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‘How do you deal with the grief?’
Marcus hesitated. Then, ‘I’ll show you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS THEY CLIMBED into the chauffeur-driven car Marcus wondered if this was a good idea. Then again, were any of his ideas with regard to April good ones? Somehow he thought not. That dance? Very bad idea; his body still hadn’t got over it. His agreement to her writing an article on ‘the real Marcus Alrikson’? Also not one of his better moments.
And now he had chosen to prolong their time together. But he could sense her pain, her grief, and like it or not he wanted to help in some way.
‘Alrikson Security, please, Roberto.’
As the vehicle made its smooth way through mostly deserted roads Marcus leant back against the leather seat.
‘When Axel died, at first I quite simply didn’t believe it. It didn’t seem possible that a man I had spoken to mere hours before could be gone. The sheer surrealness of it stunned me. It seemed impossible that I couldn’t do something to change fate’s decree. That I couldn’t turn the clock back.’
Just as he hadn’t been able to after the fire—hadn’t been able to alter the moment when he hadn’t gone back in.
‘When I finally accepted he was gone, I raged.’
He had contemplated drowning his grief in a bottle; he’d known from observation that alcohol could numb everything, wipe it all out. But he’d also known that that way lay addiction and misery—his genes might point to that option, but he would never make the choices his parents had made.
‘What did you do?’
The car pulled up outside the sleek headquarters of his company and they alighted. Marcus keyed them in and led the way to the lifts, pressing the button for the basement. Minutes later they were in the underground gym he’d had installed.
‘I took it out on a punch bag. For hours.’ Until sheer exhaustion had temporarily anaesthetised his pain. ‘Day after day.’ A pause. ‘Do you want to try it?’
‘Me? Punch a bag? I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s... I’d feel stupid. I’m hardly fighting fit—I doubt I’d make much of an impact. I can’t remember the last time I went to the gym.’
‘It’s not a competition or a test. It’s a way to unleash all those feelings. The anger, the grief, the rage...’
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not feel them at all.’
‘At the end of a workout you’ll be too numbed by exhaustion to feel anything.’
He could see that the idea appealed. But, ‘I couldn’t do it anyway. Not in this dress.’
‘You can borrow some of my workout clothes. It’s up to you. If you don’t feel comfortable, don’t do it. But don’t worry about looking stupid or being weak. You’re neither. It’s a way to stay in control. You control the feelings; they don’t control you.’
April stared at the punch bag and then nodded. ‘OK. Thank you. I’d like to give it a try.’
‘Changing rooms are this way.’
* * *
April looked at the T-shirt and, succumbing to temptation, held it to her face. It smelt freshly laundered—not even the faintest Marcus scent discernible. Yet the idea that this material had once touched his skin added a frisson to the emotional whirlpool that already twisted inside her as she tugged the soft cotton garment over her head.
She closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? Had she completely lost the plot?
That was a no-brainer. The plot had been left behind long ago that day—possibly in Gabrielle’s boutique. Now she appeared to be winging it without a script.
She tried to picture herself actually aiming a punch, and to her own surprise felt a strange thrill course through her body at the prospect. Because right now she was all over the place and she loathed it. If she really could rid herself of the intensity of these sensations then it was a win-win situation. Because once they were gone she would make damn sure they didn’t come back.
The thought propelled her into the oversized shorts. Tugging at the cord, she cinched them round her waist, and a couple of expert rolls of the waistband rendered them acceptable. The movement was a reminder of those carefree school days when she and her friends had hitched their school skirts to madly short lengths the moment they were out of parental sight. Days so long ago, when her life had stretched before her full of glorious possibility.
