Chapter 9
I went home, didn’t sleep, ran at four, put a suit on at six, left Lusso at six thirty, got to Kate’s twenty minutes later.
I park at the end of the road and wait, wondering if she’ll go to work. Can she face it? Put on a brave face? Or will she tell everyone it’s over? I check my watch repeatedly, every minute, in between watching the front of Kate’s house. I nearly lose my breath when she appears, seeing her for the first time since she walked out on me. It’s not even been twenty-four hours, but it feels like years already. I watch as she rummages in her bag as she walks down the path. Searching for her keys? How I’d love to get out, go to her, offer to take her to work. Fear of rejection is stopping me. Space. It doesn’t matter that I’m mere meters away. She thinks I’m listening to her, respecting her wishes, and I have to give her that. It’s hard when I can see how drained she looks. Stunning as always, but the underlying turmoil beneath her makeup is so clear to me. I’m surprised when she walks straight past her car. She’s heading for the Tube station.
Getting out of my Aston, I follow her, taking a small comfort from having her close enough to see, even if I can’t go to her. I keep a safe distance, holding back when I need to, boarding the next carriage on the Tube and watching her through the glass. She finds a seat and pulls her phone out, just staring at the screen. Thinking about calling me? Replying to my message?
She eventually puts it back in her bag and stands, staggering when the train jolts, starting to slow. My heart jumps into my throat as her arm shoots up and grabs the rail above her head, a man nearby reaching for her arm to steady her. It physically hurts.
Ava smiles her thanks, moving past him, and as soon as the tube stops at Green Park and the doors open, she steps off. I follow her with the sea of commuters, my eyes nailed to the back of her head. She reaches the top of the steps on Piccadilly and stops, so I pull back, waiting with bated breath for her to turn around and see me. Has she sensed I’m near?
But she doesn’t turn around. She just stands there while people dodge her motionless form. Worried, I pick up my feet, but she gets moving before I make it to her, crossing the road outside The Ritz and walking up Berkley Street to the square. The closer she gets to her office, the unrest inside me worsens. It’s going to be hours before I get to look at her again.
She turns onto Bruton Street. My pace increases. I’ve got to talk to her. I skirt around the masses of people, hurrying to the corner. I see her in the distance, close to the Rococo Union office. I won’t make it to her before she gets there, and I know I can’t turn up at her workplace. It’ll raise too many questions neither of us want to answer. I’m of sound enough mind to realize that. I can’t put her in that position, and it won’t help my cause. So in desperation, I call out to her, stepping into the road to circle round a group of students. “Ava!”
Beep!
My yell gets drowned out by the horn, and I jump, startled as screeching tires blend into the sound. “Shit,” I gasp, just as a black cab skids to a stop. I look down at the bumper touching my knees.
“What the fuck are you playing at, mate?” the cabbie yells out of the window, waving his fist. “Get out the fucking road!”
I blink, stepping back. “Sorry,” I murmur, looking up to see the door of Rococo Union closing. Shaken, I rake a hand through my hair. I double-check for traffic before crossing, standing on the other side and watching as Ava settles at her desk.
Ready for work.
Ready to distract herself from me.
I breathe out my weariness, drop my eyes to my feet, stuff my hands in my pockets, and make my way back to the tube.
A new Jaguaris blocking the gates when I pull off the main road to The Manor, forcing me to a stop. “The fuck,” I breathe, getting out. I pace to the driver’s side and find the car empty. The door’s locked. Who the hell abandons a car in front of gates that are obviously in use?
“Oh, morning.”
Swinging around, I find a suited bloke appearing from the lane. “Morning,” I say cautiously.
He smiles, motioning to the gates. “Nice place, eh?”
“Yeah,” I reply, taking him in. He’s got salesman written all over him. “Visiting?” I ask.
“I’m trying to get in touch with the owner.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to buy it.”
I’m jarred, my one step back cautious and slow. “It’s not for sale.”
He tosses his keys, nodding. “Everything’s for sale. The owner, his name’s Jesse Ward, right?
“Right,” I breathe.
“Do you know him?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Great.” His mobile appears. “Mind sharing his number?”
“Yes, I mind.”
His eyes lift from the screen of his phone, his smile now milder. “Maybe I could leave you my card instead,” he says. “To pass on.” He dips into his trouser pocket and pulls out a gold embossed card. “I’d be very grateful.”
I nod, eyes on him, as I accept, and he gets in his car and drives off.
OWEN CUTLER
That’s it. Just a name. The Manor for sale? I huff and slip the card into the inside pocket of my jacket, returning to my Aston. What’s the fucking point of having a business card if it only tells people your name? “Idiot,” I mutter as I drive past the trees, pulling in around the fountain.
“I didn’t expect to see you today, Mr. Ward,” Pete says as I pass through the hallway. “Congratulations again.”
I smile lamely and increase my pace before anyone can find me and thrust their well wishes on me. The summer room is back to normal, no signs that a wedding happening here this past weekend. I swallow, feeling at my chest as I push my way into my office. I find John at the desk. He looks up, a pile of paperwork in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Ava’s at work. What do you expect me to do?” I close the door and wander over. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the contract for the CCTV system.”
“Ask Sar—” I stop as John looks up at me tiredly. “Shit,” I breathe. It’s going to take some getting used to. “Why do you need it?”
