Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Myles
W hen I return from my meeting, Jane/Jen is doing her nails at her desk. I think of saying something but decide to let it go. She’s only here for another week, if she lasts that long, and then Eloise will be back and things will start to run smoothly once more.
I head into my office and sit down, pulling the pile of post towards me. There are a few small envelopes, and one large white one. I leave that till last; it’s probably photos from Katya. Even though I keep returning everything she sends me, she keeps trying.
I go through the letters, putting them into piles to deal with in order of importance. Usually my assistant would do this for me, but at the moment it’s easier and less time-consuming for me to do it myself.
Finally, I pick up the white envelope. I think of putting it in the bin without opening it, but then I frown. It’s addressed to me, but typed on a plain white label. Katya likes to handwrite her correspondence, stamping everything with a large ornate ‘K’. I have no idea why.
I slit the edge of the envelope with my letter-opener, and turn it upside down. A photograph falls out, landing face up on the desk. My mouth goes dry. For a moment I can’t move, feeling as though I’ve been hit in the chest with a hammer.
The photograph shows a gleaming beach, the sun almost set. And, seated on a bench to the right of frame are a couple in the throes of passion. It’s me and Zara. My hand is up her skirt, my mouth on her throat. Her head is back, one beautiful breast partially exposed. It’s obvious what we’re doing.
And it all rushes back to me. How she’d felt in my arms, the sweet scent of her, the heat and wetness between her legs, her soft breasts.
How it felt making love to her in the bath and holding her afterwards as she slept.
It’s almost a month since Morocco, yet the pain of losing her is as strong as ever. I don’t know if it will ever change.
I open the envelope and look inside. There’s a single sheet of white paper, the message typed.
There’s more where this came from, and video too. How much are you willing to pay?
There’s a phone number underneath. I won’t bother getting it traced; it’s most likely a burner phone. Instead I call Martin.
I explain the situation and wait for Martin to tell me I screwed up again. But he surprises me. “What’s going on with this girl?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve never really cared about this shit before, no matter what I tell you. The pictures in the papers, for instance. Yeah, it could have been a fuck-up, but it wasn’t. Yet you’ve worked hard to shut it down. And now this.”
I pause. I don’t know if Martin needs to know this.
But at the same time, I feel like I need to talk to someone.
“I love her.” There’s a small sense of release as I say the words, a tiny easing of the pressure inside me.
“She’s the one. And I cannot keep messing up her life like this.
That’s why I killed the story. Why I’ll do anything to keep her safe. ”
“So, what are we dealing with?” Martin’s voice is friendlier than I’ve ever heard it being. “More of the same?”
“No. These photos are far more compromising.” My throat is tight. “They cannot get out there. I’ll pay him whatever he wants.”
I know who it is, of course. I’d looked up the photographer credited for the original tabloid shots.
Jared Banks. A second-rate surf videographer trying to break into the big time.
And the same asshole who’d been trying to crack on to Zara in Morocco.
It’s too much of a coincidence that this photo would be from anyone else.
“Fine. If you want to pay him that’s fine. But I think we go back to him with a few conditions of our own.”
This is why I pay Martin the big bucks. He knows his shit.
“Do what needs to be done. I’d call him myself but wouldn’t put it past him to record it. Let’s handle it quickly.”
After discussing a few more details with Martin I put the phone down, rage building in my heart. There is no way I’m letting this asshole hurt Zara again. I’ll pay whatever it takes to shut him down. And he’ll be very sorry he chose to fuck with me, and with her.
I stare at the photo, wishing with all my heart I could go back to that moment, could stay there with Zara on the lilac sand, my arms around her. I need her like I’ve never needed anyone. But I don’t want to hurt her again.
So I’ll protect her, as best I can. And hope that she might come back to me one day.
Zara
“If you want to stay, I’ll reconsider. You’ve been a good tenant, and all this stuff seems to have died down now.”
My landlady looks sheepish. When I managed to peel myself off Eloise’s sofa and go home, for a week or so reporters kept showing up, hassling the other tenants for information about me and the photos in the paper. I’d gone straight back to Eloise’s, praying that things wouldn’t get worse.
But the story seemed to disappear as though it had never happened, though I did see a small article, a couple of weeks later, stating that Katya was dating a Formula 1 driver.
Huh. I guess she and Myles really did break up, after all.
Or maybe she figured out what was happening and decided to end it.
I miss him, desperately. But I still feel so guilty about Jared and the photographs; Myles is so private and, because of my stupidity, he’s been splashed all over the papers.
I also feel guilty for resigning the way I did; it had been a reaction in the moment, what I felt was best. But now I see how cruel it was, that I once again didn’t give him the chance to explain.
I remember his kindness, how careful he’d been with me after our beach interlude, how he’d saved me from the surf and the motorcycle in the medina.
And even before that, the way he bought flowers for my desk, encouraged my interest in design, protected me from the worst of Katya.
But I have no idea how to bridge this chasm between us.
So I’m leaving London. Putting some distance between us so I can figure things out.
I’ve realised, too, that I never gave myself space to grieve for what happened with Dean, and I worry that Myles was a rebound that should never have happened.
But my heart tells me differently. I don’t know if I was ever really in love with Dean, or just the idea of him.
I don’t know if I’ll ever not be in love with Myles.
Because, of course, I’m in love with him. Have been for quite a while. But it wasn’t until I saw him in the arms of another woman that I realised how I truly felt. Just another layer to the pain that’s my constant companion.
In a way, my landlady asking me to move out feels like a blessing, forcing me to make some decisions. She might be reconsidering now but my mind is made up, my things already packed.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I’ve made plans now, so I have to go. I’m sure you’ll have no problem renting the room.”
“All right, dear. If you need a reference for your next place, let me know.”
