Chapter 37
There was a heavy sense of regret the entire journey home. Regret we’re leaving Paradise. Regret it ended on a bit of a low. Regret London is waiting for us. And for me, there’s a whole host of issues that need resolving. I had thought my list of things to tackle was reducing. Somehow over the past few days, it’s grown. Seeing my mum has knocked me sideways, I admit it. Historically, such an encounter would’ve had me diving for a bottle to wash down the remorse and anger, and my lucidity and feelings right now are also why I would reach for the vodka. I can’t say I’m all too fond of the regret I’m feeling, or the worry, or the compassion. Mum looked so old. And Dad? How is he?
My knee jumps repeatedly as I stare down at my mobile. The kitchen is quiet, Cathy’s not here yet, and Ava’s upstairs getting ready for work. Can I? Should I?
I place my coffee down and snatch up my phone, dialing, standing, and walking around the island in circles. “Jesse?” Amalie says, unsure.
“Yeah, it’s me.” My sister inhales, while I fight the compulsion to yank at my recently knotted tie. “I saw Mum.”
“I know.”
I stop pacing. Of course she knows. “It didn’t go too well.” I roll my eyes to myself. “I mean?—”
“You’re married,” Amalie says quietly.
“Yeah, I’m married.” To someone I actually want to be married to. “We’re expecting. I mean, she’s expecting. Two. Babies, I mean. Twins. It’s twins.” I look up at the ceiling. “Ava’s expecting twins.”
“That’s so amazing, Jesse.”
“Thanks.” Amazing is right. And obviously a massive surprise to them. “I’m sorry your wedding was canceled,” I go on. “How’s Dad?” My face bunches, and I don’t fucking know why.
“You didn’t see him? He was with Mum at the restaurant, Jesse.”
“He was?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t...” What? Say hi? Come shake my hand? Congratulate me?
“Come to you?” she asks. “For you to yell at him?”
“I didn’t—” I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking air into my lungs. I did yell at him. Always. Usually drunk. “So he’s okay?”
“They’re monitoring him,” she says, and I nod.
“That’s good. Very good.”
“So your wife...”
“What about my wife?”
“She’s...” Amalie hums, and I show the ceiling my rolling eyes again.
“Younger than me, yes,” I confirm, knowing Amalie would have wanted every small detail from Mum. “By nearly a whole twelve years, if you must know.”
“And she knows about The Manor?”
“Yes.”
“What’s inside The Manor?”
“Yes.”
“She knows about Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Your drinking?”
“Yes,” I grate.
“Rosie?”
My inhale is so sharp and deep, my entire body lifts. It also gives Amalie my answer. “Did you just take my call to remind me of all the shitty things that have happened in my life?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Take it as you will,” I snap.
“And here he goes, being all defensive as usual,” she muses. My mouth opens, ready to launch, but no words materialize. I have nothing to say to that. Why? Because no alcohol is involved? Because I’m lucid?
Sober?
Have I suddenly realized that I’ve played a significant part in my estrangement from my family too?
A small silence falls between us, Amalie waiting for my scathing counter, me wondering what to say. “Are you still drinking?” she asks, her question soft and loaded with anticipation.
My knee-jerk reaction is to bellow a resounding, angry, insulted no. As I always have. But I don’t have that right, and I can’t be mad with Amalie for asking. “I haven’t had a drink since I met Ava.” Not strictly true, but sharing my four-day absence will serve no purpose here. “She’s pregnant, Amalie. I?—”
“You drank throughout Lauren’s pregnancy.”
“I didn’t love Lauren,” I say tightly, and again, I can’t be mad. My family never saw me when I was sober while Rosie was alive. They just saw the broken man I was when she died. And by then, I was beyond hope. There was no point wasting their time. They couldn’t fix me. “Listen, I didn’t call to debate my fuck-ups.”
“Then why did you call?’” she asks, making me scowl. Smart-arse.
“To see how Dad is.”
“Do you care?”
“Well, clearly I fucking do, Amalie, because here I am on the end of the phone asking.”
“So what’s changed?”
My God, I suddenly remember how exhausting she is. Testing. Takes no shit. “I don’t know, Amalie.” I sigh and scrub my hand down my face. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” she blurts, now urgent. “Does this mean there’s a chance?”
