to phone in sick, but today is the office Christmas party and officially the last day of work before Christmas, and I have to go in. So I do my face carefully, using the time to calm down, applying foundation and powder, outlining my eyes with kohl and black mascara, then applying a scarlet bindi sticker between my brows.
I try not to think of the way Henry kissed me there.
I look at the hickey on my neck and remember his deep groan as he sucked the tender skin.
Ah… jeez.
Finally, I dry my hair, then twirl it into a tight rope and pin it up in a ballerina-style bun. It’s a harsh look, especially with the way I look so wan with big dark eyes, but it feels appropriate today.
When I’m done, wearing a bathrobe and turning up the collar to hide the hickey, I unlock the bathroom door and go out into the bedroom.
Cam is there, as I knew he’d be, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, his hands in his hair, although he straightens when I come out.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “I heard you crying.”
“I’m fine.” I collect a scarlet sari from the drawer—I’ll take it with me and put it on before the party. This morning I’ll just wear a top and leggings. I retrieve them and some fresh underwear, and go back into the bathroom to put them on, not wanting to do it with Cam watching.
When I come out, his gaze skims down the tight white top with its high collar and the black leggings. “You’re losing weight,” he says.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull on a pair of flat sandals, not answering. When I stand and go to walk out, he moves to intercept me.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Don’t.” I step backward, away from his touch. It’s ridiculous, but I feel disloyal to Henry. I’m so fucking in love with you, he told me. Oh, I’ve got myself into such a mess.
Cam and I study each other for a long moment. Seven years is a long time to spend with one person, and I know his face almost as well as my own. He’s a handsome man, and I’ve always loved his thick dark-blond hair, his Roman nose, and his sensual mouth. Do I still love him, though? Or has he killed all the feelings I had for him?
“Have I lost you?” he asks softly, pain in his eyes.
My eyes prick with tears, but I fight not to let them fall. “I don’t know.”
“So there’s still hope?”
“I don’t know. I’m angry, Cam. I know you have problems. And I’m sorry for what happened to you. But you seem to resent me for it all, and I can’t deal with that.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunches his shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, we’re all sorry, but they’re just words. It doesn’t make it right.”
“I know.”
“Actions are what matter. This isn’t what I want out of a relationship.”
I just want to be…
Worshiped?
Maybe a tiny bit.
You should be.
I want to be wanted. To be desired. Just once, for it to be about me.
It should always be about you.
“I want to feel as if I’m the most important thing in my partner’s life,” I say desperately. “I know maybe that sounds selfish and egotistical, but I’m tired of being the last thing on your To Do list.”
“That’s fair.” He moves a little closer. “Let me try and put it right.”
I frown. We’ve argued a lot in the past, but this is the first time he’s ever accepted that he needs to change. That he’s realized I might actually walk away.
“Don’t throw away seven years,” he says. “We’ve worked hard to get where we are.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t throw away seven years with him for Henry. Two and a half thousand days versus one night? The math doesn’t work.
But the reality is that Henry made me feel wanted and valued last night, more than Cam has done in all the time we’ve been together.
“I’ve taken you for granted,” Cam says. “I’ve taken what we have for granted. I won’t do it again. Just let me try to put it right.”
I bite my bottom lip. “I don’t know. I’ve got to get to work.” I walk past him into the living room.
He follows me out. “Just tell me you’ll come home tonight,” he says. “Please.”
I pick up my purse and keys and head for the door.
“Please,” he says again. “I’ll cook dinner. I’d like to talk. Just… come home.”
I hesitate with my hand on the door handle. I’ve invested seven years in this man, and I don’t want to admit that it was all a waste of time. Maybe he can change, now he knows I’m not prepared to continue being his metaphorical punchbag.
Is this what I want? Right now, I can’t think clearly.
“All right,” I say, because I can’t think how else to answer. I live here. Where else would I go?
“Thank you.”
I go out, and close the door behind me.
*
When I get to my car, I’m shaking, and I sit there for a few minutes, trying to recover. While I’m there, my phone buzzes with a message. My heart leaps as I think it might be Henry, but it’s just my mum, sending me a song on Spotify that she thinks I’d like. She adds a message, How did the party go?
I let out a long sigh, then text back, Um…
Mum: Oh dear. What happened?
Me: Cam and I had an awful fight, and he left the bar.
Mum: Oh no. What about?
Me: Oh, just stuff. But I was miserable, and I got drunk, and…
Mum: AND WHAT?
Me: I went back to Henry’s hotel.
She knows all the guys I work with, and I think she’s also guessed that I like Henry.
Mum: OMG what did you do?
Me: You want me to draw a picture?
Mum: JULIETTE!
Me: Don’t shout. I have a hangover.
Mum: Are you okay?
My eyes water. Not really.
Mum: Aw, taupuhi.
It’s Māori for darling, and it’s what she always calls me.
Me: I’ll be okay. I’m just nervous about seeing him at work.
Mum: Was it… you know… good?
Me: It was pretty terrific, Mum. He told me he’s not going to let me go easily, either.
