Chapter 10
I drive down Bruton Street, seeing Ava sitting at her... what the fuck is that? It’s definitely not her desk. A paste table?
I don’t have time to figure it out before I’m past the office. I look up at my rearview mirror, noting traffic behind me. “Shit.” Scanning for a space, I find nothing, resorting to parking in a car park off Arlington Street and walking back to her office.
The café I’ve used before when I’ve waited for her is just up the street—it’s better than loitering outside her office—so I trudge up, pulling out a chair and sitting. I order a water and a sandwich that I won’t eat, looking down at my watch. I’ve got quite a few hours before she finishes. Not that it matters. I have nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. Only hope. Pray.
By late afternoon, I’ve had six waters, the sandwich I ordered is stale, and I’m in desperate need of a piss but dare not leave the table in case I miss Ava leaving. But I’m at risk of embarrassing myself if I don’t get to the men’s soon. I wave the waitress over who looks at my untouched sandwich as she has each time I’ve ordered another drink.
“Another water?” she asks.
“No, actually, I need the men’s.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
I give her a tired look.
“Through the back on the left.” She motions to the sandwich. “Are you ever going to eat that.”
“No.”
“Is something wrong with it?”
“No.”
Poor thing looks perplexed. I dip into my pocket for my wallet, pulling out two twenties. I hold them up. “That’s too much, sir,” she says, plucking one of the twenties from my fingers. “I’ll get your change.”
“No,” I call as she walks off, stopping her. I flash the other twenty. “Spare me sixty seconds and you can have this one too.”
She looks alarmed for a moment. “Sir, I’m flattered, and don’t get me wrong, you’re really hot and all, but how old are you? Like... forty? Because I’m seventeen and that’s all kinds of wrong.”
I stare at her, dumfounded. She thinks I’m offering her money for... what? A date? Jesus, does she think I’ve been sitting here all day to admire her? “Whoa,” I say, laughing nervously, my hand up. I point to my ring finger. “I’m married.”
“That doesn’t always matter.”
“Well, it matters to me,” I snap. “And I’m thirty-fucking-eight, okay?”
She recoils. “Okay.”
I push the twenty into her hand. “I want you to watch that door over there and come and tell me if a dark-haired woman comes out before I’m back.” Listen to me. What the hell do I sound like?
The young waitress looks at me alarmed, like I’m some kind of fucking stalker. Nearly right, love. Nearly. “It’s my wife,” I say, pointing to my ring again.
“Sure,” she mumbles quietly, pocketing my cash.
No, I’m not having this. If she’s taking my money, she’s taking my word. “It’s my wife,” I repeat, my head tilted. “Her name’s Ava. She’s twenty-six. Sh?—”
“Twenty-six?”
“Oh, forget it,” I mutter, stalking off before I embarrass myself further and piss myself. She already thinks I’m a fucking dinosaur. Let’s not make her believe I’m an incontinent one. “Sixty seconds,” I call.
“After all the water you’ve drank?”
“Just watch the fucking door.” I rush to the men’s and make fast work of relieving myself, shuddering. Jesus, I’ve held it too long.
Bang, bang, bang.
I jump, looking back at the door that’s vibrating on its hinges with the constant thumps. “Dude, she’s come out.”
Fuck!
I quickly put myself away, wash my hands with not nearly enough time and no soap, and hurry out, throwing a thanks over my shoulder as I jog down the street, seeing Ava turn onto Berkeley Square. “Fuck it.”
I catch up with her, slowing when I’m just a few paces behind. I check my watch. It’s too early for her to finish. A meeting? And with whom? Naturally, my mind goes to Van Der Haus. Surely she wouldn’t.
I dial her. She doesn’t even get her phone out. I see the Tube station nearing and try her again, willing her to give me a chance and talk to me. I don’t want to confront her on the street, and I don’t want her to know I’ve not respected her demand for space. Okay, so I’ve called her a few times, but given my usual response to situations in the past when she’s walked away from me, I think I’m doing quite well. Is she going to ignore my calls forever? Will I never be given the chance to express my remorse and spill my apologies? The thought angers me. I accept it’s unreasonable, but it’s been twenty-four hours now since she walked out on me. She’s not told me where she’s staying, how she is, what happens next.
