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‘Damn it.’ He drags a hand through his hair. ‘What do you want me to say? That I want you to go? That I’m sorry I hurt you and that I wish we hadn’t got involved? That if I’d known we’d be having this conversation I would have left it with one perfect, sublime night in Sydney?’
His words are like knives, sailing through the air, each one slamming into me. He softens his voice but it’s no less empathic. ‘Do you want me to say that I don’t love you? That I wish you didn’t love me? That I don’t believe in love, that I don’t want it? That you and this has been great but it’s not my real life any more than I am yours?’
A sob wells in my throat. I stare at him, unable to speak.
‘This was never about love,’ he adds for good measure. ‘We both know that.’
I nod, slowly. I can feel a ticking time bomb in my chest; I have to get out of there before I cry.
But he’s not prepared to let this go.
‘I don’t want it to end like this.’
Nor do I. I don’t want it to end at all.
I steel myself to face him one last time and my heart almost gallops away from me. ‘What difference does it make how it ends? It’s over.’
I scoop up my bag and walk to the door with as much dignity as I can muster. I pull it open, holding my breath, wondering if he’ll stop me, wondering if he’ll say anything else. I’m still holding my breath at the elevator. The doors slide open and I step inside. The doors begin to slide shut and right as they’re about to latch shut in the middle, his hand slides between them.
‘Don’t fucking go like this,’ he groans, pulling me towards him, and, damn it, the tears I’ve been fighting are sliding down my cheeks. He pushes his hands into my hair, holding my face steady so he can look at me. ‘Please don’t cry.’
He is shocked. He didn’t expect any of this.
So much of this is hard to understand, impossible to fathom, but there’s one thing that always, without fail, makes sense. He kisses me and everything slides into place. Our kiss tastes of my tears. My body, my treacherous, traitorous, opportunistic body, melds to his, my hands lifting to encircle his neck, and he lifts me off the ground for a moment, holding me tight to him.
This is so perfect. I love him.
But he doesn’t love me and there’s no fix to that. This kiss is just delaying the inevitable.
A sob forms in my mouth and I break the kiss, pushing at his chest and wriggling to the floor.
‘Don’t.’ The word is tremulous and soft, but it holds a mighty warning. ‘Don’t mess with me. You know how I feel and what I want. Don’t look at me as though this is hard for you when it’s all because of you.’
He takes a step back, his mouth open, shock on his features, and I take advantage of his response to reach across and press the button to close the elevator doors.
This time, he doesn’t stop me.
* * *
‘Lara Postlethwaite graduated with a first in philosophy. Did I tell you that?’
I look at my mother through a fog of Scotch and disbelief. The early evening light catches the books that line my parents’ ancient library, making them appear to shimmer in gold, and all I can think of is Imogen and the joy she took in my Manhattan library. The way she devoured book after book after book.
‘I happen to know she thinks you’re fascinating.’ My mother’s smile beams with maternal pride. A vulnerable ache forms in my chest.
My mother is growing older. I don’t know why I haven’t noticed before, but sitting by her and looking at her, I see not just a meddling society matron, but a woman who’ll soon be seventy, who wants to know her son is married, that grandchildren are on their way. It’s been easy to put all this matchmaking and expectation down to their concern for the title and the lineage. But what if there’s more to it?
What if this is largely a case of a mother simply wanting to know her son is happy? Wanting to see that Saffy didn’t ruin me for all other women?
‘And I presume she’ll be at the New Year’s Eve ball?’ my father chips in from across the room, his eyes meeting mine over the top of the broadsheet newspaper he’s been reading for the better part of an hour.
‘Oh, yes, m’dear.’
Perhaps my mother senses my lack of interest. Undeterred, she shifts in a slightly modified direction. ‘Of course, Cynthia MacDougall is flying in and so looking forward to catching up with you.’
Cynthia I like. We have had a low-key flirtation going on for years. She’s pretty and smart and doesn’t really go in for all the aristocratic bullshit. She’s personally wealthy enough that I know she’s not a gold-digger, and I know she wants kids.
She’d be a good match for me; she definitely ticks the boxes of what I’m looking for.