I don’t need to ask what she means. And I can’t bring myself to say no. Forgiveness is a medicine I’m yet to try. I hang up and before I can even think to call John, Amalie texts me.
I’m going to take that as a yes. Don’t push me away again. And it just occurred to me... I’m older than your wife. Weird.
And there go my eyes again. I have a fucking headache. A knock sounds, taking me to the front door. I swing it open and find Clive holding up a tube. “Morning, Mr. Ward, a delivery for you.”
“Thanks, Clive.” I take it, close the door on his smiling face, and rush to my office, slipping the wallpaper behind the door for the decorator. I look at the wall. Fucking amazing. But it was absent some really important pictures I took recently, so I hopped onto the suppliers website while Ava was swimming on Saturday and added them to the design, got express shipping, and called the decorators back in. This wall’s cost a small fortune. But, again, fucking amazing.
When I’m back in the kitchen, I call John and lower to a stool. “Morning,” I sigh, hearing the sound of Ava’s hairdryer in the distance.
“Sounds like you need a holiday.”
“Ha,” I quip, droll. “Are you still okay to pick Ava up for work?”
“Indeed. I’m on my way. Does she know?”
My lips roll as I stand and go to the fridge, collecting my peanut butter.
Better than vodka, bro. Well done.
With my phone wedged to my ear, I start dipping. “I didn’t think I’d push my luck after telling her Sarah’s at The Manor.”
He laughs. “Probably wise. How did she take it?”
“As you would expect.”
“So, it’s down to me to advise your wife that she has a chaperone for the time being. Is that what we’re getting to? Because, you know, you could advise her now.”
Could. Won’t. “You have permission to use extreme but gentle force.” I suck the end of my finger, humming my happiness.
“Great.”
“Anything on anything?” I ask around my mouthful.
“Nothing.”
“On anything?” I ask, surprised.
“That’s what I said, motherfucker. Welcome back.” He hangs up, and I slowly slip my mobile into my inside pocket but pull it straight back out when it dings with a message. Ava’s brother. Asking if I’m free today. “Nope,” I say, leaving the message unanswered and returning my jar to the fridge, hearing the front door open and close.
“Morning, boy. Welcome home.” Cathy dumps her bag on the island and immediately swipes up my coffee cup. “How was your holiday?”
“Wonderful.” Slight exaggeration. “Would you make Ava some breakfast?”
“Yes, must keep that tummy full of good, healthy food!”
“Thanks, Cathy. Oh, and a decorator will be here around nine to repaper my office wall.”
“It was just done on Friday.”
Yes, well, Paradise shone the best light on my girl. “Just a few tweaks.”
Weirdo.
“Fuck off,” I grunt, leaving Cathy in the kitchen and heading upstairs.
Ava’s sitting on the carpet in front of the mirror in lace when I walk into the bedroom. Hell, I should have woken her up earlier. But did I hope she’d sleep in and get reprimanded by her boss? I can neither confirm nor deny. My smile is wide as I watch her beautifully lingerie-clad body move as she works her hands through her hair, blasting it dry.
“Morning,” I say happily when I catch her admiring me in the mirror. She’s right. I look hot today. I’m glad she’s noticed. The appreciation stops there, though, from both sides. My smile falls when her face contorts into something resembling annoyance. What have I done now?
The dryer is dropped to the carpet, and she paces to the dressing room. “Wow,” I breathe. I’m very glad I passed the baton to John where her transport is concerned. I know neither of us are particularly delighted to be back from Paradise, but is that my fault?
I quickly check the nightstand, making sure she’s taken her folic acid. She has. That’s one argument averted. My chin drops to my chest, my sigh weighed with impatience, my hands slipping into my pockets to stop me finding her and pinning her to the nearest wall.
Ava appears from the dressing room a few moments later, and I can’t hold back my amusement as she marches across the bedroom to the bathroom, her boobs bouncing just enough for my eyes, but way too much for any other man’s. And her legs? I can see the start of her thighs. So she’s playing dirty, is she? My God, how she tests me. Usually with non-existent dresses. They’re like a loaded gun for my wife.
