Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jules
T he Surry Hills pub is brimming with folks in trendy clothes and edgy haircuts. It’s got a fun vibe—perfect for a night out with my bestie. I’ve even thrown on a sparkly blouse that fits … if you ignore the cleavage spilling over the top. It’ll be like old times.
I weave through the crowd of expensive perfumes and colognes and park myself in the corner with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The tension I’ve been holding in my neck all day eases as I wait for Claire to show up.
Tonight’s get-together almost didn’t happen when Jake, who’d agreed to babysit, was called out to a serious crime scene. He’s a detective, so I understand he had no choice. But my husband … God forbid he should come home early for once and help with Riley. His excuse? The case he’s working on is ‘high priority’. Really? Since when does the tax department do anything fast? Claire found a solution, so now Riley is enjoying a sleepover with Jake’s son, Oscar, at Jake’s parents’ house.
My phone lights up.
Claire: Sorry. I’ll be 30 mins. Had to stop off at a client’s place.
Me: No prob. C U soon .
Typical Claire. She’s a property stylist and is always coming up with new ideas to help her clients sell their homes. It’s not that long ago she had no job and zero prospects. Now she has a career she’s passionate about and a gorgeous fiancé who dotes on her like she’s his reason for breathing.
And me? Given how many hours my husband spends at the office, I might as well be a single mother. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Mick looked at me the way Jake looks at Claire. As for work, I’ve got nothing. Just an archaeology degree that’s as useful as the size twelve jeans I leave in my wardrobe with the vain hope I’ll fit them one day. Judging by the latest rejection in my inbox, my job status won’t be changing anytime soon. Sydney Uni sent me a thanks-but-no-thanks letter for my application as a part-time research assistant. They all want experience that I don’t have.
I pour myself a glass of bubbles. No point waiting. I take a sip. Taste nothing. I need something stronger. Anything to numb this sense of failure, so I order a double shot of vodka via the QR code on the table.
Facebook provides a distraction. I laugh at a photo Claire posted a couple of hours ago. She sent it to a select group of friends, aka me and Jake. It’s a pic of her at the hairdresser getting dolled up for a hot date with her ‘bestie’. It was fortuitous timing that her appointment coincided with our night out, but she makes it sound like something it’s not. Jake commented with a frown face.
A server arrives with my shot. I knock it back and keep scrolling, then wish I hadn’t. Fucking Amelia Leppington and her ‘groundbreaking discovery’ have been nominated for a prestigious award. Lucky her.
I slam the phone onto the table. This was supposed to be a fun night out where I could leave my disappointments at home—not another reminder of how lousy my life is. I drain my glass of bubbles and pour a second one. Claire will have to carry me out if she doesn’t turn up soon .
“Hey there, Jules.”
“Taylor?” My frown disappears as I take in the tiny black dress that looks like it was stitched around her. “What are you doing here?”
She points at the bar. “I’ve got myself a date tonight.”
The man in question approaches with a glass of wine in hand. His outfit screams preppy, but the lines on his face tell me he has to be twice Taylor’s age. Not that I’m judging him for that, but I’ll judge him all day for the way he’s stripping the clothes off my body with his eyes as he says hello. I glare at him, all my self-pity forgotten. He must sense the change in energy because he fiddles with his collar and looks away.
Taylor, oblivious to the exchange, tugs on the sleeve of my jacket and nods at the bar. “Are you and Mick having a night out?”
I follow her gaze and glimpse a familiar jaw and brown hair. Why isn’t he at the office? I don’t want Taylor to realise we’re not here together, so I sip my wine and nod. Claire’s the only one who knows my life is far from perfect and even she doesn’t know it all.
The sleaze wraps his arm around Taylor’s waist. “Nice to meet you, but we’ve got dinner reservations.”
His body language tells me he hopes he’ll never see me again. Ditto, buddy. And knowing Taylor, he won’t last. None of them do.
I wave them off and return my attention to the bar, to Mick specifically. He said he’d be working until eight. My phone says it’s seven. So, what’s he doing here? And is he alone?
Craning my neck, I peer through the crowd, but all I can see is the side of his head. He’s talking to someone, so that answers one question. The champagne in my stomach burns like battery acid, eating through the layers. A less paranoid person would stand up and confront Mick. But I want to know what I’m dealing with before I do that. And I’m trying very hard not to jump to conclusions.
I slide across the bench seat and hide behind a pot plant, then call up his number. It rings and rings and rings. Finally, he pulls it out of his trouser pocket, but it’s already gone to voicemail. He glances at it, then pops it back. What the hell?
The crowd thins, and a stunning woman comes into view. Her bare legs are crossed towards Mick, brushing his knee, and her head tilts up at him as if she’s hanging on his every word.
The chatter and music fade as a roar like an angry lion fills my ears.
He promised me he was faithful.
And I believed him.
The minutes tick by. I find myself frozen to the bench seat, lost in a screaming internal paralysis. Mick and the handsy brunette continue to chat, their faces almost touching. I want to believe this is an innocent drink with a colleague, though he’d still be an asshole for being here rather than home, but the two of them together seem way too familiar. I once told Claire not to take everything she saw at face value, so I ring his mobile again. Give him one last chance to answer.
Mick’s hand drifts to his trousers, but instead of withdrawing his phone, out pops his wallet. The woman bats him away and thrusts her credit card at the attendant. He lets her, which is out of character. Does that mean he’s worried I’d notice it on his statement? He should be. Because I so would. The lying, cheating toad.
The woman rests a hand on Mick’s chest. My fingers clench into my palms, the nails biting deep as he wraps his arms around her. She snuggles into him like she’s done it a million times before. It’s the type of embrace you give someone you’re going to fuck, or have fucked, or are fucking. Mick’s broad back stops me from seeing them clearly. Are they kissing ?
Emptiness pools in the pit of my stomach. I know we’ve had our issues, but I believed Mick when he promised he wasn’t cheating. I was a fool to trust him. Vows mean nothing to men like him. He’s just like my dad.
I’ve seen enough.
I refill my glass, draining the last of the bottle, then storm across the room. Well, wobble because these heels weren’t designed for angry, drunk power walking. The couple are just pulling apart as I reach them. I throw the wine in Mick’s face.
He stumbles backwards into the bar. “What the?—?”
“You bastard.”
He doesn’t even look at me; instead, his gaze slides to the woman as if she matters more to him than me. The last sliver of hope in my heart shatters. We can’t come back from this. The woman’s face pales to the colour of chalk. She reaches a hand towards me. I give her a glare full of hate and turn my attention to my lying spouse.
Mick takes a step forward. “Jules.”
“Don’t Jules me. Is this what you call working late?”
“We’re just talking.”
I sway slightly and press a palm against my chest as the sting of his betrayal slices through me. How na?ve does he think I am? It looked like a lot more than ‘just talking’. If that was only a hug, then I’m a size eight model with flawless skin and a holiday home in the Caribbean. I’ve had enough of his lies. His empty promises. I’m done. I yank off my wedding band and the two carat ruby solitaire engagement ring and slam them onto the bar beside him. “Go to hell.”