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“No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t apologise. Don’t explain. Just … leave it.”
Gael had never, in his entire life, made such a monumental mistake. He’d acted on his first impulse, and it had betrayed him. Badly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and spoke in Spanish, his dark eyes not leaving her face.
“It’s ready.”
“Car?”
He nodded.
She crossed the lawn, moving quickly, to stay ahead of him. She opened her door before he could reach it, and slid into her seat.
The short drive to the nearby air strip was made in total silence. Carrie stared out of her window, but she didn’t see the scenery. She saw the girl she’d been at seventeen; and that same girl was staring back at her now.
As soon as Gael killed the engine, Carrie stepped out of the car. She felt physically ill.
The saving grace of her present state of emotional turmoil was that she hardly felt a thing as the chopper lifted up into the sky. It sailed over the Balearic sea, showing turquoise waters far into the distance.
Carrie closed her eyes and prayed it would all soon be over.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“And then what happened?” Juanita’s face was a study of shocked sympathy. She lifted a tissue from the box and wiped her cheek, amazed at how calm and serene Carrie was in the retelling of things.
“He insisted on taking me to my hotel. He tried to talk more. To explain …” She spat the word derisively.
“As if he could offer any explanation for such a barbaric, rude, chauvinistic act…”
The rules of their friendship had been written in stone a decade earlier. Unwavering support was the first tenet of their sisterhood.
“I know,” Carrie nodded, sipping her tea and clutching the mug to hide the way her fingers were shaking.
“What did you say to him?”
“That it’s over, obviously.” She shrugged. “I left him with my NewNetwork report and contracts and told him he could invest, or not. His decision.”
“Woah.”
“Yeah. Woah.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
Not in a week, Carrie realised with a pang. She’d kept busy. She’d avoided her phone. She’d gone out every night, wearing her make up proudly, dressed to the nines, and taking comfort from the fact that most people saw her slavish devotion to beauty as a positive attribute.
It wasn’t like it was the sum total of who she was. She was a successful professional in her own right. So what if she enjoyed looking her best?
“He’s the ultimate hypocrite,” Carrie muttered, finally showing some of her anger to her best friend.
“Hm, how so?” Juanita pushed aside Carrie’s tea, and replaced it with a champagne. “Don’t think about the calories. Just this once.”
Carrie was inclined to agree. She drank half the glass in two sips. “He only wanted me when he saw me dressed up like that. He goes after women who look like models. But then he wanted me to peel off the mask and be ‘normal’.” She groaned angrily. “He didn’t want me when I was ‘normal’. The very idea disgusted him.”
“Such a bastard,” Juanita agreed.
Carrie drained her champagne flute, much to Juanita’s surprise. She topped it up instantly.
“What are we celebrating?” Carrie asked with a tipsy giggle, as she tasted her second glass.
“Freedom from oppression and tyranny,” Juanita giggled back.
