Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
He holds his phone up and smiles wickedly. “I can’t. She’s kicked me out.”
I come to a stop, my brow bunching. “Why? You had cards night here last night. She was cool with that.”
“She was, until her mate called her this morning and told her that she saw me in a bar in Shoreditch last night.”
“Oh? Did you happen to be with Amanda?” I narrow my eyes. “Why the fuck did you let her use your phone on Saturday night?”
“She said hers had run out of charge,” he argues, defensive.
I huff. “That’s shady shit.” And a clear sign I should be running for the hills.
“Why?” he goes on. “Are you avoiding her?”
“Yes. No.”
He grins, and I sigh.
“But it’s your place. Charity can’t kick you out of your own place.”
“Tell her that.”
I shake my head and brace my hands on the metal railing for some support, becoming breathless. I damn Pops to hell once again. “Just finish it, Todd. Call it quits.”
“She’ll go loco.” He looks truly horrified by the thought. “I’ll just stay here until she moves out.”
“No way. You know I like my own space.”
“Come on, Luke. It’ll be like we’re twenty-something again, with not a care in the world.”
“First of all, I was never in my twenties with not a care in the world. I was a father, twathead,” I point out. I’m still a dad. Not past tense. God, I hate being hungover. “Second of all, we’re forty-something, with businesses to run and homes to pay for.”
“Yeah, well, my home is currently under siege by a melodramatic female, so for the time being you’re stuck with me, bro.”
“Lucky me.” I push myself off the railings and stretch my muscles. “I’m getting a shower and going to work.”
“Great.” He claps his hands and rubs them together on a devilish grin. “And tonight we’re going for a drink.”
“I’m not going for a drink,” I assure him, my face screwing up at the thought of putting more alcohol in my body.
“Just a quiet one.” Todd turns and goes back into the kitchen. “You can tell me what’s crawled up your arse.”
“Nothing has crawled up my arse,” I mutter, hearing him laugh. “And get rid of the chilies.” I head straight for the shower and let the water wash away the whiskey from my pores for half an hour.
Rubbing a towel over my head, I go to my nightstand and grab my watch, slipping it over my wrist. Something catches my eye, pausing me mid-securing of the catch. I reach forward and lift the catalogue, my frown deepening as I slowly realize what I’m looking at. A Tiffany catalogue? “What?” I ask myself, flicking through, noticing a page folded down. I drop the book the second I catch sight of the diamond ring dominating the page. “Unbelievable,” I breathe. A few times under the covers and a dinner or two, that’s all. Grabbing my phone, I tap out a message to Lo.
I was right. Amanda is definitely a nutter.
I spend ten minutes staring at the screen of my phone, waiting for a reply.
It doesn’t come.
Playing squash on Tuesday wasn’t much of a distraction. Neither were the fifty lengths I swam on Wednesday. Or the drinks I had with Todd last night while watching the Thursday evening match. By Friday morning, I still haven’t had a reply from Lo. It’s making me feel a little uneasy. I’m worried. I’ve run over last Saturday night in my mind endlessly. She was fine. Then she suddenly wasn’t. Then she seemed okay when I took her home. I can’t call her. I really shouldn’t have texted her. It was a compulsive moment. I wanted to share my enlightenment on Amanda’s nuttery with someone, and Lo was the natural person to share it with. Maybe her husband saw the message. Did he see the message? And if so, what did he do? I won’t rest until I’ve seen her today for our usual lunch date.
My head hurts with so many questions fighting for space as I settle at my desk and fire up my desktop while listening to Pam reel off the list of things I have to do today. She goes on forever, the list endless. Good. I’ll be too busy to do anything other than focus on work.
After spending all morning on a conference call to Beijing, discussing the technology behind out latest security monitoring equipment, I once again find myself fighting back my worry, telling myself I’m being unreasonable. But . . . am I being unreasonable?
At 12:45 on the dot, I’m out of the office, hurrying to Nero’s to meet Lo for lunch. I get our usual and split our tuna baguette, pulling out the cucumber for Lo and setting it at the place opposite me, ready for her. I don’t eat my half, leaving it on the wrapper, my fingers starting to drum the table. I look at my watch. Ten past. I look at my phone. Ten past. My eyes fall to the door, willing her to enter. She’s never late. Not ever. We never confirm our lunches, either, because it goes without confirming. Has done since our second lunch. We’re both just . . . here. One o’clock without fail. I look down at my watch again. Quarter past. I look at my phone. Quarter past. I hate the kick of my heartbeats with each minute that passes, my eyes constantly checking from the door, to my watch, to my phone.