upon Thames that she shared with her boyfriend of four years to discover him packing a suitcase.
Confusion was the first emotion to hit. Why was Ethan at home on a Thursday? It wasn’t even lunchtime. Did he have a business trip planned? But then why wasn’t it logged on their shared calendar? Their iPads were synchronized for real-time updates, so even if it was a last-minute booking, she’d know about it.
The look on Ethan’s face gave further cause for alarm. ‘What are you doing home?’ His tone was surprisingly accusatory.
Part of her wondered if she’d caught him having an affair. Was she about to discover a woman hiding in the wardrobe? No, that wasn’t possible … mostly because the wardrobes were disturbingly empty.
Ethan was holding a suit-carrier bag. He threw it onto the bed, as if ridding himself of an incriminating weapon. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
She hadn’t been expecting him either.
Her brain was still trying to compute what her eyes were telling her. Clothes lying on the bed. Wardrobe doors open. Empty hanging rails. Two large suitcases sitting on the floor, their wheels denting the thick pile beneath. If Ethan didn’t move them soon, they’d permanently mark the carpet. Her brain was deflecting again.
‘I’ve been fired.’ Saying the words aloud made the reality of her situation even more painful. She’d lost her job. No, not lost. It had been stolen. She’d been unfairly cut loose, the sacrificial lamb, tossed onto the scrapheap as though she didn’t matter. But if she expected Ethan to be as upset as she was, she was woefully disappointed. He looked annoyed. Although, somehow, she sensed this wasn’t due to injustice on her behalf. ‘Fired?… Why?’
Ignoring his question, she focused on what was happening in the bedroom that she’d shared with her partner for nearly two years, a room with subtle lighting, a king-sized bed and designer fitted wardrobes … which were currently empty.
She looked at Ethan. He wasn’t dressed in his usual work suit with Tom Ford shirt and tie, he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. His dark-blond hair had been cut since this morning – another appointment not recorded on their calendar.
The pounding in her head increased. ‘Why are you packing? What’s going on here?’
He stepped forward as if about to speak, but something flickered across his face. Irritation? Guilt? Panic?
She waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. ‘Ethan …?’
He drew his shoulders back, showing off the full extent of his six-foot height. Even in heels, she didn’t reach his chin. He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this.’
She took off her suit jacket, suddenly feeling hot. He still hadn’t spoken. ‘Ethan?’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve accepted a job in Paris.’
The words tumbled out in such a rush that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. ‘Paris …?’ Nope, her brain still wasn’t catching on. Nothing he was saying made any sense. ‘I don’t understand. What job in Paris?’
He shrugged. ‘It all came about quite suddenly.’
‘What, since this morning?’ It was no good, she had to move the suitcase before it ruined the carpet. Slipping off her Carvela courts, she tilted the suitcase against the bed. Blimey, how much stuff was he taking with him? ‘We ate breakfast together. We discussed our plans for the day. You didn’t think to mention you were off to Paris?’
Scooping up the clothes on the bed, he dumped them in the second suitcase and zipped it shut. ‘I thought it was easier this way.’ His tone bordered on belligerent.
‘I don’t understand.’ She smoothed away a crease in her grey skirt. ‘How long is this job for? A week? A month?’
He hesitated. ‘It’s permanent.’
It took a moment before the penny dropped. ‘Are … are you leaving me?’
If she expected instant denial and assurances that she was mistaken, followed by a plausible explanation as to why he was taking a job in another country, it didn’t come.
His eyes dropped to the floor. Silence descended. It was a good while before he nodded, confirming her fears.
The heat she’d felt just moments before turned to an icy chill. Her skin contracted, sending shivers racing up her arms. ‘But … why?’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘You can’t be that surprised, Charlotte. Things haven’t been good for a while.’ He rammed the suit-carrier bag into the suitcase.
Hadn’t they? This was news to her. ‘Things are fine … aren’t they?’ She walked towards him. He’d crease his suit if he carried on shoving it like that. Why was she thinking about his suit at a time like this? But she knew why. When faced with adversity, her default setting was to try and erase the problem. She cleaned, she straightened, she dusted and scrubbed, anything to maintain the polished exterior and disguise the mess lying beneath. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
He wheeled one of the cases from the bedroom, refusing to make eye contact. ‘I’m not happy.’
She followed him into the open-plan lounge. ‘What’s not to be happy about?’ She gestured to the space around them, the pale dove-grey walls and glass French doors leading onto a balcony overlooking the Thames. ‘We’ve created a beautiful home together. We have good jobs … or at least we did until an hour ago.’ She shook her head, still trying to come to terms with her new unemployed status. ‘We eat at fancy restaurants. We’re planning to visit interesting destinations. We lead the perfect life …’
‘And that’s the problem, Charlotte. Everything has to be perfect.’ He picked up one of the mauve-silk cushions, strategically placed in the middle of the corner sofa. ‘There’s no room for spontaneity. Everything has to be planned and logged on that bloody calendar of yours.’ He threw the cushion against the wall. ‘We’ve never even visited any of the places on that damned list.’
She flinched. The soft furnishings hadn’t come cheap. Instinctively, she padded across the wooden flooring in her bare feet and picked up the cushion. ‘But we lead such busy lives …’
He threw his hands in the air. ‘I know, but it’s like my whole existence is mapped out for me. I can’t take it anymore, you’re too exacting, too uptight. Look at you, even now you’re tidying up.’
She glanced down at the cushion. He had a point. ‘I like a tidy house. I thought you did too?’
He shook his head. ‘But you take it to the extreme. You won’t even let me make you a cup of tea because I don’t make it to your specific requirements.’
She hugged the cushion, trying to stem the onset of tears. ‘That’s hardly a reason to break up.’
He walked towards her, his gait animated. ‘The other night you said no to sex on the couch.’
Why on earth was he bringing that up? ‘Well, of course I did. It’s brand new.’
He ripped the cushion from her hand, making her flinch. ‘It’s a couch!
