Chapter 4 #2
The couple under such avid discussion were trying to settle into their new home.
The apartment on Bowery Street had been one of her pet projects.
It had originally been a gallery that had been left to go to ruin when the current owners ran into problems with the payments they were making to the bank.
Ingrid had taken one look at the solid structure, the easy access to the entertainment the area had to offer and decided to make her move. Now it was a stately townhouse with graceful arches and curves. And had been decorated with an eclectic taste. It was brand new and a favorite of hers.
She was reluctant to be taking up residence but supposed it was ideally located. And there was enough space to ensure that she and her new husband would steer clear of each other.
"The biggest suite is mine." She told him airily over her shoulder as they ascended the spiral staircase. "I have lots of shoes and the closet happens to be the exact size. Feel free to pick anything else."
"Why, thank you." His caustic tone took a slice and had her turning around just as he came up behind her.
"Look, we're in this for better or worse. We're legally hitched. I might not like the fact that you're a pretty and shallow slut, but I'm willing to compromise."
His eyes darkened dangerously. He was a step below her but still topped her by several inches.
That was the first thing she noticed when they stood at the front of the room taking their vows.
She figured that put him at about six three.
She also noticed something else. His eyes were a velvety dark green and reminded her of a bolt of material she had eyed in a cloth store and fell in love with.
She had insisted on the designer using it to wallpaper the bedroom of an apartment they had acquired on Seattle Drive.
"Is that your idea of a compromise?" His deep voice was dangerously edged with fury and had her stepping back a little.
"Insulting me?" He advanced slowly, forcing her to back up some more.
She had taken two steps when it occurred to her that she was allowing him to intimidate her and that could not happen.
She straightened her spine, meeting his gaze with defiance. "No, it's not," she replied, her voice even but unyielding. "I'm simply stating the facts as I see them, and if compromise means carving out space where we don't collide, then that's what I intend."
"That's fine by me." He was noticing some things as well. Like how flawless, completely flawless her skin was and how the tiny mole at the left side of her nose made her flawless complexion all the more. And that her eyes were large and magnificent, things he should not be noticing about her.
It pissed him off enough to toss at her. "Why don't we do this? Stay the hell away from me and I offer the same courtesy."
Those magnificent eyes he had just admired, glittered with temper. "Go to hell."
She had turned and flounced away before he could think of a suitable crushing rejoinder, but by that time, her door had slammed shut.
He heard the lock engage, the sound sending his blood pressure through the roof!
As if he would ever dream of going into her room! Damn her! Damn her to hell and back.
He marched towards the opposite direction of the hallway and decided that he would choose the farthest rooms from her. They would avoid each other, he thought as he viciously pushed the doors open and stepped into a sitting room bathed in aquamarine.
Not taking the time to admire the decor or the antique furnishings, he marched into the bedroom, heels striking the hardwood floor. He would chill out with a bottle of wine and hopefully get drunk enough to get some sleep and forget the hateful female down the hall.
Stripping off his jacket, he hurled it towards the loveseat across from the queen-sized bed in a fit of temper.
He yanked open a bottle of Merlot, barely bothering with a glass, and took a long swig as he paced the room.
The tension from their exchange lingered, sharp and bitter, and he found himself wondering how long this uneasy truce would last. As the rich scent of wine drifted up, he stared out the window, the city lights blurring in the distance, and tried to convince himself that solitude was exactly what he needed.
He lifted the bottle to take another swig, when the overhead light caught the glint of the wedding band on his finger.
Staring at it, he felt the anger dissolving into complete despair.
He was married. Tonight was his wedding night and instead of wedded bliss, he was in his room, trying to drink himself into oblivion.
There wasn't going to be a wedding night where he anticipated peeling a sexy lingerie off his bride.
In another scenario, which would have been the case, and it would have been Carly.
They would have jetted off to some exotic location, Aruba, Hawaii or even Jamaica, where they would have been hitting the silky warmth of the sea.
And then he would have been peeling off some scrap of material to get to skin.
He stumbled back, the weight of his depression crushing him.