“To check the warranty on the cameras. Two more went down.”
“Great.” I sit on the edge of my desk as John places the paperwork down. I can see the questions coming. “How’s Sarah?” I ask.
“I took her car back and posted the keys.”
“You didn’t see her?”
“Spoke to her. She wasn’t talking much sense. I think the hangover was kicking in.”
I tilt my head. “What was she saying?”
“That she can’t live without you.” He eyes me, his face serious, and I shrink. “That she’s lost, that death would be better than living without you and this place.”
“She was still drunk.” I’m awkward as I reach for my laptop and pull it closer, getting my email account up. Now there’s a way to get my attention. I can’t play that game.
“Probably. Now what’s up with you?”
I laugh to myself. Aside from the guilt trip he’s just sent me on? “Nothing.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up, John,” I say, tapping with too much force at my keyboard. I see an email from the dealership reminding me I need to pay for the car before they deliver it. Stupid me. I’ll ask Sarah to?—
Fuck.
“Tell me what’s going on, motherfucker.”
I slam my laptop shut and stand abruptly. “Nothing is fucking up, John,” I yell, storming out. It takes everything in me not to put my fist in every wall I pass as I stalk through The Manor. Everything.
I go upstairs and walk into my suite. Look around. Back out again, heading past the stained-glass window into the new, unfinished wing. I stand on the threshold of the room I showed Ava on our first meeting. I see her standing in her lovely navy pencil dress looking like a deer in the headlights.
I was the headlights.
I see her on the floor sketching, looking like the wind had been taken out of her sails.
I stole that wind.
The last time she was here was just last week. A few days before our wedding. She stood in here and pinned her drawings to the wall, showed me the material she had in mind for the curtains, the soft furnishings, the lighting. We were making progress.
Now, like my marriage and my life, limbo.
I walk to the wall and pluck one of the drawings down, looking over it.
“Are you going to talk or am I going to beat it out of you?”
I glance over my shoulder and find John filling the doorway. “We’ve had words,” I say, at a loss. I can’t tell him what I’ve done. I can’t tell him Ava’s walked out on me.
He laughs under his breath, wandering in and joining me by the wall, looking over the drawing in my hand. “What about?”
“Something trivial.” I put the picture back on the wall, pressing into the Blu-Tack. “You know Ava and me,” I say robotically. “It’s fiery. We’ll be friends again later.”
I see him nodding mildly in my peripheral vision, humming. “You said you thought she was pregnant.”
I stare at the drawing. He spared me the interrogation on my wedding day. The time has come. “Still do.”
“It’s—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, John.” Don’t want to face my reality. And yet here I am, staring it in the face.
Loss.
He releases a sigh only a body like John’s is capable of releasing. “The end of month accounts need sending to the accountants.”
I look at him. “Have Sa—” His eyebrows rise. “Fucking hell.”
“I’ve tried to sort the files.” A shake of his head confirms he’s failed.
“I suppose I asked for it,” I say, knowing this is Sarah’s way of proving that I, indeed, cannot live without her. Or, at least, The Manor can’t. “I’ll take a look.”
John nods and leaves, pulling out his phone. Checking on Sarah. I go to the window and look out across the green landscape. I can’t stand this. The hollowness, the uncertainty. How much space, and for how long?
I try calling Ava again and get ignored. So I try Kate, desperate to get some reassurance. But Kate doesn’t answer either and that only heightens my worries, because Kate has always had my back, even when I’ve put a foot out of line. Which means Ava’s told her best friend what I’ve done. I’ve lost an ally.
I’m alone.
The excruciating sense of helplessness feels horribly familiar. I feel like I’m on the verge of losing everything.
Which will leave me a shell of a man all over again.
I triedto sort the files. I lasted five minutes before I tossed them aside and gave up, unable to concentrate. I sat in silence for twenty minutes, my mind circling, before I headed up to our suite. But it’s not always been ours. It was mine. The old me. Hence, the new bed for our wedding day. Biting my lip, I go back through to the extension and pull Ava’s drawings off the wall, snapping a picture with my phone and heading back down to my office. Maybe I’m being optimistic, but what else can I be? I attach the drawings to an email and get them over to the decorators. It’s something to do. Hope to cling on to. My wife doesn’t want to see me, and I can’t face telling my closest what’s happened.
Fuck, I miss her. I growl, fisting a hand full of hair, tugging. “What the fuck am I meant to do?” I yell, frustrated, snatching up my keys and heading out. I’ll beg, grovel, get on my knees. Whatever it takes. I’m going crazy, my mind circling, thinking of every scenario, best and worst. The worst is edging out in front. I feel sick.
Drew is getting out of his Merc when I emerge into the sunshine, slipping my shades on, more to hide my red-rimmed eyes than protect them from the sun. “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking at my watch.
He slams the door and passes me. “You were shut all weekend.”
“And where did you disappear to on Saturday?” He was there one minute, gone the next. I don’t get an answer, just a dismissive wave of his hand over his head. “No one’s here yet,” I call. What’s he going to do? Play on his own? I hear the sound of an engine and look up. A red Jaguar swings into a space and Natasha steps out.
She looks me up and down. “I don’t think marriage suits you, Jesse.”
“Oh fuck off,” I snap, getting in my car and speeding away.