Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I look at Richard. Richard looks at me. ‘I’d avoid the front for a while if I were you.’
Of course, that means I just go right ahead and make my way out there, curious. Too curious. Dangerously curious. I find Jack halfway down the driveway and his wife waving her arms, looking deranged, while plenty of workmen look on. What on earth?
‘Why haven’t you answered my calls?’ she screeches.
Jack’s hands come up in a pacifying way, his body language now entirely different compared to when he left me a few moments ago. ‘I’ve been busy, Stephanie. I’m running a business.’ He sounds calm too.
‘Yeah, it’s all about fucking work with you. What about me? What about your marriage?’
I watch, rapt, as he seems to talk her down before taking her arm. She yanks herself free and shoves him away viciously, though Jack’s big body hardly moves at all.
‘Daddy says I should be your priority! He says you’re selfish, and I’m inclined to agree!’ Her final vomit of insults is delivered on a slight slur. Is she drunk? Daddy?
‘That’s enough, Stephanie. You’re showing yourself up.’ Jack grabs her arms and leads her to his car, but she pushes him away again, stumbling a little in her heels on the gravel. She’s definitely drunk.
‘I’ll get myself in the car,’ she spits, falling into the seat.
Jack looks back at me, his face a picture of stress. Then he shakes his head mildly at me and mouths, This isn’t over.
I take a backward step and find the nearest thing to cling to in order to hold me up.
I spend all weekend lost in work in an attempt to distract myself. It doesn’t work, and it’s not going to when Jack’s been persistently trying to get hold of me. I’ve ignored him. It’s been hard, but I’ve managed. Just. I stop off at the supermarket on my way home on Monday to pick up dinner for this evening. As I’m traipsing up aisle after aisle trying to decide what I fancy, my phone chimes the arrival of a text. I reach for a paella as I open the message.
We need to talk. Meet me. Jack
My stomach drops. It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that this won’t be about business. And it isn’t even a question. Once again I start imagining what he wants to say, my mind going into overdrive, no matter how hard I try to stop it. Why can’t he drop it? This isn’t over.
My lips dry and my stomach flips. I delete the message quickly before I do something stupid . . . like reply. Why is he doing this? I need to give up Colin’s project. It kills me, but I have to. I can’t work with Jack. I shouldn’t work with him. I’ll just take on more projects, anything to swallow up all my time and take my mind away from my dangerous thoughts. That’s the plan. I just hope to God it works, because every time I see Jack, the deep ache inside me intensifies. My want deepens, my heart splits with pain when he leaves, and when he holds me, I dream about him holding me every day, encouraging me every day, inspiring me every day. For the first time in my life, I’m imagining my world with a man in it. I’m imagining giving up some of my independence to make room for Jack. Because with him, it doesn’t feel like I’m giving anything up at all – only gaining. I’m imagining him poring over designs with me, offering advice, telling me constantly how proud he is of me. Ignoring all of these dreams is draining me. I’m all out of resistance.
Dropping my half-full basket to the floor, I abandon my plan to eat and rush home so I can dive into my office and lose myself in work. I finish drawings, e-mail them, call the structural engineer for his opinion on a few things . . . and draft an e-mail to Colin advising him of my intention to pull out of his project, but recommending some colleagues who will be happy to assist and see it through to completion.
I take a call from a potential client and schedule a meeting. It’s nowhere near the scale of Colin’s project, but it’s something else for me to get stuck into. I check in with Mum and Dad, reply to a text from Micky telling him I’m fine, so so fine, and even clean my bathroom. It’s been a productive day. The only thing that’ll finish it off nicely is clicking Send on the e-mail I drafted to Colin.
But as my cursor hovers over the icon, nothing I say to myself convinces me to click it. I close my eyes and will my finger to push down. Just press it. Just press that little icon and your problems will go away. I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen for a good ten minutes, searching for the will and the sense to do the right thing.