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I hail a cab to her hotel rather than drive—I’m pretty sure I’d be over the limit. It’s not even eight o’clock when I get there. I take the lift to her room and knock on the door.
No answer.
I press the doorbell and wait.
Nothing. I press an ear to the door and ring the bell again, expecting to hear something—her moving around the suite, anything.
But there’s silence. A sense of unease shifts through me. Maybe she stayed at her parents’ place last night? That would make sense, wouldn’t it? That’s what families do around Christmas and Jessica is all about Christmas, right?
I pull out my phone and dial her number; it rings several times then goes to message bank.
For God’s sake. I know she’s pissed off, but she can’t seriously be dodging my calls? Of course she can be. Just like that I remember how she was that night in the rain, her beautiful face scrunched up with hurt and sadness. I’m in free fall.
I phone my executive assistant next. I know it’s the day after Christmas but there’s a reason I pay twice the going rate. ‘I need the address for Clive Johnson. Immediately.’
Five minutes later I have it and I’m in another cab, cutting across town.
Jemima answers the door.
‘Hi.’ I nod curtly, looking beyond her. I can see the kind of Christmas scene Jessica has described to me—the enormous tree, halls decorated, twinkling lights. ‘Is Jessica here?’
Jemima frowns, shaking her head. ‘I thought she would have told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘Something happened with her business. She had to fly out yesterday.’
I feel as if a stone has dropped through my gut.
‘Fly out to where?’
Jemima looks at me quizzically. ‘Back home. To London.’
Home. London. My skin feels feverish. ‘Right.’ I swallow. ‘You said she left yesterday?’
‘Yeah. At lunchtime. She didn’t tell you she was going?’
I shake my head.
Jemima’s eyes narrow. ‘I guess that makes sense.’ She frowns though, looking over her shoulder. ‘Did you want to come in?’
I feel a hollow, deranged laugh fill my oesophagus. I shake my head. ‘Thanks. Another time. I’ve got somewhere I have to be.’
* * *
London is my favourite city in the world. At any time of year, I love it, but at Christmas, it shimmers. The streets are decorated with wreaths and garlands, the nights come early, the mornings are slow, there’s magic and snow in every bit of air I breathe.
From the window of my Mayfair apartment I can see the corner of Hyde Park, the trees lightly dusted in white from a heavy fall of snow we received overnight, and the streets are buzzing with cars beetling around, many undoubtedly on their way to the famous Boxing Day sales. I’m only a block away from Oxford Street and I know if I ventured out that way I’d be surrounded by more heaving humanity than I can handle.
I don’t want to be surrounded by people though. Even though crowds bring anonymity, they still bring contact and I desperately need to be alone.
Even the idea of spending lunch with my family filled me with a cloying sense of grief.
It isn’t just that I fell in love with Zach. It’s that I was stupid enough to fall in love with him. Stupid enough to let my guard down, to let him in, to look inside his soul and become addicted to what he is. I feel like an idiot. I feel as if I’ve
let myself down. I feel so angry with myself and I feel so helpless and hopeless.
The day drags.
