“Because he told me.”
I sigh. “That’s what men do,” I say. “They tell you the current woman is substandard, to suggest that you’re superior, when often the current woman is not substandard, merely not you; not the fresh meat. For what it’s worth I think it’s quite nice that he’s found his way back to his wife. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But it’s true.”
She grunts.
“You know,” I say, “that you can control the way you feel about this? This isn’t his story, it’s yours?”
“That’s bollocks.” Her tiny glass is empty, and she pours herself another one. “He’s the one in control. Always has been, always will be. Because he is the one with my heart.”
A layer of tears springs to her eyes as she says these words, the first suggestion of warmth I’ve seen in this woman.
“Well, take it back then. It’s yours. Go on your own mini-breaks. Stop drinking. You have options.”
“Fucking hell,” she says under her breath. “You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. I don’t even know you.”
“Yes, you do. You do know me. And I know you.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just a man in the pub.”
“And now I’m a man in your house.”
She runs her finger over the rim of her glass and narrows her eyes at me. “Yes,” she says. “And what’s that all about?”
I lean away from her, eyeing her appraisingly. “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing in your house, to be honest. But I knew you’d let me in.”
“Should I be scared of you?”
“No.” I shake my head and smile. “You most definitely should not be scared of me. I’m not here to hurt you; I’m here to help you.”
I pick up the bottle of champagne, top her up and then myself. I keep my gaze on her the whole time. She looks twitchy, but she also has a flush of something on her cheeks. It could be the champagne, but it could also be excitement.
“Show me a picture,” I say. “Of this man. This remarkable man who has taken your heart to Istanbul.”
She looks at me sideways. Then she picks up her phone and scrolls through, with an air of slight impatience. “Hm,” she says, “no. Not that one. This one…”
She turns the phone. There’s a vague-looking man in a gray shirt and jeans, limp white hair combed to one side, trendy glasses, a pained smile.
“Jesus. How old is he?”
“Sixty.”
“Sixty! You’re losing your shit over a sixty-year-old!”
“Well, he wasn’t always sixty, was he? He was in his late forties when I met him.”
“So you were…?”
“Eighteen. He was my boss when I was temping.”
“Ha, yeah. Of course.” I smile and lean in toward her. “You’ve been dragged down the wrong road, Jessamine. Imagine,” I say, “how different everything would be now if that dirty old bastard hadn’t persuaded fresh-faced little eighteen-year-old you that he was a good idea, that fucking around with a married man was going to somehow improve your life.”
I see a shiver of discomfort run through her. Then she shakes her head. “What’s going on here?” she says. “What’s your deal?”
“No deal. Just had a great Christmas at my brother’s place, lots of people, lots of fun… kept thinking about you.”
One of her fine eyebrows shoots up her forehead. “What the fuck,” she mutters, but I see it again, that flush, a sudden rush of something through her system.
“Not necessarily in that way,” I counter. “I mean, just thinking about you being alone down here in the last house at the end of the world, with your mum and your kid. I wanted to see you. Make sure you were OK. That’s all.”