What was she doing now, his new bride, he wondered bitterly. Not that he cared. With what little he knew about her, and it surprised him that he did not know her at all! But what he knew of her, he could imagine her propped up in bed going over some work deal.
She was on a call, or scribbling notes with that fierce focus he had glimpsed earlier.
He could picture her smoothing the sheets with precise, efficient movements, all business, even now, determined to ignore his existence as thoroughly as he was trying to ignore hers.
The thought made him grit his teeth, frustration mingling with an odd pang of curiosity he refused to acknowledge.
He wasn't going to think of her and even if he did, it would be with anger or cold contempt. She could do whatever the hell she wanted. Apart from the fact that she was now his wife, she was a free agent. They both were. A wave of dizziness assailed him and had him shaking his head.
And it occurred to him that aside from picking at the sumptuous spread provided for the ceremony, he hadn't partaken of anything substantial. Drinking on an empty stomach was asking for trouble.
He was going to have to raid the kitchen and pray that the cupboard was stocked.
It also occurred to him that he had no damn idea what arrangements had been made in terms of help.
He couldn't boil water. He had spent the entire years of his life taking the people who picked up after him and cooked the meals he carelessly consumed, for granted.
And he somehow doubted very much that he could depend on his bride to provide those services or any other for that matter.
He eyed the wine bottle, momentarily considering whether to finish it or leave some for later.
The silence in the room felt heavier than ever, punctuated only by his restless movements.
For the first time, he wondered if loneliness was worse than anger, and if tonight marked the beginning of something he wasn't ready to face.
With an aggrieved sigh, he put away the half-finished wine and decided to go find something to eat.
Ingrid was having the same problem. In the elegantly appointed shell pink room with its intricately carved pale gold furnishings, she sat on the queen Anne four poster bed and argued with herself.
She had changed from her wedding finery and taken a shower, spending time to admire the claw footed bath, the beautifully etched tiles.
Bypassing the bath, she settled for the shower inside the large shower stall. Now she was contemplating whether she should ignore the grumbling sound of her belly, indicating that it was time to eat something.
A glance at the Ormolu clock showed that it was scarcely eight. She was accustomed to going to bed at ten or eleven. She had brought work with her from the office but wasn't in the mood to dive into paperwork. And had shut off the voice telling her that this was supposed to be her wedding night.
"A fat lot you know." She muttered. "It's not even a wedding.
Just an agreement between two adults, two adults who despise each other.
" Rubbing her hands up and down her bare thighs, she tried to block out the fact that for the first time she was living with a man.
One who happened to be her husband. It felt weird as hell.
And she would not be having sex. A laugh escaped her at the irony of the situation and the tragic undertone. She had not been with a man in what? Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the exact date and time. A year? Her eyes popped wide open as the stark truth hit her.
"Oh, good God! Two years?" Flopping back on the cloud soft pillows, she dissolved, the mirth shaking her body and had tears running down her cheeks.
She had been abstaining for two whole years and here she was, trapped inside a gorgeous house, one that she had helped to design with an equally gorgeous man and no sex.
She had to admit that it was priceless. Only her, she thought grimly.
Only her. And no doubt he was in whatever suite of rooms he had chosen, pining for that bony ass actress.
Well, he was welcome to her.
She rolled over and stared up at the ornate ceiling, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the house settling for the night.
The vastness of the space only amplified her solitude, each decorative flourish a reminder of the life she was now tethered to, a life that looked beautiful from the outside but felt hollow within.
Hunger gnawed at her, but pride kept her rooted to the bed, unwilling to cross paths with him in these early hours of their strange, shared existence.
Then she stiffened her spine. It is what it is, and she was certainly not going to cower inside her spectacular bedroom and starve to death. A sandwich would hit the spot. And he was sulking in his room or calling his girlfriend and complaining about her anyway.
She was certainly not going to let him bother her. As far as she was concerned, he was just a roommate. An unwelcome one, but one, nonetheless. Nothing more. With that resolve, she rose and headed towards the door.