Mum: How do you feel about that?
Me: Mixed. I went home thinking it was all over between me and Cam, and he was there.
Mum: Did you tell him?
Me: No. I couldn’t. He said he’s sorry for making it hard for me, and he wants us to try to work it out. Now I don’t know what to do.
She doesn’t come back for a minute. I sit resting my elbow on the windowsill and my head on my hand, feeling miserable.
Eventually, a text pings up.
Mum: You remember what I told you when you were a teenager?
I give a small smile. Find a man who smudges your lipstick, not your mascara?
Mum: That’s right. Now you just need to work out which one’s which.
I swallow hard. I have no idea. At the moment I feel like bawling my eyes out when I think of either of them.
Me: I’ve got to get to work.
Mum: All right. Let me know how you get on.
Me: Will do.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, start the car, and head into the traffic.
By the time I get to Kia Kaha, it’s gone eight thirty. I park out the front, next to Henry’s precious BMW. He doesn’t let anyone drive it but me. Jesus, why I didn’t I realize what that meant before now?
I’m in love with you. I have been since the first time we met.
My head’s pounding. I need some Panadol. I have some in my office. I get out, lock my car, and, carrying my bag with my sari, head for the building.
Everything in Kia Kaha reminds me of Henry. I walk into the lobby and look at the beautiful stained-glass windows, the painting of Ranginui and Papatūānuku on the wall, the fountain surrounded by green plants and rocks, and feel as if he’s all around me, watching me. It makes a shiver run down my back.
The senior management team always meets first thing for a brief catchup to discuss the day ahead. Normally I’d walk past the boardroom to get to my office, but I know Henry will probably already be there, and if he’s not, he’s going to be in his office, so instead I turn left and skirt the main secretarial office and head for the treatment rooms.
Once I’m in my office with proper brick walls, I feel as if I can breathe a bit easier. I say good morning to Rose, the secretary who works for the physios, drop my bag off, make myself a coffee, and sit behind my desk to check through the morning’s post and my emails, although I end up just staring into space.
I jump when Rose puts her head in and tells me they’ve all gathered and I should head for the boardroom.
Collecting my cooling coffee and laptop, my heart hammering on my ribs, I walk past the guys’ empty offices.
We don’t have designated places around the boardroom table, but we often sit in the same seats—human habit, I guess. Alex is at the head of the table with his puppy, Zelda, lying by his feet, Tyson is sitting next to James on Alex’s right, and Henry is, as usual, sitting on the other side, with the chair next to him vacant.
Summoning my courage, I go through the automatic doors into the room and say, “Morning guys.”
“Morning,” they all say back, watching as I approach the table. I pull out the chair next to Henry and sit, then fuss Zelda as she comes up to say hello.
Tyson clears his throat. “I was just talking about the Sydney conference.”
I nod and open my laptop, type in my password, pull up Word, and open a new document. I put my phone on the table and adjust the angle of it. Then, finally, I glance at Henry.
He’s watching me. As he sees me look up, he smiles. Oh my God, he looks amazing. He’s wearing my favorite suit of his, a navy British-cut, with a white shirt and a light-blue tie. He looks crisp and formal, like a fucking soldier. Thank you for your service, sir. Ahhh…
I glance around the table. James is talking to Tyson, but Alex meets my gaze as I look at him.
He lifts an eyebrow.
My face burns as if I’ve been lying in the sun for a fortnight. Jesus, talk about a guilty complex.
He notices, and his lips curve up, just a tiny bit. Embarrassed at the thought that he knows what happened, I tear my gaze away and study my laptop. Did Henry tell him? Or is he just assuming?
“Would you like a coffee?” Henry asks me softly.
I look back up at him. I still have a third of a cup left, but it’s lukewarm. “Yes, please,” I murmur.
He gets to his feet, goes over to the table against the glass wall, and starts making me one. I fidget with my phone, trying not to think about how Cam never offers to make me a drink unless he’s having one himself.
Henry brings the cup back and places it before me, and takes his seat again. He picks up the Rubik’s cube and completes it while James and Tyson talk. Then, quietly, he places the finished cube on the table between us.
It’s just a toy, a plastic cube, but I know it’s a peace offering, as tender and gentle as a single rose. Without looking at Alex, I can see him watching us. If I ignore the cube, he’ll know something’s up. But accepting it means I’m accepting the gesture. I’ll be telling Henry that things are all right between us.
I should ignore it. Tell him without having to say the words that things aren’t all right, that I regret what we’ve done. But I can’t. It’s pathetic and needy, but I want him on my side. I don’t want him to stop looking at me as if he wants to undress me with his eyes. I want his support, his affection. It’s dog in the manger, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t ignore the cube any more than fly.
Swallowing hard, I pick it up and begin turning the sides, muddling up the colored cubes. I hear his soft sigh, and I know he understands. I can smell his cologne, and almost feel his body warmth. Only hours ago, he was kissing me, and he was inside me, telling me he’s in love with me.
Oh God, what am I going to do?