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‘You’re no fool. You’re just...grieving.’
She’s still backing away and I don’t think she’s even listening to me now.
‘Consider your apology delivered. You can go.’
I flounder as she turns away, walking up to the sliding doors that lead out onto an enclosed garden that’s like a mini oasis. Paradise in the heart of London. All hard landscaping with potted plants flourishing, a narrow pool with a stone waterfall and a glass sheltered bathing area set off to one side.
She watches the water, her gaze withdrawn, her arms folded across her middle. Her blood-red lips, nails, shoes the only colour in the room and at total odds with it. The observation is peculiar in both its presence and its timing. Why would I even pick up on it?
Perhaps because she doesn’t seem to belong in this hard, contemporary shell. What I’ve seen of her is so vibrant, colourful, daring.
‘I said you can go.’
Except I don’t want to go. Not now. I don’t want to leave her like this. Her bleak demeanour is all the more pronounced as she stands surrounded by luxury, the kind that speaks of her extreme success.
But I wonder at the cost.
This was her marital home; they lived here together for a long time. How can she walk within these four walls and not confront that loss daily? I upped and left the second I lost Layla. Anything to cut myself off from the past, start afresh and forget.
‘Why do you live here?’ I say into the strained quiet.
She stiffens so I know she hears me, but...nothing.
I walk up to her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I said it.’
Only I do. But to an outsider it’s the strangest question in the world. Why wouldn’t you choose to live in such a glorious haven from the bustling city outside when you can afford to do so?
‘And yet you asked it?’ She looks at me, brows pinched together, her eyes seeing far too much, and I look away. What can I say to that?
I asked because when I was in her position I didn’t have the courage to stay. I didn’t have the strength to face my past, day in, day out, and be okay. I asked because I think she’s mad to do so.
Does it make her stronger than me on some level? Stronger and yet more damaged, because all the adventure she’s pursuing smacks of a downward spiral that I’ve been asked to bring to an end.
‘You sure I can’t get you a drink? You look like you need one as much as me now.’
I startle, aware that there’s so much in my face, so much that I don’t want her to see. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘You don’t drink...? What, ever?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ She drawls it out and her eyes remain fixed on me, too curious, too aware. ‘Care to talk about it?’
‘About what?’ I’m playing dumb, but getting that personal with her is a bad, bad move.
‘Whatever’s got you looking like that?’
‘No.’
She makes a soft sigh into her glass and goes back to looking at the view outside. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’
‘Agreed.’ Though I want her to talk about it. I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to know what makes her tick. I want to help her, just as Alan and the board want me to help her. I want to get her back to how she was...
‘But there are other things we could do...’ Her eyes slide to me and hell, if I don’t let mine slide to her. ‘Things far more fun.’
It’s like being on a rollercoaster...no, the waltzer...the dizzying speed with which she flips from seductress, to spurned, to pained, to professional, and hell, I can’t keep up and I know it’s all part and parcel of where her head is at.
‘Seriously, Olivia, you need to kill the innuendo. We’re going to be working together.’