This is just typical of Ava. Ignore the problem. Walk away. When will she start dealing with things head-on? We haven’t got time to waste on arguing. I, more than anyone, know life’s too short.
Enough.
I jog past Ava and jump in front of her, and she startles, inhaling her shock. “What are you doing?” she snaps.
Could be me, but she doesn’t look too pleased to see me. Fuck. Even at our worst she’s always struggled to hide her desire, even when just looking at me. Not today. What the fuck? “You wouldn’t answer your phone,” I say, studying her curiously as she shifts on the spot, more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her. “Maybe you didn’t hear it.”
“You were following me?”
She’s surprised? Does she know who she married? I scowl at myself. “Where are you going?” I ask, moving into her.
She moves away. “A client.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I’ve told you,” she says over a sigh, “I need space, Jesse.”
“How much space and for how long?” Touch her. “I married you on Saturday and you left me on Sunday.” My hand reaches for her of its own volition, sliding down her arm to her hand, holding it. And there it is. Shortness of breath, a shiver, a swallow. But I can’t just depend on that, and I know she’ll fight it with all she has to make her point. “I’m struggling, Ava,” I whisper, watching my fingers entwine with hers, seeing our rings sparkle together. She’s not taken it off. I look up to gage her expression, thankful to see she’s not displaying the same, cold blankness she left me with last night. She doesn’t like to see me struggle. I know she doesn’t. She’s gone to extreme lengths to make sure I know she can’t stand the thought of me being hurt. Well, I’m hurting now, and she can fix it. “Without you, I’m really struggling.”
Her eyes close, hiding from the broken man before her, and her body shakes, fighting the magnet drawing her closer. “I really need to go.” She turns, and her hand slips out of mine.
“Baby, please,” I call to her back. “I’ll do anything. Please, don’t leave me.” She stops, and I feel my hope lift. “Let me at least drive you,” I say. Baby steps. “I don’t want you on the train.” Falling over, hurting yourself, having other men saving you. “Just ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”
Ava slowly turns to face me. “It’ll be quicker on the tube.”
“But I want to take you.”
“We won’t make it in time with the...” She frowns, and I hitch a brow. We absolutely will make it in time. No question. Her shoulders drop. “Where’s your car?”
She’s softening. Thank you. I push my chances a little more, tentatively reaching for her hand and lacing our fingers, waiting for her to retract, bracing myself for the disappointment. She watches as we come together. I definitely catch her subtly gulping. It feels so good to hold her hand.
I gently tug her, encouraging her on, watching her as we walk side by side to the car park. Silence. It’s so fucking uncomfortable, but still better than being alone. I get my keys and finally but reluctantly let go of her hand when we get to the car, opening the door for her. I bend, ready to put her seatbelt on, but withdraw, remembering myself. Too much? I don’t know.
“Where am I going?” I put on some music, anticipating the further stretch of silence ahead of us, filling it while I figure out what to say and how to say it.
“Luxemburg Gardens, Hammersmith,” she replies quietly, not looking at me.
“Okay.”
I can smell regret on her. Sense her hopelessness. It’s... I can’t put my finger on it. Odd. There’s no anger, and I know she should be angry at me. She’s so withdrawn. Sad.
Done?
I swallow, returning my attention to the road when the traffic starts moving again. I know I’ve fucked up, I know she has every right to be like this with me, but I have a funny feeling in my gut, and I’m terrified it’s because this really is the end.
No.
I can’t accept that.
Constantly splitting my attention between the road and Ava, I will her to speak up, while I continue to search for the right words and the miles tick down. I’m pulling into Luxemburg Gardens far sooner than I’d hoped. “Here will do,” she says, unclipping her belt before the car’s stopped. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” My mind remains blank as I watch her get out of the car, and panic inevitably sets in. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” I blurt quickly, seeing her freeze on the curb, the door half closed.
