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It’s brutal.
9
“Ah, Mr. Ward,”the concierge says as I drag my knackered form through the lobby. I made it a few hundred yards walking before I broke back into a run. Desperate. And now, virtually crawling.
“Not now, Clive.” I smack the elevator button, step in, and check the time, pulling up when I see endless missed calls from Freja Van Der Haus. If I had any breath left, I’d lose it. Jesus fucking Christ, what now? What could she possibly want now? I call her back, and she answers quickly. I don’t speak.
“Jesse?”
“What do you want?” I ask, keeping it cold.
“I heard you were missing.”
Missing? Is that what we’re calling it? More like dying. “I’m not missing. So how can I help?”
“I was just checking in on you.”
“Are you joking? The last few times I’ve seen you, you’ve threatened to tell your husband about me and casually pointed out that my interior designer ishisinterior designer.”
“Are you still seeing her?”
I freeze. Is that why she’s calling? She’s heard through the grapevine that I’ve gone off the rails, more so than anyone is usually used to, and she’s drawn her conclusion. Me and Ava are finished. “Why are you so interested in me and Ava, Freja?”
“Just curious,” she says too casually for my liking.
“Right. Well, your curiosity is wasted here. Goodbye.”
“Oh, before you go, you should know that Mikael knows about us.”
I laugh under my breath. It’s that or hit something, and my hand has been through enough. “Wonderful. How?”
“It came up during the divorce.”
“What about the other men you fucked? Did they come up?”
“I’m just telling you out of courtesy.”
Bullshit. “Thank you,” I say through my teeth. “And have you shared anything else?”
“Is there anything else to share?”
“No.”
“I’m still welcome at The Manor?”
It pains me. Fuckingpainsme. “Yes.”But do not come near me or Ava.“Goodbye, Freja.” I cut the call, my head drops, heavy and tired, andI watch as beads of sweat hit the elevator floor. Uncomplicated love. That’s all I’m asking for. Is it too much to ask? And while we’re speaking of wishes, a bit of forthcoming information from Ava would be nice. Information of her movements so I don’t get home all excited, looking forward to getting my hands back on her, only to find she’s not there.
Plodding to the front door, I let myself in and stand for a few quiet moments taking in my penthouse. It’s plush. Expensive. Tasteful. All a man could ask for. Except it’s not. It’s missing something.
Tossing my key on the table, I go to the kitchen and down water until I fear I might bring it up. I could. I still feel nauseous, and my marathon run is only half the reason. I’m fucking ruined. Body and mind.
Music. I need some music.
I scan the countertops for the remote control, coming up empty, so I go to the lounge and kill a good ten minutes rootling down the side of the sofas, searching under cushions, scratching around the furniture. I start pulling open the drawers of the cabinet, one after the other, shutting them loudly. The silence is screaming. “Fuck it,” I curse, getting panicky, yanking open the final drawer. I freeze, staring down at the two photographs I shoved inside not long after I moved in.
Jacob.
And Rosie.
