Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I don’t kid myself for very long as he stands, his next words cutting to the brutal truth of it.
“I’m sorry too, but I’m not looking for someone else to look after.” Through the haze of my tears, I see him by the side of the bed, watch in slow motion as he lowers his head. “Goodbye, Mimi.” He presses a kiss to my head. “I truly hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I already have, I want to say as I watch him walk out of the door with my love.
42
WHIT
I leave. I leave her room, the hospital. I leave my apartment, my family, and I leave the country. I get as far away from Mimi Valente as I can for the sake of my own sanity.
I can’t watch her self-destruct. I can’t be there. Can’t hold her hand. Yet I can’t stay away, and I hate myself for it. Two weeks after moving to Zurich, after going to great expense to move my office and support staff, I move back to London again.
Because I’m my own worst enemy.
I can’t seem to stay away though I tell myself things will return to normal when Mimi moves back to Florida. As I understand it, this won’t be too much longer. And where do I get my intel? Where else but Polly. She keeps in contact with Mimi’s parents. She lets me know how her procedure went. How her subsequent checkups went. What her cardiologist says. And how quiet Mimi is when she visits.
While Mimi was in St. Barts, I gave up my place to her parents. When she was discharged, I arranged them a small flat near the hospital. It didn’t seem fair for her to move back to a place holding so many memories.
I can’t stay there myself. All I can see is her lying prone on the floor, and when I do, I feel like I’m having my own fucking cardiac arrest.
But I’m there today because Polly wants to “pop around for a chat.” I hadn’t the heart to tell her I’m staying here. I don’t feel like answering the million questions she’ll no doubt have, and I don’t want her worried looks or her sympathy.
I just want to drink whisky and eat carbs from the room service menu and fucking well wallow until my arteries clog, which I manage that quite well in a suite in a nearby hotel.
“Hello, darling.” Poll knows the code to the door, of course, and comes bustling in, dumping her Birkin on the floor. In her arm, she has chocolates and flowers, which she puts down on the island bench.
“Have you bought me flowers?” Jesus, I must look like a sad sack.
“No, silly. Those are for Mimi’s mother. I’m popping over to their flat after our visit.”
“Oh.” I bite the inside of my lip against the notion of asking for news.
“The chocolates are for Mimi, of course. I also bought a bottle of wine for her dad, but I dropped my bag on the way over, so now it stinks like a wine barrel.”
I try not to grimace, thinking of the price of the bag.
“They think Mimi will get the all clear to go back home next week.”
“Oh,” I repeat, then add, “I’m sure they’ll all be very happy to see the back of London.”
“Well, two of them will. One is a little sad that she’s having to leave prematurely.”
“It’s for the best,” I say gruffly. “Want a coffee?” Before she answers, I’m already making my way over to the machine.
“Go on then,” she says, “you’ve twisted my arm.”
I make a couple of flat whites, thankful for the shopping service or else I’d be making coffee with cottage cheese, and hand one to Mum, mainly to stop her going around with a feather duster she’s pulled from the cleaning closet.
“Mum, sit down. I pay someone to do this.”
“I’m just making sure you’re getting your money’s worth,” she mutters, bending down to swipe something up from under a sideboard. “See. Looks like they missed this,” she says, handing me a notebook I’ve never seen before. “They can’t be that good. They’re clearly not vacuuming properly.”
Black and unassuming, I twist the notebook around. It doesn’t exactly scream owned by Mimi, but somehow, I know it’s hers. I shouldn’t read it, I think as I flip through the pages. And then I do as Mum rounds the island to wash her hands wittering on about me making Lavender come and dust once a week in exchange for all the bills I pay. Frankly, I’d rather become a hoarder and live in squalor than have to listen to her complaining every week.
The notebook is blank but for one page when a feminine hand has penned a list
1. Stop caring so much what other people think. You only have one life to live and what you do with it is no business of anyone else.