I go to the dressing room and look through the rails to find something more suitable, settling on a lovely black number. Maybe it’s a little tighter than I’d like, but that’s my compromise. “Drives me fucking crazy,” I mutter. “What did I even fucking do?”
I go to the bathroom door and watch her applying her mascara, refusing to look at me. So I get closer. She flicks her eyes to mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“I’m putting my makeup on.”
“Let me rephrase that,” I breathe out, losing my amusement and finding some patience. “What do you think you’re wearing?” It’s getting shredded as soon as it’s off.
“A dress.”
“Let’s not start the day on a bad note, lady.” I present the alternative. “Put the dress on.” To my utter surprise, she doesn’t object, taking the dress and leaving, albeit on a huff. And she continues with the sounds of bother as she gets out of her choice of dress and puts on mine, fiddling with the zipper.
“Will you zip me up, please?”
I can tell it pains her to ask me. I can also tell I’ll be getting nothing more than the pleasure of zipping her up. I need to snap her out of this unprovoked, foul mood. And maybe find out what the hell has put her in it? “Of course.” I press my body to hers, make sure my breathing is heavy and my mouth’s close to her face, and take in her freshly washed and blow-dried hair, moving it over her shoulder. The evidence of her bodily response presents itself to me in the form of a satisfying shudder. Well, satisfying for me, probably annoying for my wife.
Finding the zip, I slowly, seductively, pull it up, homing in on her cheek with my lips and?—
I frown, the zip getting jammed, forcing me to abandon breathing my desire all over her face and checking it. The zip’s fine. It’s the gap between each side of the dress that’s the problem. I bite my lip, furiously fighting to restrain my grin, knowing it’s more than my life is worth to show my delight. Didn’t I tell her she had a tummy? And did she believe me? “Oh dear,” I whisper. Not at the dress, fuck the dress, but because this is not going to improve Ava’s mood. But at least she’ll have a reason for her sulks. Funny, isn’t it? The cause for her bad mood will be the reason for my amazing mood. The babies are growing.
“What?” She looks over her shoulder, craning her neck to see. “Is it broken?”
“Ummmm...” I give it one more wiggle for the sake of it, if only to demonstrate it won’t budge. “No, baby. I think you may have grown out of it.”
She stills for a split second, taking that information onboard, before rushing to the nearest mirror on a burst of incredulous air. I watch as she scans her back, willing her to see this as a blessing. To be excited. I get it, she’s young, has a banging figure—tight, tidy, and divine. She’s worried about it changing. Keep it together, baby. We’ve got this.
“Can I put my other dress on now?” she murmurs solemnly.
I can’t and won’t enforce a different dress. She looks too overcome by the old news that she’s going to... expand. More to love. So I sweep up the short number—I’ll cut you up another day—and shake it out, being attentive and helpful as she switches back. The zip goes up with ease. This dress definitely has more give. That doesn’t make it acceptable. We should go shopping. “Beautiful.” I look her up and down, wondering if I could convince her to wear a knee-length sweater over the top. Too optimistic? “I need to scram,” I tell her, checking my Rolex. “Cathy’s downstairs and she’s made you breakfast. Please eat it.”
“I will.”
Wow. Ummm... “Thank you?”
“You don’t have to thank me for eating.” She leaves the bedroom, her mood still in the gutter.
“I feel like I should thank you for everything you do without arguing with me about it,” I mumble to myself as I follow her.
“If you were still fucking sense into me, I would argue.”
“Are you pissed because I didn’t service you this morning?” Is that the crux of her shitty mood? No sex?
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” So she feels neglected? Poor thing. Let’s fix that. I yank her into my body and catch her mouth with mine, kissing the daylights out of her, feeling her leaning into me for support. “Have a nice day, baby,” I say, sending her toward the island with a tap of her bottom, my eyes narrowed on the dress. Snip, snip. “Make sure my wife eats her breakfast, Cathy.”
“I will, boy.”
“I’ll see you later. And don’t forget to speak with Patrick,” I remind her, making a call to Cook on my way out. “Anything?” I ask, closing the front door behind me.
“I was just about to call you.”
I stop, staring at the elevator doors. I don’t like the sound of that. “Oh?”
“Can you meet?” he asks.
Definitelydon’t like this. “I’m heading to The Manor.”
“See you there.”