Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
She looks me up and down. “I don’t think marriage suits you, Jesse.”
“Oh fuck off,” I snap, getting in my car and speeding away.
10
I drive down Bruton Street, seeing Ava sitting at her . . . what the fuck is that? It’s definitely not her desk. A paste table?
I don’t have time to figure it out before I’m past the office. I look up at my rearview mirror, noting traffic behind me. “Shit.” Scanning for a space, I find nothing, resorting to parking in a car park off Arlington Street and walking back to her office.
The café I’ve used before when I’ve waited for her is just up the street—it’s better than loitering outside her office—so I trudge up, pulling out a chair and sitting. I order a water and a sandwich that I won’t eat, looking down at my watch. I’ve got quite a few hours before she finishes. Not that it matters. I have nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. Only hope. Pray.
By late afternoon, I’ve had six waters, the sandwich I ordered is stale, and I’m in desperate need of a piss but dare not leave the table in case I miss Ava leaving. But I’m at risk of embarrassing myself if I don’t get to the men’s soon. I wave the waitress over who looks at my untouched sandwich as she has each time I’ve ordered another drink.
“Another water?” she asks.
“No, actually, I need the men’s.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
I give her a tired look.
“Through the back on the left.” She motions to the sandwich. “Are you ever going to eat that.”
“No.”
“Is something wrong with it?”
“No.”
Poor thing looks perplexed. I dip into my pocket for my wallet, pulling out two twenties. I hold them up. “That’s too much, sir,” she says, plucking one of the twenties from my fingers. “I’ll get your change.”
“No,” I call as she walks off, stopping her. I flash the other twenty. “Spare me sixty seconds and you can have this one too.”
She looks alarmed for a moment. “Sir, I’m flattered, and don’t get me wrong, you’re really hot and all, but how old are you? Like . . . forty? Because I’m seventeen and that’s all kinds of wrong.”
I stare at her, dumfounded. She thinks I’m offering her money for . . . what? A date? Jesus, does she think I’ve been sitting here all day to admire her? “Whoa,” I say, laughing nervously, my hand up. I point to my ring finger. “I’m married.”
“That doesn’t always matter.”
“Well, it matters to me,” I snap. “And I’m thirty-fucking-eight, okay?”
She recoils. “Okay.”
I push the twenty into her hand. “I want you to watch that door over there and come and tell me if a dark-haired woman comes out before I’m back.” Listen to me. What the hell do I sound like?
The young waitress looks at me alarmed, like I’m some kind of fucking stalker. Nearly right, love. Nearly. “It’s my wife,” I say, pointing to my ring again.
“Sure,” she mumbles quietly, pocketing my cash.
No, I’m not having this. If she’s taking my money, she’s taking my word. “It’s my wife,” I repeat, my head tilted. “Her name’s Ava. She’s twenty-six. Sh—”
“Twenty-six?”
“Oh, forget it,” I mutter, stalking off before I embarrass myself further and piss myself. She already thinks I’m a fucking dinosaur. Let’s not make her believe I’m an incontinent one. “Sixty seconds,” I call.
“After all the water you’ve drank?”
“Just watch the fucking door.” I rush to the men’s and make fast work of relieving myself, shuddering. Jesus, I’ve held it too long.
Bang, bang, bang.
I jump, looking back at the door that’s vibrating on its hinges with the constant thumps. “Dude, she’s come out.”
Fuck!
I quickly put myself away, wash my hands with not nearly enough time and no soap, and hurry out, throwing a thanks over my shoulder as I jog down the street, seeing Ava turn onto Berkeley Square. “Fuck it.”
I catch up with her, slowing when I’m just a few paces behind. I check my watch. It’s too early for her to finish. A meeting? And with whom? Naturally, my mind goes to Van Der Haus. Surely she wouldn’t.
I dial her. She doesn’t even get her phone out. I see the Tube station nearing and try her again, willing her to give me a chance and talk to me. I don’t want to confront her on the street, and I don’t want her to know I’ve not respected her demand for space. Okay, so I’ve called her a few times, but given my usual response to situations in the past when she’s walked away from me, I think I’m doing quite well. Is she going to ignore my calls forever? Will I never be given the chance to express my remorse and spill my apologies? The thought angers me. I accept it’s unreasonable, but it’s been twenty-four hours now since she walked out on me. She’s not told me where she’s staying, how she is, what happens next.