The Sea Between Us (The Elements #1)

Chapter 1

Theo

“Have you seen the newspaper this morning, Theo? You’re the UK’s Sexiest Man for the second year running. Aren’t you lucky?”

The paper slaps down on the desk in front of me, the force of it pushing a pen onto the floor.

I stare at the black and white image of me on the front page, half-dressed and smirking into the camera like I haven’t a care in the world.

Abs out, trousers half undone, precisely the way Calvin Klein had asked.

I cringe at my wife’s words. The title was funny last year.

This year it feels unnerving. I know this is going to fuel Olivia’s insecurities.

I’m watching it happen in real time. Rage seeps into her bones, and as much as she tries to hide it, the sharpness slices through my mood.

I push the paper to the side and carry on typing my plan for my next album, the inspiration being sucked from me the longer she stands there.

She thrives on attention, but my success only ever draws out the ugly in her. When you grow up in the spotlight, narcissism becomes a trait you learn to live with. Trust me, I know.

She waits for me to say something to her. Argue. Bite back. Give her ammunition for a fight, but after living with Olivia for over fifteen years, I’ve learned that the less I say, the easier it is to breathe through the day.

I can’t help the tightening of my chest though as she glares at me across the desk. My hands ball into fists, my knuckles turning white as I control the rise in frustration, pushing it back down.

She never needed my help to propel her into stardom. She already had that when we met. Her fans are loyal, obsessive and loud, but sometimes even that isn’t enough for Olivia’s ego, and this newspaper article will be one brutal hit for her.

My career began at twenty-two, a record deal handed to me on a silver platter by my parents’ dynasty. Money and fame were all they cared about. It dictated their lives and my childhood, and somehow I still managed to get myself caught up in the same situation.

My PR team made it very clear that Olivia was the woman I needed to be with in order to keep my look fresh and relevant.

We needed a story, and the stunning British actress with the glowing persona and BAFTA’s lining her shelf, was it.

We certainly didn’t love each other, although I only realised this once the honeymoon lust wore off, leaving two strangers living together, pretending a fairytale existed in the home.

When Olivia suggested we move back to her home country of England, I thought perhaps it was a way to gain back a little bit of myself. I was wrong. All it did was allow her to tighten her grip.

The papers wrote elaborate love stories for the world to read, and not one part of it was true. Yet, the media continued to sell, and our names and riches only grew larger. As the lies grew, it became harder to pull away. The fame and success became too addictive.

Olivia wanted a family more than anything, perhaps even more than her fame. I refused, knowing that the life we lived was not fair for a child. I’d lived that life. The coldness, the shouting, the silence behind doors. But five years into our marriage, Olivia was pregnant with Oscar.

He is my pride and joy. The reason I do what I do.

The reason I am still here in this house.

I knew the moment I first held him in my arms, that I would never leave, not until he was old enough to understand.

I tried my best to shield him from the unsteadiness of our home, playing happy families so much, that sometimes it almost felt real.

Over time, the intimacy between Olivia and I dried up.

The sex became mechanical, usually when one of us needed a release.

We remained a brand, though. Public appearances, kissing and smiling on red carpets, laughing on cue at charity galas, and then when the theatrics ended, we left in separate cars.

Olivia going her way, and me going mine.

Eventually, I learned that if I was careful, I could hide from the world. Disappear in plain sight.

My memories fade, and I am launched back into my office as Olivia snickers to herself, muttering something under her breath that I can’t quite make out. Her heels click sharply on the marble floor as she leaves, slamming the door on her way.

I lower my head into my hands and slowly move my fingers through my hair, thanking God she’s gone as the silence finally settles. My breathing slows, and I exhale loudly.

I need to get out of this house.

I ball the newspaper up and throw it into the bin as I head out to the garage. Nigel, my driver, is waiting. The engine, already running, ready to pull away at a moment’s notice. The low hum of it smooths the edge of my earlier frustration. It’s the sound of my exit.

“Morning Nigel,” I say as I step in. Trust is rare for someone with my lifestyle.

Everybody wants you for something. To use you for their own benefit.

Nigel doesn’t. He is loyal, steady, and sees me at my worst. Many times over the years, he has asked me why I have stayed in a marriage that makes me so miserable.

I never have an answer for him, but the question always presses hard on my chest. It makes me question what I am actually doing in this life.

I watch the road fly by in a blur out of my back passenger window as we drive closer to a quaint town called Sable Square.

I’ve recently developed a routine of driving, unseen, to a town that is only ten minutes from home.

Outside my window, the streets are lined with old brown cobblestone buildings, worn with time but brightened by colourful flower boxes and green gardens. It could be the set of a movie.

We pull up outside the coffee shop that we visit every morning, and I scroll through the last of my emails, the sounds from life outside the window muffled.

A little girl shrieks as she runs past the car, sending a jolt through me.

As I glance out, my eye catches someone.

I do a double take at the woman who seems to be stealing my attention.

I let my phone fall into my lap as she moves to a table in front of the window.

Graceful. Steady. There’s a softness to her movements.

No rushing, no sharpness, a simple elegance that has me fixated.

Nigel steps out to fetch me my usual black coffee, leaving me in silence behind the dark glass.

I can’t seem to draw my eyes away from the beautiful blonde.

Her eyes don’t stray from the notebook in front of her, and I can see the furrow in her brow.

Her long, wavy hair is draped around one side of her neck, revealing the softness of her face.

Suddenly she looks up, as if she feels my watchful eye. She stares out of the window, watching the world as if she’s inside her own film. Her pen bounces backward and forward as she taps it on the edge of her lips, clearly deep in thought.

She’s gorgeous.

I watch as her soft pink lips curve into a smile, one that has my heart pounding in my ears. Her head lowers again, and she continues writing, her pen flowing across the paper.

The noise of the outside world drifts in as Nigel returns, filling the car with the smell of coffee.

He passes back my cup, and I take a sip of the steaming hot liquid.

I don’t want him to drive off just yet. I’m feeling an unusual pull towards this woman in the window.

Frustration seems to build in me. I need to know her name.

I can’t quite explain it, but it takes all my strength not to walk inside and start up a conversation with her.

My coffee cup is empty and cold, yet I am still sitting here watching her. She rises from her chair, clears her own table, and smiles and waves at the barista as she walks out of the shop, a small dog in tow. Her light blue dress swirls around her legs as the wind lifts the hem.

As she drifts down the street and out of sight, I know I must find out who she is. I shouldn’t want to know her name. But I do.

Nigel pulls the car away, the town fading behind me, but she doesn’t. She sits in my mind for the rest of the day.