“You just asked for ten minutes,” she says calmly. “And I gave them to you. You said nothing.” The door closes, and I stare at the steering wheel, even blanker, my forehead bunched. Ouch. Maybe I didn’t speak in the car, but I told her how badly I’m struggling. If that’s not a plea for her mercy, then I don’t know what is.
And said with such spite.
Fuck.
I look up at the rearview mirror, my heart lifting when I see she’s stopped walking away from the car. I hold my breath, wondering if she’s realized how harsh that was. Hoping she regrets it and is coming back to let me talk. But she doesn’t come back. She goes into her bag, rummaging for ages instead. As a man who is familiar with his wife’s handbags, I can attest they’re packed full of various shit, so if she’s looking for something, it’s no wonder she’s struggling to find it.
Ifshe’s looking for something.
I squint, slipping my car into Drive. I quickly check the road in front and pull away, my eyes back on the mirror. She’s stopped searching through her bag. Then she looks over her shoulder. Making sure I’m leaving?
What the fuck is going on?
I slow down, checking the road again before going back to the mirror. She’s walking past all the houses. Why wouldn’t she have me stop directly outside her client’s house?
That feeling in my gut has just worsened.
I pull into the next available space at the end of the road and hop out of my Aston, jogging down the street on the other side, slowing when I see her in the distance. She takes a left, then a right, and before I know it, we’re outside a newbuild. Definitely not a residential property. Ava pushes her way through the glass doors, just as I spot the sign. Medical Center? My mouth hangs open as realization slams into me. “Her period didn’t come,” I breathe.
And she’s doing this without me?
What the fuck is she trying to do? I should be beside her, holding her hand, sharing every minute of this. Is this her way of punishing me?
Pissed off, I yank the door open and walk through the corridor to the large reception area, finding Ava’s sitting on a row of chairs in the middle of the room, flipping through a magazine. Her knee’s jumping. She’s nervous. I go to the chair next to her and lower, talking myself down from kicking off. This isn’t fair. To push me out, it’s not fair.
She doesn’t look up from the magazine she’s reading. Doesn’t notice I’m here. I’m not sure what that means. Immune to me now? Or something massive is on her mind.
Every time the little buzzer thingy sounds behind the counter, I wait for Ava’s name to be announced. What am I going to do? Muscle my way into the room when she’s called? Yes. She’d fucking notice me then.
I turn my head when I hear what I’m sure is a small chuckle.
She’s laughing?
“Something funny?” I grate, incensed.
She slams the magazine shut, stills for a moment, as if wondering whether she heard right, before she swings her eyes my way, shocked. She should try being in my shoes right now. “You followed me?”
Yes, I fucking followed you, because I know you, and I knew something wasn’t right.“You’re a rubbish liar, baby. Are you going to tell me why you’re at the doctor’s and why you lied to me about it?” I cock my head, covering her knee with my palm. I can’t see it jumping now, but I can certainly feel it.
“Just a checkup.” She rids her hands of the magazine and tries to rid her knee of my hold. I don’t let her.
“A checkup?” Does she think I was born yesterday?
“Yes,” she says through her teeth.
For fuck’s sake. If anything needs checking, it’s her head.
And mine. “Don’t you think we should be doing this together?”
She looks at me, stunned, and fights against my hold of her knee again. I let her win this time, but only because I think I might need my hand to block her swing at me. “Like the decision you made to try and get me knocked up?” she asks. “Did we do that together?”
Knocked up? She’s my wife. My wife will not be knocked up, she will be... I don’t know. Something I haven’t got the capacity to think of right now, something more romantic. “No.” I bite at my lip, holding back from yelling at her for pushing me out and... I withdraw, my thoughts stalling. Did she say try? Try to get her knocked up? So her period came? Then why is she here? I stare at my knees, my head spinning. Is she? Isn’t she? She’s been so emotional. Throwing up, for Christ’s sake. She has to be.
