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I roll my eyes and scribble my signature where indicated. “Is that it?”
“I just need a copy.” Juliette holds up my license, looking between me and Sarah.
“Sarah can scan one over to you.” I get up. “It’s been a pleasure,” I say, with just enough sarcasm.
“Has it?” she mutters, not looking up.
My hackles rise. Okay, I was late. I apologized. Who the fuck does she think she is? I must be one of her best clients. “Would it be—”
“Juliette’s husband recently joined The Manor,” Sarah says, and I swing my eyes to her.Oh?
“Ex-husband,” Juliette corrects Sarah, and I back off, her animosity now making perfect sense. “I’ll be going.” She stands, roughly gathers up the paperwork and pivots haughtily, stomping out. The door crashes against the wood behind her.
“Wow,” I say, dropping down to the couch and placing my phone on the table. “That is one scorned woman. Who’s her husband?”
“Steve Cooke.”
“You’re kidding?” I get up and get myself some water.
“Not kidding. We’re keeping an eye on him at the moment.”
“Why?”
“He’s just a little...loose, if you know what I mean.”
“You’ve had a complaint?”
“No, no complaints. Just my observations. Some women are more adventurous than others, let’s just say that.”
“Well as long as there’s good communication between members, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Exactly.”
My phone rings, and I down my water as I go to retrieve it but stall when I see who’s calling me. I peek at Sarah. She peeks at me. It’s uncomfortable as my mobile continues to ring, Amalie as persistent as ever, until it eventually shuts up.
Then the voicemail alert sounds.
I move fast, but Sarah moves faster, swiping up my mobile and holding it to her chest. It’s a tactical move. She knows I won’t touch her. “Give it to me,” I say, my tone threatening. “Now.”
She shakes her head and presses a few buttons, and Amalie’s voice comes over the speaker. And with her voice comes the excruciating pain in my chest. I have to physically push my fist into my heart to try and stem it, massaging urgently, battling to keep my breathing in check. “Jesse,” my sister says, her voice as wobbly as I’m feeling. “Please, I beg you. Call me back. I miss you so much. I need to know you’re okay. Okay? Please. I love you.”
I swallow repeatedly, over and over, walking aimlessly up and down my office. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I ask, seething.
“You need to talk to her.”
And say what? Sorry? Ask how Mum and Dad are? Ask if they’re still ashamed of me. Still hate me? Blame me? “Get the fuck out, Sarah. Just get the fuck out now.” I hear my mobile drop to the coffee table and the sound of her leaving my office. No apology. No explanation for being such a cruel bitch. She meets John at the door, and he looks at her passing, his forehead a map of lines, his eyes following her down the corridor. But he doesn’t ask. And she doesn’t tell.
Neither will I. “I’m out of here.” I edge past him, and he does something John rarely does. He places a hand on my shoulder and stops me. Physical force. His words or a look usually do the trick, so whatever John’s about to say means he thinks I’m going to run away from it.
I don’t look at him. Just feel the weight of his heavy hand and thick fingers wrapped over my shoulder. “This obsession isn’t healthy,” he says quietly.
“It’s not an obsession.”
“Fixation. Infatuation. Whatever. It isn’t healthy.”
For whom? Ava or me? I swallow and bat that thought away. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
