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The knowledge that Mark hid this from her on purpose felt like an atomic bomb had been thrown at her feelings. She felt rage burn through her, leaving bitter sorrow at its wake. Her rational thought was overturned. At work, she sat in her office for a long time looking blankly at the laptop screen, too astonished to even move. She was at a loss at what to think, what to do.
At lunch time, she left MBS in a blurred mixture of feelings, thoughts and confusion. She arrived home, ran to her bedroom and blindly threw mounds of messy clothes in a bag. She fumbled it closed and dragged it to the garage.
Mrs Smith was at the back of the Georgian mansion directing the staff about the housework to be done. She didn’t see Amy coming home or carrying a bag. Amy came to the backyard, empty hands, and greeted Mrs Smith more warmly than usual, inwardly saying farewell. The middle-aged woman had been her mother-figure for these past years, but Amy couldn’t tell her about what happened, the older lady was too faithful to Mark.
She dropped something at Mark’s study and left the Georgian mansion without taking heed to where she was going. Tears were burning in the back of her eyes. There would be time for them. Later.
Mark arrived at the Georgian mansion that evening in a red rush of longing. He hadn’t seen Amy the whole day. She had left word in her department that she’d be on some errand during the day. He thought that weird, but waited to talk to her when he came home. Swift strides, he walked in, looking for her.
As he stepped into the entrance hall, the stillness struck him. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Everything was perfectly in order, as if nothing had been touched after Mrs Smith left. Sitting room, kitchen, stillness. His bedroom, silence. Panic crept in his blood. He stormed in her rosy bedroom, nothing. Better. Less than nothing. Jerking her wardrobe open he saw a good amount of her clothes missing. Colour drained from his face. In quick, trembling movements he picked his mobile and dialled her number. Voice-mail.
He dashed downstairs. He hadn’t looked in his study, maybe she was choosing some books. He almost destroyed the handle at opening it violently. No one. His attention darted to his desk. He saw a paper that wasn’t there before. He clasped it: the photocopy of the finance consultant’s statement. And a damn yellow post-it on it: ‘You’ll certainly agree with me that this is a deal-breaker. A.’ Was all the note she had left.
His mind imploded and his legs gave way as he crumbled on the chair, head down. Dear god! He hadn’t counted on losing her. Much less this stupid way. How the hell would he survive without her presence? Wi
thout her, full stop. He had been so paralyzed by the fear of losing her if she got control of her own life that he ended up losing her exactly by trying to keep her. He had kept her in the dark about her rights and he was reaping the results of his actions now.
In the days that followed, Mark became a phantom. He couldn’t swallow a single piece of solid food. He mostly drank the night away. In tacit words, he explained to the HR department that Amy had to leave due to an urgent matter. He instructed Travis McDougall to stay in her stead in the remaining few weeks, when Susan Baron, the manager on childbirth leave, would return. Most of his work was being carried out by Ms. Scott, his efficient secretary. His apathy shocked her and she knew it had something to do with Amy’s absence.
But Mark wasn’t a man who gave in so easily, or he wouldn’t have built a security system empire. For one, he went back to his heavy weight-lifting practice. As if his muscles could shelter him from his puzzled, gut-wrenching feelings. And he drowned twice as hard in work, in a vain try to anesthetize the tearing longing she left in him. He couldn’t run away from himself in the cold lonely nights though.
Even if he drank. For when he drank his memory would run loose. Uncontrollable. Rewinding and replaying every tiny second of her, of them. Agonizingly. He was sure he’d go crazy, because he felt as if there was a hole in his...in his... Bloody damnation! Heart, yes, heart. How the devil did it happen? It had always been there. Somehow. That’s why he never got to be attached to any of his mistresses. She was the gravity centre of his life. First, she inspired his carefulness, protective instincts. Then, well, then it was this consuming need, craving, that he never fully understood. If only he had known better.
It was Friday evening and he dreaded going home. No, it was not home anymore. It was simply an empty, silent, ghostly house, a mere soulless shell without Amy. His feet took him heedlessly to the pub next to the company. He sat at the counter alone with his glass.
The front door opened and a familiar face came in. Torres. Damn it! It was all he needed: someone to witness his misery.
Juan sat beside him with his pint, of which he drank a long draught. Both men were getting along fairly well at work. They agreed on how to foster the company’s own technology and it seemed to be the right direction. But this was all. They shared no personal affinities.
Several minutes elapsed.
“So,” Juan started and there was a sarcastic smile on his face. “You’re no longer, with your, say, very special ex-charge.” He used a tone that left no doubt as to the implicit meaning of it.
Mark turned to him abruptly, and instant potent fury spreading in his blood. “Don’t you ever repeat this nonsense ever again.” Mark said in a low menacing voice.
Juan chose to ignore the red light, the beer working its effect. “What would you call it then?”
Mark deflected his gaze from Torres and dipped it in his glass. There was no name. Why call it anything after all? It didn’t matter, not anymore. “I’d advise you not to nose around.” His fury getting hotter.
“Well, this is the gossip that’s going on since she left.” Juan drank more of his beer.
Mark turned his gaze at him, angry. “I’m warning you, Torres!”
“You should be grateful for having someone to get information from.” Juan didn’t know more than the gossips, but people sensed things.
“I don’t want any! I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
“Have you stopped to think clearly about this?”
Mark had thought too much about it, about her. He just glared Juan in the eyes.
“She’s only too precious!” Juan let out.
This was the last drop for Mark. Precious? She was everything! And she was his. Or at least he had that illusion. Wish, if one preferred. He didn’t want to cause a scene. Juan was going much too far. The wound was too fresh still. Gathering his shattered self-control, Mark stood up, looked hard at Juan and left the pub in stony strides into the wintry street.
Chapter XII
It had been a busy time, Amy thought as she stared through the window of her small rented house in the old town. Down there, the deep-blue Mediterranean. She came to like Nice a great deal. The mild weather of South France did a lot for her.