“You can’t even look at me, can you?” she snaps, the anger that was missing earlier now here with a vengeance. I would look at her if I was sure she wouldn’t kill me with her glare. “You know what you’ve done is wrong.” Yes, I know. But worse fucking things have happened, trust me. “I pray to God I’m not pregnant, Jesse, because I wouldn’t inflict the shit you put me through on my worst enemy, let alone my baby.”
I jolt like I’ve been stabbed. And, again, trust me, I fucking know what that feels like. Her nostrils are flaring, her cheeks pulsing from the force of her bite, emotions getting the better of her. Of both of us. “I know you’re pregnant,” I say, as calmly as I can. “And I know how it’ll be.”
“Oh?” She’s laughing again. “How’s that, then?”
“Perfect,” I say quietly, reaching for her cheek, finding her eyes and making sure she sees the sincerity in mine. I don’t want to fight, and I know she doesn’t really want to either. She’s lashing out. Being hurtful. This isn’t Ava. This is what I’ve made her.
I wince those thoughts away as her body softens and she stares into my eyes, searching for reassurance. I’ll give it to her, all day long.
“Ava O’Shea,” the receptionist calls, snapping us out of our moment.
O’Shea?
Ava shoots up, and I follow. “Don’t you dare,” she snaps. “Sit.” I have never heard such anger in her tone, and I take notice, slowly lowering my arse back to the plastic obediently. She walks off, and I glance around the waiting room, seeing a few people looking this way, eyebrows high. Yes. I’m in the doghouse. Yes, my tail’s between my legs.
I grimace and stand, going to the reception desk and placing both palms on the wood. “It’s Ward,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“It’s Ava Ward, not Ava O’Shea.”
“Oh?” She taps a few keys on the computer. I don’t know why the fuck I’m standing here like a pillock telling the receptionist this. I realize Ava won’t have registered her married name yet. I’m just killing time, doing a bit of housekeeping, in an attempt to stop myself from storming into the doctor’s office.
“We got married on Saturday.”
“Oh, well if you tell Ava to email us, we can get that changed for her.”
“Can’t you do it now?”
“We need it in writing, sir. From Miss O’Shea.”
I huff and go back to the chair, checking my watch. Five minutes. I slump forward, staring down at my shoes.
Ten minutes pass.
Fifteen minutes.
How long do these things take? Ava tells the doctor she’s probably expecting, the doctor checks, and that’s it.
Right?
I crane my head to look down the corridor, drumming my fingers on my knees. I hear a door open. Freeze. Ava appears, and she looks awful. Fucking awful. I’m up like a rocket, racing to her. “Ava, what’s the matter?” She props herself against the wall, and I dip, seeing her face is damp. “Jesus, Ava.”
She stares at me, her eyes watery, her breathing a little fast. What is this? A panic attack?
I don’t have a chance to ask. She’s off, running across the hallway and falling through the doors of the ladies’. I’m in quick pursuit, there in a heartbeat, rubbing her back and scooping her hair back as she throws her guts up. Again.
She tries to talk but each time she’s stopped by another retch. “Shhhh,” I hush, looking back when the door opens. A middle-aged, blond lady takes in the scene, definitely frowning at me.
“Oh dear, should I get you some water?”
“Please,” I say, shuffling in closer to Ava, moving her hair to my other hand and pulling off some tissue. “Are you done?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds far from done, like she’s choking.
“It’s okay, we can stay.” I get as comfortable as a six-foot-three-inch bloke can get in a toilet cubicle crouching. Really uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she is.
The door opens behind me again, the lady appearing with some water. A doctor? I tilt my head in question, silently asking her what’s wrong with my wife. Of course, she doesn’t entertain me. “Can I get you anything?” she asks.
“It’s good, thank you. I’ve got her.”
She nods, that frown back, and leaves the ladies’.
“Here,” I say, putting the water in front of Ava, helping her take some. “Take as long as you need.” As long as she needs is a few sips and about thirty seconds. It’s not long enough.
“I’m good.” She takes some tissue from my hand and sniffs as I rise.
“Here.” She lets me help her up and also lets me fix her hair. I’m grateful. “Do you want some more water?”
