Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“What? Oh, I didn’t end up going,” Tom answers in those overly modulated tones of his. Fake, fake, fake. He grew up on the rough side of Glasgow, which I don’t judge him for. What I do judge him for is the fact that he hid this from me. At least, I judge him now. I (foolishly) forgave him at the time.
“Oh, what a shame,” I add a little too gleefully. “I suppose Carly couldn’t get day release from the juvenile detention unit.”
“She’s not—”
“I don’t give a damn what she is or isn’t, what I do care about is that today is our son’s birthday, and you broke your promise to him.”
“You’re not still going on about that, are you?” he retorts, his tone terse. “I said I was sorry. She got the dates mixed up.”
“But you’re not in Paris. Didn’t it occur to you that Hugh might want to spend his birthday with you anyway? Even as your second choice?”
“He wouldn’t give up an Arsenal match. How’d you swing that, anyway?”
“Sandy arranged it,” I hedge, not wanting to tell Tom anything. The man is a weasel. It’s just a pity it took me a while to figure that out.
“Makes sense. I saw on the news that his friend was there. The Russian?” I offer nothing, leading Tom to try again. “They were speculating if he might be gearing up to buy a controlling stake in the club. What’s his name again?”
“I’m sure you know what his name is.”
“Van.” His lips twist as though the one syllable is distasteful. Tom doesn’t know about our history, but I sometimes wonder if he suspects. “I suppose it’s the Russian’s private jet they flew down in, too.”
“What do you want, Tom?”
“I need to talk to you.” Before I can tell him to get lost, he adds, “I can call in to Kilblair, if you like.”
“I don’t like.” Clicking the remote on my car, I pull open the door and throw my purse inside. “And I’m almost certain Sandy said the next time you step onto the grounds, he’d shoot you. Probably just in the leg.” I shrug. “But you can’t have everything.”
“But he’s not there, is he? He’s at Arsenal.”
How does he know that? “I have things to do today.” And no desire to help him ever again. Ruining our son’s birthday was the final straw.
“Izzy, please. I need your help.”
“Ha!” My shoulders roll in with the strength of that sound. “Look, I already know you’ve asked Sandy to help with the school fees. We don’t need to meet to discuss how useless you are.”
“It’s not about the school fees, for God’s sake. I’m in trouble!”
“And that’s supposed to interest me how?” I ask coolly.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you don’t want to buy the boys new suits for my funeral?” There’s a note of desperation in his voice that I don’t derive any joy from.
“What are you talking about?”
“Izzy, please. If you’re at Kilblair—”
“I’m in the village.”
“Meet me at the café? I’m begging you.”
Tom’s a weasel, but I’ve never heard him beg. Dragging my purse from the passenger seat, I slam the driver’s door. “This better be important,” I mutter, swearing to myself that I’ll run him over if it’s not.
“Thank you.” His answer sounds like a flood of relief. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The village café is slightly twee, yet not quite a greasy spoon kind of place. Cream-colored café style nets hang at the windows, the furniture is mostly turned spindle Windsor-style kitchen chairs and small tables covered in plastic floral tablecloths. I’m told it does a roaring trade during the tourist season, but today, it’s quiet with only a couple of old dears gossiping over a teapot at a table in the back. I consider ordering one coffee but decide not to be petty and order Tom one, too. I take them over to the window and glance down at my watch. If he isn’t here in five more minutes, I’m leaving, imminent funeral or not.
When Tom wasn’t cheating, he wasn’t a terrible husband. But he wasn’t the best either. We mostly got along. I think I confused his need for my attention for love, but it wasn’t until we married and had been living under the same roof for a while that I realized he only ever wanted my attention when we weren’t together. Under the same roof, it’s like I might as well have not been there at all. So it wasn’t a marriage of passion or deep abiding love, but we cared for each other. Or maybe I cared, and he just did his own thing. It’s a question I no longer ask myself.
I rushed into marriage, and I have Van to thank for that. I knew I wasn’t in love with Tom, but I liked him enough to believe I could learn to love him. He was good to me, kind at a time I needed it. But it didn’t last much beyond our wedding day. I came to understand why Sandy had said I was making a mistake. He’d called Tom a social climber (probably the most complimentary thing my brother had to say about him), and I’d accused Sandy of being a snob. At the time, the most important thing to me was that if I wasn’t madly in love with Tom, he couldn’t break my heart. But that didn’t mean he didn’t hurt me. And Sandy was right, Tom is a social climber. Marrying the sister of a duke must’ve felt like winning the lottery to him at first. He hated that I was never interested in that side of life. My title. Balls and country houses. I think he’d viewed me as his access ticket to the one percent club. But aristocrats aren’t always wealthy, and I never moved in monied circles in the first place. By the time I’d caught him in our bed with our very young, very Spanish nanny, I suppose it was almost a relief.