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“It’s not up to you.”
“So I don’t get a say in my own life?”
“That’s not fair. Why can’t anyone just let me make this decision for myself?” She doesn’t swear much, unless we’re having sex, so I know how upset she is. I think she’s forgotten I’m on the phone.
“I didn’t want to talk about this,” Charlie snaps, “but you both made me do it.”
“You were sobbing like a baby. I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Both you and Mum want me to talk about everything. It never seems to occur to either of you that sometimes a person doesn’t want to talk.”
“Charlie, grow up, for God’s sake. You can’t come home and be so obviously unhappy and expect us to ignore you.”
“I didn’t want to talk about it, but Mum pushed me until I was in tears, and then you started. And now she’s upset, and talking about ending it all because she’s such a burden on the two of us—”
“Oh my God, don’t say that…”
“And I know how much you love Kip, and you’re breaking up with him, and it’s all my fault…” She starts sobbing.
“Honey… Ah shit.”
The phone goes dead.
I look at it, blinking, unable to understand how my whole life has crashed within the space of a few minutes.
I stare out at the view for a whole minute, my hand clenching and unclenching, fighting the urge to throw my phone at the wall and smash it into a billion pieces.
What will that achieve, though? Angrily, I turn from the window, go back to the sofa, pick up the glass, and have a big mouthful of whisky. It sears down inside me, but I welcome the burn.
I can’t believe she’s broken up with me. What the hell is the point in having all this money and not being able to help the woman I love? There are a hundred ways we could solve this problem, but she won’t consider any of them because of some foolish sense of pride that makes her feel as if she has to figure it all out for herself.
Don’t bully me.Jeez, that stings. Was I bullying her? Where’s the line between being organized and dominant? Being confident and bullying? One of my favorite movies isMaster and Commander, and in it Russell Crowe states that men have to be governed, to which the doctor replies that it’s the excuse of every tyrant in history. I’ve always believed that most people prefer to be led than to lead—that’s been my experience in business, anyway. But maybe in putting myself in a position of power, I take away a person’s ability to think for themself.
It makes me think of Craig’s comment:You put yourself on the fucking pedestal and then wonder why we try and knock you off it.Jesus, was he right? Is that what I do?
Is that what I’ve done with Alice?You’ve got to stop trying to dazzle me with dollar signs.I’ve bought her expensive presents, flown her on our private plane, brought her to my house, and taken her to the best restaurant in the city. I’ve tried to wow her with money, it’s true.
For the first time I understand what Saxon’s been through with Catie, who had even less money than Alice. She was homeless for a while and was malnourished because she couldn’t afford a decent diet. I’ve watched Saxon tease her with food, coaxing her as if she’s a child, and been puzzled by it. I was baffled by her reticence and her refusal to accept his help even though he’d gotten her pregnant, and I still am. Why are poor people so proud? Poverty isn’t a character flaw any more than having wealth is proof of a powerful personality, unless you’re in a mafia movie. I don’t get it, and it makes me angry that I’m sitting here in this huge house with a bank balance containing nine zeroes and I can’t do a single thing to get Alice back. There’s no point in flying up there and banging on her door. Or transferring a million dollars into her account. She’ll see everything I do now as trying to bully her into doing things my way. If she wants to act like a martyr, like fucking Joan of Arc, then there’s nothing I can do about it.
I knock back the rest of the whisky in my glass, get up and fetch the bottle, and pour myself another splash, trying desperately not to think about what I did with the ice last time Alice was in this house.
Having a big mouthful, I turn toward the living room and stop as I see Damon’s painting of Astraea on the wall. For the first time, it strikes me how much it looks like Alice, from the blonde hair to the pale, curvy figure beneath the flowing robes. I think of how shy she was that first time, how eager for my touch, how perfect. It would have been so much easier if I hadn’t gone on Tinder that night, not sent her a Super Like, not immediately messaged her. And yet I can’t bring myself to regret it.You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I miss you so much it hurts, she said, and I feel the same way. So why are we not together? None of this makes any sense.
Grabbing the bottle of whisky, and fighting the urge to slice a knife through the painting, I take the bottle into the living room, stretch out on the sofa, and decide that the Lagavulin is going to be the answer to all my problems.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kip
Which is all well and dandy until I hear the door open and Damon call out, “Kip?”
Fuck. I forgot all about the party tonight.
“Down here,” I yell, pushing myself upright on the sofa. It’s a struggle, and my eyes take a moment to focus on him as he comes down the stairs.
He takes one look at me and frowns. “We said five, right?”
“Uh, yeah.”
