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“I gathered that.” She blows out a breath and tugs her carpet bag into the crook of her arm.
“What did she say?” I ask, not sure I want to know.
“I can’t possibly repeat it.”
I wince. What a great start. “I’m sorry, she’s had a bad day.”
“Yeah, a few challenges to deal with,” John pipes in, passing me with a box. I curl a lip at his back.
“Challenges?” Cathy asks.
“Don’t ask,” John calls. “You want a ride home?”
“Oh, yes please, although you’ll need to give me a leg up into that big car of yours.” She looks at Clive. “He’s got a Chelsea tractor, Clive. I need a stepladder to get into it.”
“I’ll give you a leg up, Cathy.” John gives my old housekeeper a rare flash of his gold tooth as he passes me again, collecting another box, and she chuckles. “Let me get the rest of the boxes up.”
“I’ll help,” Clive declares, rolling up his proverbial sleeves and getting back in the elevator.
“Very good of you, Clive,” Cathy says.
“He’ll probably want paying,” I grumble, joining them.
We ride down, and Cathy and Clive chat non-stop, while John and I remain mute, throwing each other curious looks every now and then.
Clive doesn’t help at all. He remains in the foyer wooing Cathy with tales of his boxing career in the army while John and I haul the rest of Ava’s stuff up to the penthouse. “Is it wise to leave you two alone together?” John asks, setting the final box down.
“I’m calm,” I tell him, feeling it for the first time in too long.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“Fix it.”
“Exactly.” He turns and takes his huge body out of my penthouse. “I’ll call you later to check everyone’s alive.” The door closes, and I look toward the staircase. I want nothing more than to go to her, hug her, apologize for ram-raiding her day, if only to get us out of this ugly rut. But I know the wise thing to do is give her space. Time to take a breath and think clearly before she does anything hasty.
Like leave me.
I take one step toward the kitchen, intending on getting some water to ease my scratchy throat, but stop when Ava’s handbag on the floor catches my eye. Or, more to the point, what’s poking out of it. I crouch slowly and pull out a pot of pills. Vitamins? I turn the white pot in my hand, looking up at the stairs. Why would she be taking vitamins?
There’s only one answer.
I inhale, dropping the pot back into her bag. Is that why she’s behaving so erratically? Her hormones are all over the place because...
My muscles tighten, ready to lift me back to standing, when something else catches my attention. A piece of paper, and on the corner I see a logo from a flight comparison website. The squeeze of my heart? Don’t like it at all.
I take the paper and unfold it, finding various flight times from various London airports.
All going to Sweden.
Next fucking week.
She’s leaving the fucking country, and she hasn’t thought to mention it? I don’t—
My thought process stops right there, and the worst realization slams into me, making me reach for the nearby wall to hold me up. “No,” I whisper, my eyes going back to the stairs. Sweden. Van der Haus’s new apartment block is inspired by Swedish design. “Jesus, no.” The fucker. And Ava thinks this is acceptable?
Like a bullet, I take the stairs, flying through our penthouse like a madman. I burst into our bedroom. Empty. Stalk to the bathroom, flinging the door open. She’s on the chaise in the window, her eyes glassy. She’s upset?
“What the fuck is this?” I bellow, flapping the offending piece of paper around my head.
