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Zelda stared out of the library window at the gauntlet of photographers and journalists. They had been camped outside the townhouse all day like a pack of ravening wolves, but she felt oddly detached from the chaos her latest screw up had caused.
Not that she was actually guilty of the ‘reckless’ behavior the press had attributed to her. She hadn’t cut off her hair during a drink- and drug-fuelled weekend spree in Brooklyn over Labor Day. But defending herself would only draw more attention to the story—and make them more determined to identify Ty. She’d already caused him enough trouble. If she didn’t give the story any oxygen, the press would be gone tomorrow, to go hound some other celebrity screw-up—and Ty would be spared another reason to regret the misguided declaration he’d made a week ago.
He hadn’t contacted her again. As she’d known h
e wouldn’t. And even though her sponsor, Amelie, had assured her that a committed relationship didn’t have to be a threat to her recovery as long as she managed her expectations, she had decided her knee-jerk decision to push Ty away was for the best.
She had no experience of making relationships work, especially not intimate ones. And even if starting something serious with Ty didn’t have to threaten her sobriety, it was still scary, new territory, which she had no guarantees she would be able to negotiate. Handling the problems she already had was a full-time job. How could she risk having Ty in her life, when that could mean the possibility of losing him?
Of course, using her recovery as an excuse not to admit her feelings had been cowardly and dishonest. But Ty was an optimist, who, for all his pragmatism and intelligence, believed he could fix things if he tried hard enough. But he couldn’t fix her.
Then again, now he knew exactly how broken she was, he probably had no desire to fix her anymore anyway. Which just made it all the more pathetic that losing something she had never really had still hurt so much.
She picked her mobile up from the library table and keyed in a text to Seb. She needed a distraction from the hopeless thoughts which kept circling around in her head like vultures hovering over a rotting corpse. Unfortunately, her brother was the only distraction on offer.
Can you join me for dinner tonight? Zx
She pressed send, not caring how needy it sounded. Even her brother’s monosyllabic company would be more appealing than spending another night eating alone in the townhouse’s cavernous dining salon while the memory of the meals she’d shared with Ty—sitting on the roof chatting over their ad hoc picnic supper, or watching him cook her pancakes—made the loss seem all the more acute.
She waited for a reply, but nothing came.
Perhaps Seb had stayed late at his office on foundation business, or he might even have a date. How would she know, when she knew virtually nothing about his personal or professional life because he refused to share details about anything?
She noticed Mrs. Jempson, their housekeeper, walking past the library door and called out to her. “Mrs. Jempson, do you know where my brother is this evening?”
The housekeeper nodded, because she was clearly permitted to know more about Seb’s life than his own sister. “He’s in the roof garden, working on the new trellis he’s designed for the roses.”
Trellis? What new trellis?
“I see,” she said, but she didn’t see.
Since when did Seb care about the rose garden? Their mother had adored roses. One of Zel’s earliest memories was of her mum kneeling in the embassy garden, her beautifully manicured hands covered in dirt, as she planted the cut-offs she’d brought to London from the garden upstairs. Zel also recalled Seb getting into trouble once for kicking a football into the growing bushes—which only made the thought of him designing and constructing a trellis for the plants now all the more absurd.
Mrs. Jempson excused herself as Zelda keyed in another message. She’d give him one more try. Maybe he didn’t have his phone with him. But instinctively she knew he did. He was blanking her, the way he always did, because the futility of trying to reach him felt all too familiar.
How about coming down to dinner, then I could explain what the press is doing outside the door? Zx
Maybe that would get a reaction. He must have noticed the paparazzi besieging the house again. She should explain to him what was going on. Not that he’d asked for an explanation, but her pride demanded she supply one.
The reply popped onto her phone.
Can’t do dinner. Busy tonight. And I don’t care why the press are here, I’d just like them the hell off my doorstep.
She hadn’t really expected him to accept the invitation. But even so, her fingers began to tremble, and the air squeezed out of her lungs as she read the typically blunt text.
And suddenly an incandescent anger was surging up her chest like hot, viscous lava, searing everything in its path. She felt it exploding in her heart, and charging through her bloodstream, as she slammed down her phone. She marched out of the library, into the oppressive grandeur of the hallway and took the main staircase two at a time, her heels sinking into the Aubusson carpet. The fading summer day shone through the mullioned windows but the dusky light was hard to distinguish from the red haze descending over her vision.
After racing up four flights of stairs, she flung open the door on the top landing that led past Seb’s suite of rooms towards the back stairs. Rooms she hadn’t been invited to enter since she’d returned to New York months ago.
She supposed he didn’t bother to lock the door, because he would never expect her to enter his inner sanctum without his express permission.
Well, bugger that.
She strode down the corridor, and headed up the staircase that led to her mother’s old roof garden, the volcano of fury burning up her torso. She knew the anger was irrational. That it was spurred on by the brutal pain of losing Ty. And the thought of all the lonely days, which hung like thunderclouds over her future and would be that much harder to bear now she knew what she would be missing.
And in that tiny corner of her brain that was still rational, she also knew it wasn’t fair to transfer that pain and anger onto her brother.
But fuck it. She was through being fair and reasonable and rational and bloody polite with Sebastian. And blaming herself for the crappy way he’d treated her all these years—as if she were an embarrassment, or a burden, or worse, simply an inconvenience.
