Max. I’m your wife, and I’m sick of being treated like any other employee. And I’m not going to let you do it to me any more.’
He stared at her for another endless moment, then rammed his hands through his hair and glanced at his watch before reaching for another shirt. ‘You’ve picked a hell of a time for a marital,’ he growled, and, not for the first time, she wanted to scream.
‘It’s not a marital,’ she said as calmly as she could manage. ‘It’s a fact. I’m not coming—and I don’t know if I’ll be here when you get back. I can’t do it any more—any of it—and I need time to work out what I do want.’
His fists balled in the shirt, crushing it to oblivion, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t as if she’d been the one who’d ironed it. The laundry service took care of that. She didn’t have time. She was too busy making sure the cogs were all set in motion in the correct sequence.
‘Hell, Jules, your timing sucks.’
He threw the shirt into the case and stalked to the window, ramming his hand against the glass and staring out over the London skyline, his tall, muscled frame vibrating with tension. ‘You know what this means to me—how important this deal is. Why today?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I just—I’ve hit a brick wall. I’m so sick of not having a life.’
‘We have a life!’ he roared, twisting away from the window and striding across to tower over her, his fists opening and closing in frustration. ‘We have a damn good life.’
‘No, we go to work.’
‘And we’re stunningly successful!’
‘Business-wise, I agree—but it’s not a life.’ She met his furious eyes head-on, refusing to let him intimidate her. She was used to Max in a temper, and he’d never once frightened her. ‘Our home life isn’t a success, because we don’t have a home life, Max. We didn’t see your family over Christmas, we’ve worked over New Year—for God’s sake, we watched the fireworks out of the office window! And did you know today’s the last day for taking down the decorations? We didn’t even have any, Max. We didn’t do Christmas. It just happened all around us while we carried on. And I want more than that. I want—I don’t know—a house, a garden, time to potter amongst the plants, to stick my fingers in the soil and smell the roses.’ Her voice softened. ‘We never stop and smell the roses, Max. Never.’
He frowned, let his breath out on a harsh sigh, and stared at his watch. His voice when he spoke was gruff.
‘We have to go. We’re going to miss our flight. Take some time out, if that’s what you need, but come with me, Jules. Get a massage or something, go and see a Zen garden, but for God’s sake stop this nonsense—’
‘Nonsense?’ Her voice was cracking, and she firmed it, but she couldn’t get rid of the little shake in it. ‘I don’t believe you, Max. You haven’t heard a damn thing I’ve said. I don’t want to go to a Zen garden. I don’t want a massage. I’m not coming. I need time—time to think, time to work out what I want from life—and I can’t do that with you pacing around the hotel bedroom at four o’clock in the morning and infecting me with your relentless enthusiasm and hunger for power. I just can’t do it, and I won’t.’
He dashed his hand through his hair again, rumpling the dark strands and leaving them on end, and then threw his washbag in on top of the crumpled shirt, tossed in the shoes that were lying on the bed beside the case and slammed it shut.
‘You’re crazy. I don’t know what’s got into you—PMT or something. And anyway, you can’t just walk out, you’ve got a contract.’
‘A con—?’ She laughed, a strange, high-pitched sound that fractured in the middle. ‘So sue me,’ she said bitterly, and, turning away, she walked out of their bedroom and into the huge open-plan living space with its spectacular view of the river before she did something she’d regret.
It was still dark, the lights twinkling on the water, and she stared at them until they blurred. Then she shut her eyes.
She heard the zip on his case as he closed it, the trundle of the wheels, the sharp click of his leather soles against the beautiful wooden floor.
‘I’m going now. Are you coming?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Because, if you don’t, that’s it. Don’t expect me to run around after you begging.’
She nearly laughed at the thought, but her heart was too busy breaking. ‘I don’t.’
‘Good. So long as we understand one another. Where’s my passport?’
‘On the table, with the tickets,’ she said without turning round, and waited, her breath held.
Waited for what—some slight concession? An apology? No, never that. I love you? But she couldn’t remember when he’d last said those words, and he didn’t say them now. She heard his footsteps, the wheels of his case on the floor, the rattle of his keys, the rustle of paper as he picked up the flight details, his passport and tickets, then the click of the latch.
‘Last call.’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘Fine. Suit yourself. You know where to find me when you change your mind.’ Then there was a pause, and again she waited, but after an age he gave a harsh sigh and the door clicked shut.
Still she waited, till she heard the ping of the lift, the soft hiss of the door closing, the quiet hum as it sank down towards the ground floor.
Then she sat down abruptly on the edge of the sofa and jerked in a breath.
He’d gone. He’d gone, and he hadn’t said a word to change her mind, not one reason why she should stay. Except that she’d be breaking her contract.
Her contract, of all things! All she wanted was some time to think about their lives, and, because she wouldn’t go with him, he was throwing away their marriage and talking about a blasted contract!
‘Damn you, Max!’ she yelled, but her voice cracked and she started to cry, great, racking sobs that tore through her and brought bile to her throat.
She ran to the bathroom and was horribly, violently sick, then slumped trembling to the floor, her back propped against the wall, her legs huddled under her on the hard marble.
‘I love you, Max,’ she whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you give us a chance?’
Would she have gone with him if he’d stopped, changed his flight and told her he loved her—taken her in his arms and hugged her and said he was sorry?
No. And, anyway, that wasn’t Max’s style.
She could easily have cried again, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, so she pulled herself together, washed her face, cleaned her teeth and repaired her make-up. Then she went back out to the living room and picked up the phone.
‘Jane?’
‘Julia,