She nods, accepting the glass and going to the sink, getting some fresh water and rinsing her mouth and generally doing what I just did—fixing her hair. It feels like a ploy to waste some time, and I know it is when her hands pause and she looks at me.
“Let me take you home,” I beg.
“Jesse, I’m fine,” she breathes. “Really.”
She’s maddening. She’s not fine, and I think I might blow my stack if she says it one more time. “Let me look after you,” I whisper, feeling at her cheek, watching her in the reflection trying her damnedest not to sink into my touch. She’s made her point. I get it. We need to move on.
“I’m okay.” She breaks away from me and picks up her bag.
“You’re not okay, Ava,” I grate, feeling my patience disappearing.
“Something hasn’t agreed with me, that’s all.”
I stare at her, absolutely staggered. Is she for real? “For fuck’s sake, lady,” I breathe. “You’re at the fucking doctor’s surgery, so don’t tell me you’re fine.” I’m at a fucking loss. I have to turn away from her, my temper threatening, my hair getting a punishing yank. I should be yanking Ava’s head out of the fucking hole she’s got it buried in.
“I’m not pregnant,” she says, sounding... upset?
“What?” I ask, facing her.
“I’ve had it confirmed, Jesse.”
What is the pain in my chest? “Then why are you throwing up all over the place?”
“I have a sickness bug. You failed. My period came.”
My eyes naturally drop to the skirt of her dress. I don’t understand. She’s not pregnant? “I’m not happy about this.” A bug? Where has she caught a bug? And what the fuck is it? Is it dangerous? Because this sickness thing is violent. “I’m taking you home where I can keep an eye on you.” And maybe get a second opinion. Does she need meds? A jab? I grab her hand, and she immediately yanks it back, her face a picture of disgust.
“You’re never happy with me,” she says, struggling to get her words out, her face still damp, her skin still pale. “I’m always doing something to upset you. Have you thought that perhaps you would be less not happy without me around?”
What the fuck?“No.” What is she saying? I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Ava. Literally. “I’m worried, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be,” she snaps. “I’m fine.” She turns and walks out, leaving me, not for the first time today, stunned into silence and stillness. Doesn’t she want me to look after her?
That makes me redundant. Not required.
Ouch.
But is she serious? Does she really believe I’m never happy with her? All I want is her. She’s my world. That’s why I married her. That’s why I do every crazy thing. Less not happy without her around? I can’t believe she would say that. Whether rashly or not, in spite or not.
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
I eventually convince my legs to work and go after her, following her out of the building to the attached pharmacy, but I don’t go inside, leaving Ava to herself for a moment, hoping, maybe, she’ll take stock and come out feeling a bit more reasonable. So she’s got some medication for this bug?
Not pregnant?
Fuck me, I really am broken. She might be dead set against having kids now, but she might change her mind in the future. And I’ll be useless to her.
Not that any of this matters. She hates me right now.
I laugh under my breath and start pacing, feeling a stressed sweat developing. This is too much. Maybe it’s me who needs to see a doctor. Broken? Pickled. “Shit,” I breathe, turning on my Grensons and marching back, peeking inside as I pass the window. She’s sitting, waiting, her knee bouncing again. Still nervous. Up and down I go, having a heated discussion with myself, analyzing the situation, Ava’s persona, our marriage, my mental state. My conclusions aren’t reassuring.
I hear the door open, and she appears. Eyes me. “What’s that?” I ask, motioning to the paper bag in her hand.
She comes up close. Definitely not for a kiss. “Backup pills,” she says reproachfully. “Now we know I’m not pregnant; I want to stay that way.”
The sting is real. She doesn’t need pills, because I’ve clearly done myself some irreparable damage with years of drinking and mistreating myself. Another reason not to want me. Fuck.
She pivots and walks away, and the hollowness intensifies, my heart thumping with panic while slowing at the same time. “You’re not coming home, are you?” I call, my words as broken as I feel.
She doesn’t answer.
It’s a no.
Does that really mean she’s completely done with me?