I don’t need a reference. I’ve found a place on the coast. Just a small studio apartment, the sea a faint blue glimpse from the dormer window, but it will be mine.
I’ve already lined up a job, and I’m just waiting for the bank to approve my mortgage so I can finalise my offer.
I know I wanted a house, but this is a beginning.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over Myles, but I need to do this for me, and for Mum.
My phone buzzes. I look down. It’s a message from Myles.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I say to my landlady.
I head back upstairs to my room. It looks more spartan than ever with almost everything packed away in boxes.
There’s a few bags of things to go to charity shops, mostly romance novels.
I think I understand now why so many end up there; when romance goes wrong, you don’t really want any reminders around.
Yet Myles still messages me almost every day.
I don’t reply, because I don’t know what to say.
And, even though I know it’s over between him and Katya, I still can’t get past the way he looked as he lay in bed that terrible morning, the way he said nothing, the way he let me go.
If I give in and go back to him, how do I know it won’t happen again?
His world is so different from mine, and I’m not sure I’m ready to step back into it, no matter how much I love him.
I open the message. It’s simple. Three words.
I miss you . These are the toughest ones to take, the ones that nearly break me.
Sometimes he’ll tell me something about his day.
Once he told me he stopped production on the silk dress I wore that night.
I still don’t know how I feel about that.
Icould block his number, easily, and he knows that.
But I keep the line open, a conversation between us with only one side, a gossamer link in the fragile chain between us.
Eloise thinks I’m mad. She’s seen the gifts he sends, and the way I send them back.
The things he bought me in Morocco. I couldn’t bear to keep them.
The dress I sent back unopened. She tells me it’s obvious he cares about me, and that I should just go and talk to him, that he’ll understand about the photographs.
But I remember how curt he used to be with me before we went to Morocco, and I don’t know if my poor battered heart can handle that.
Eloise, bless her, has decided to go back to work early. Arthur has taken well to nursery and she says she’s going mad stuck in the house. She doesn’t have to add that it means she’ll also be another connection between Myles and me, another small link in the chain.
Now there are only a couple of weeks before I leave London. I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, trying not to think about a lantern-lit terrace, a night filled with passion and the best sex I’ve ever had.
I just need to get through things now. I’ll go back to him one day, if it’s meant to be. This should feel like the right thing to do, and in a way it does. But my heart is still crying out for him, my body yearning for his touch.
I scroll through my photographs until I reach the one I want to see. It’s the photo Jared took of Myles and me sitting together, gazing into each other’s eyes, the sky blazing behind us. A memory of what could have been.
I love him. I hate this. But I don’t know what else to do.
Myles
I paid Jared five hundred grand. I would have paid far more, if he’d pushed things.
But he didn’t, and now he’s screwed. Payment came with a contract that he had to sign, giving me the digital files of all his images of Zara and me, as well as the copyright to them, with a penalty clause far exceeding my payout to him if any of the images ever appear anywhere.
He signed, of course. Couldn’t take my money fast enough. Then had the nerve to offer to send me a reel of his work. I told him where to shove it.
And then I made some phone calls. Just to a few people, ones I can trust to be discreet. Said nothing directly, just hinted that I’d heard Banks was a pretty unreliable videographer, that maybe they should pass that on. His professional reputation, whatever it was, is now shredded.
Like I say, he’ll regret trying to hurt me and, more importantly, Zara. I’m sure those damn tabloid photos are part of the reason she won’t speak to me. She still thinks it’s her fault, Eloise tells me.
Eloise is back in the office and my life is running smoothly once more, except for the fact that Zara isn’t in it.
I have to fight myself every day to not press Eloise for more information about her.
I know Eloise wants to say something as well; I can see by the way she glances at me then looks down, her mouth tightening.
I fucking hate this. But I need to respect Zara’s wishes. Iwas the one who screwed up, so, if she’s going to come back to me, I know it needs to be on her terms. I’ve given her space before. I can do it again, even though it’s destroying me.
Eloise comes into my office now, a folder containing a sheaf of documents in her hands.
“More things to sign?” I try to sound pleasant. Throwing myself into work to avoid my feelings seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s starting to grate on me, affecting my mood. Nothing seems quite right since I lost Zara, and I know I’ve been more gruff than usual.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, not meeting my eye. “And Lucie has sent through another message, wanting to confirm you want pockets in every one of the women’s dresses for the new collection?”
“That’s correct.” I’ve already emailed Lucie about this.
My heart aches at the memory of Zara in my office, blushing as she told me what was wrong with the dresses.
She was spot on, of course. I was right to offer her that design assistant job; if we hadn’t gone through what we did, she’d be starting it now.
Eloise drops the file folder on my desk. It lands with a bang, rattling the pens in the jar. I blink, looking up.
“That’s it,” she says, an unaccustomed hardness to her pleasant face. “That. Is. It.”
I wait, one eyebrow raised. The ache in my chest is still there.
“She’s leaving.” Eloise’s cheeks are red, her eyes bright. “She’s leaving London and you’re going to lose her and that’s just about the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“What?” My heart sinks.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m crossing a line, and she wouldn’t want me to say this.
But I can’t stay quiet anymore, not with her languishing alone in her room and you growling around the place like…
like an angry bear or something!” Eloise’s clipped tones are rough, her arms folded.
“She’s my best friend, and she deserves better. ”
“What the hell am I supposed to do, El?” I rake my hand through my hair, trying not to think about how it felt to run my fingers through Zara’s silken tresses. “She won’t take my calls, ignores my messages, returns my gifts. What does she want?”
Eloise’s angry expression softens. “She wants you, Myles. That’s all,” she says. “And you’re a fucking billionaire. You know where she lives. So why don’t you get creative and sort it out?”