“But I’ve been thinking,”she said.
It was never a good sign when a woman said she’d been ‘thinking’ and wanted ‘to talk.’
“About what?”
“The M word,”she said.
He turned back from the window. “Murder? Misery? Multiple orgasms?” Freud would psycho-analyse the hell out of his subconscious today.
“I thought I wanted all that,” she said. “I mean I do want it, the whole thing, wedding, children, house and garden.”
He went back to his desk and sat down only to get up again almost immediately and walk to the other window – there was no way out of this conversation, it seemed. He waited for her tosay more.
“Eventually, but not yet. Not with you, George.”
“I see.”
“So, it’s off the agenda?”
“I never put it on the agenda, Bea.”
“I know, I know. It was, you know, pressure from Mummy. All my friends kept warning me not to lose the perfect man.” She paused; George said nothing.
He was a master at using silence to his advantage; many of his business rivals were reduced to putty that way. But to apply manipulative tactics to a relationship talk wasn’t exactly chivalrous. He was nowhere near to being “the perfect man.”
“I thought, why not? Everyone told me you’d make a good husband. But it’s not true, is it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Millie would laugh at this. She would call him “mein Herr.”
Beatrice didn’t laugh. “So, I’ve been thinking about it, and well, sorry, darling, but we’re not right for each other.”
“I agree.”
“Besides, I am not ready for a white wedding, not for a long time. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“George, darling, I knew you’d understand. Wasn’t it better before? We were happy before we started listening to other people. That’s what attracted me to you,remember?”
“Mmm.”
“Just a normal relationship, fun, relaxed. No big promises.” She went on before he could answer. “All right. Anyway, darling, I need to run off now. Let’s have dinner on Friday. Byeee.” And shewas gone.
Clever lady. She didn’t give him a chance to say yes or no. Just left him with a harmless offer. A date on Friday night.
Friday night had always been their weekly ritual: dinner, his place, all night, followed by a latebreakfast.
Friday was four days away. George closed his eyes and blew a breath throughhis lips.
Part of him warned:She’s telling you what she knows you want to hear. She’s lying to you. Or at least, she’s lying to herself.
He put his phone on the desk and turned his back on it.
But another part of him urged:Take her at her word. She’s telling you, she doesn’t want marriage. You’re offthe hook.
Beatrice was familiar, she knew the deal. And they did have fun. Christ, he wasn’t a monk. He needed someone safe to get his mind away from… Millie.
