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‘It can all wait until tomorrow.’ She gathered up the coffee cups, cutting them off from the only thing that had kept them going this long, and one by one her two designers, one architect and her much loved assistant made their way out of the door.
Once alone, Emily sighed. They’d done good work on the Northcote project in the Cotswolds but the restaurant in San Antonio was niggling. It was still early days but she hadn’t foundthe thingyet. And Emily would continue to be unsettled until she foundthe thingthat brought the project together.
It had always been like that. Ever since she’d finished the evening course with the Design Institute. Returning from Spain, full of heartache, with nowhere to live and no idea what to do, had been awful. Until Francesca, her best friend, had invited Emily to stay in her home while she went travelling with her boyfriend. The only proviso was that Emily ‘oversaw’ the renovation of the kitchen/diner. Desperate for a distraction from the hope that her husband would come for her—that her sudden and shocking absence might finally make him notice her—Emily had first shadowed the interior designer and then become more of a project manager, coordinating the revolving door of tradespeople.
Through the months of the renovation, Emily had realised Javier wasn’t coming for her. That the man she loved with a desperation that had almost ruined her had accepted her absence from his life as easily as a change in the weather. The devastation had very nearly ruined her, but as Fran’s project came to a close the interior designer—Maggie—had encouraged her to take the Design Institute’s course, insisting that Emily had an ‘eye for it’.
So Emily had thrown herself into the world of interior design. She’d studied at night, working with Maggie during the day, learning from anyone she met. And when she had taken on her first job? It had been terrifying, with steep learning curves and intense hard work, but it had been a resounding success. And word of mouth had soon spread. People loved Emily’s dedication and ability to reach beyond what her clients wanted to what theyneeded. And that thing that held an entire project together? Identifying it had become an integral part of Emily’s process, but one that couldn’t be forced.
Needing a little decompression time before she went to bed, she opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of white Rioja. Leaning against the kitchen’s countertop, she relished the silence of the large warehouse floor in Bermondsey that was all hers. The office, where scattered paper and laptops lay on a long industrial table, was partitioned off from her living area by wide factory-style windows and carefully placed planters bursting with greenery.
A sprawling white fluffy rug lay in front of an L-shaped sofa that was more comfortable than her bed. The magazine, open at the article she’d done last month, shimmered beneath the overhead light and Emily cringed. They said there was no such thing as bad publicity, but the puff piece had been written by a man who had sacrificed integrity for alliteration, and had focused on her appearance rather than her talent. But she couldn’t deny that they had seen an increase in traffic on their website.
They were already beyond a healthy capacity, Emily knew, but she couldn’t resist the lure of security that more work offered.‘Just hire more staff.’The directive came with a typically Spanish shoulder-shrug.‘I’ll give you the money.’
The voice, sounding very much like her estranged husband, failed to grasp how important it was to Emily that she ran her business onherterms. But then he’d always done that—seen things the wayhesaw them, not bending for anything or anyone. So, no. She’d make it work with what she had until she knew absolutely that she could afford to expand.
She took a sip of wine and looked out of the window and down onto the deserted south London streets. Small boutique coffee shops punched above their weight next to international chains. Luxury apartments stared down defiant Victorian terraces and artist studios filled the docks next to Michelin starred restaurants. It was chaos in all its London beauty. But, for all the affection she felt for the area and the success she’d achieved with her career, Emily couldn’t deny that something was missing. It had been creeping up on her in the last few years, as if, now that professionally she was beginning to feel secure, a new need, a new yearning was on the horizon. A more personal one.
Placing the glass of wine on the windowsill, she looked at the simple gold band on her ring finger. They’d been in such a hurry to wed, as if, even then, they’d worried that time might change their minds. She’d known that Javier would have preferred something grander, the ringandthe ceremony. But she’d been quietly happy, the plain gold band more meaningful than a precious jewel that wouldn’t have suited her at all.
She splayed her fingers, indecision warring deep within her. As if this were a line in the sand, as if removing it would be an act she couldn’t take back. Gritting her teeth, she took off the ring, placing it beside her glass on the window ledge. She inhaled through the feeling of unease and took a sip of wine to cover the taste of tension on her tongue. She shook out her hands and flexed her fingers, hoping to dispel the sudden and intense feeling ofabsence.
Her phone’s ringtone made her jump—the sound unusual and alarming at this time of night. She caught the Spanish area code in the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen as she went to answer it and a sense of foreboding cut into her breathing, quick and sharp. Responding to the caller, she confirmed that yes, she was Mrs Casas, and then the glass of wine slipped from her numb fingers and shattered on the floor.
Pain.
It gripped his head like a vice and when he breathed it was as if the devil himself had thrust a red-hot poker between his ribs. A lifelong habit had him stifling the groan that threatened to escape his throat. Javier knew he wasn’t alone, and hereallywanted to be alone.
Earlier—he couldn’t say exactly when—he thought he’d heard his mother, which had been, unsurprisingly, enough to send him back under. Now he tried to hold onto the voices; a man was speaking in hushed but frustrated tones. So his motherwasthere.
Javier breathed as deeply as he dared and nearly cried out loud from the pain in his chest. Somewhere in the room a monitor beeped noisily, halting the conversation until the sound returned to a steadier rhythm and the voices resumed.
Why couldn’t he remember what had happened?
He was in a hospital, that much was clear.
‘He should be locked up!’ his mother cried, shrill and overly loud. For a moment, Javier wondered if Renata was talking about him.
‘He has spoken to the police, assisted them in their investigation and is not currently under any suspicion,’ the confident male voice explained.
‘But how can that be?’ Renata demanded. ‘He was driving!’
Esteban.They’d had an accident? Was Esteban okay? The beeping monitor increased in speed again, frustrating Javier beyond belief. He wanted to ask but he couldn’t seem to make his mouth do what he wanted it to.
‘It is clear to everyone that it was not his fault and he will be discharged later today.’
‘While my son stays here?’ There was a pause, as if the room’s occupants tried to fathom Renata’s illogical response to the different injuries sustained by the two men. ‘I want to talk to your boss.’ His mother was practically screeching now.
‘I am Chief of Surgery.’
‘Who is your boss?’
‘Mrs Casas, why don’t we go to my office?’
‘I will not leave my son!’ The outrage in her voice was horribly familiar. That, more than any pain, brought a cold sweat to his brow. Renata was difficult, truly difficult, and the only way he’d found to successfully navigate her personality was to put distance between them. He would have put the moon between them had it not been for his sister Gabi. His jumbled brain threw up a memory from his childhood that would have nearly buckled him had he been standing.
Please, Mamá, it hurts.
