‘Speaking of which. We had our first scan. Want to see?’
He pulls out his phone and shows me a black and white image, a picture of a picture of a large baked bean. But he’s beaming at me, so proud he might burst, so I smile back. ‘That’s a very cute bean. I’m pleased for you.’
We talk for five minutes about the bean and how Williams is coping with Amanda moving into his place. Then he leaves and I can get back to staring at the image on my screen. Everything about her is perfect and effortless. She’s a natural beauty, not like the women who bat their lids in restaurants, bars, wherever I go, or half the receptionists in this place. All those women see is my exterior and my money.
I came close to falling in love with her, too damn close. But it could never be true. I don’t fall in love. She made me want to be something I’m not. She made me want to be a decent person and, hell, I wanted to tell her the three words she was so desperate to hear. But it would’ve been a mistake.
I knew the night she got drunk and told me about the Dubai secondment, I knew then if she couldn’t see it for herself, I had to make sure she went. We had to get the murder charge over with first. She had to see that the CPS wouldn’t charge me, that we’d be free because no matter which one of us took the fatal shot, it was self-defence; my father would have killed us. She had to see that so she could move on knowing she’d done the right thing in the eyes of the law.
Then she told me she wanted to confess to sending my black past to hell. She wanted to save me, again. It tore me up inside. The thought of losing her. The thought of her locked behind bars for doing nothing other than falling in love with me and getting caught in my web of darkness.
When John Harrison called with the CPS decision, everything came crashing to me, everything I’d felt for the last twenty years. I hadn’t cried since I was ten years old but holding her in my arms, knowing it was over, that she could move on and, yes, that I hadn’t lost her, I sobbed. I couldn’t stop the tears from fucking falling. I knew then. I knew I was going to send her away because I’d let it go too far. She’s better than me.
I shouldn’t have taken her to the opera. It was selfish. I convinced myself it was for her, so she could have one night, the fairy tale. But damn it, I just couldn’t let her go. And all night, I fought with myself. I had to remember the plan but, Christ, I wanted to say those three words she needed to hear. I wanted to say them so much that to not killed a part of me I didn’t know was alive.
2
SCARLETT
I made the right decision to take the first flight out, checking into an airport hotel once I left the Shard. I held it together long enough to look sane at check-in. Then I got to my room and broke down. At some point, sleep took over, because when Reception called to wake me for my taxi to Heathrow early the next morning, I was still dressed.
That was five weeks ago. I’ve gotten better. Since the first week, I haven’t cried myself to sleep every night. Now grief comes over me only in waves, though when it comes, it brings with it the same excruciating pain in my abdomen and the same crippling ache in my chest.
I’ve developed a routine in Dubai. Sunday through Thursday, I’m in the hotel gym around five in the morning. I mull over the international newspapers in the main restaurant and take coffee with breakfast. Then I head to Mr Ghurair’s office around eight. With two deals running concurrently, I have more than enough to keep me busy all day.
I’ve gotten used to the dry heat I’d found stifling when I took my first steps on Middle Eastern ground. Despite the winter, the temperature is in the mid-twenties Celsius and a dramatic hike from the below-freezing temperatures in England.
After work, I call Sandy or Amanda – or both – and head to dinner. I try to rotate between the four restaurants in the hotel so I don’t get bored of eating the same thing, although half the time, I only push the food around my plate. In fact, the chef in Hoi An, the Vietnamese restaurant, has started giving me smaller portions so I don’t insult him by leaving his food. After dinner, every night except Thursday and Friday when it’s rowdy, I head to the outdoor pool bar. I order a drink and sip it, sitting on a white leather sofa staring out at the lights of the Burj Khalifa. The menacing spike of the building dominates the opulent skyline. Like everything in Dubai, it’s big, it sparkles and it screamsmoney.
On Thursdays and Fridays, I take my drink indoors, in Broadway, a 1940’s New York-themed restaurant/bar. Quirky, dark wooden rails separate sections of the bar and there’s a stage at one end of the room where theatre shows take place. It’s different to the marble floors and elegance of the other public areas of the hotel. Tonight is Thursday, so I’ve enjoyed two small plates in the Michelin-equivalent Indian restaurant and now I’m making my way into Broadway.
I spot Paddy behind the bar and give him a half-smile, then hitch up the hem of my tight-fitting dress and slide onto a stool in the corner of the bar, placing the toes of my strappy heels on the rim. The lights are dimmed for a production ofChicagothat’s about to start.
Paddy finishes making a Manhattan by topping the drink with a Maraschino cherry, then slides it towards a waiter to serve.
‘Hey, lady,’ he says with his cute Dublin accent as he makes a beeline for me, tossing a white cloth over his shoulder. With the back of his hand, he knocks a rogue brown hair back into his messy mass of chin-length waves.
He rotates shifts between the hotel’s pool bar and Broadway. He doesn’t like working in the pool bar when the DJs are pumping out tunes on Thursdays and Fridays, so he moves to Broadway those days. He’s not, incidentally, why I rotate but I can’t deny it’s nice to have someone to talk to.
‘Hi Paddy, how are you?’
‘Not bad. Tired. I’ve already worked breakfast and lunch today. How’re you doing?’
‘Fine.’
He shakes his head on a short laugh. ‘The lady is alwaysfine.’
‘I’m not in the mood for counselling, Paddy.’
‘You never are, sweetheart, but one day, you’ll tell me who broke your heart.’
I lean a forearm on the bar and turn my stool, subtly angling away from him. ‘What makes you think I have a broken heart?’
‘Oh, let me see. You sit alone every night looking miserable, nursing one cocktail for an hour, sometimes two cocktails on a weekend, heaven forbid. You never want to talk about it. You’re alwaysfineand those eyes of yours drift off to another place. Ex-pats come to Dubai for two reasons. One: tax relief. And you’re not getting that whilst you’re on secondment. Two: to cure a broken heart.’
‘Mmhmm, well I drink alone because you’re the only person I really know in Dubai. I amfineand I drift off because your conversation is monotonous.’
‘Oh, she’s feisty tonight. I like it,’ he says with a cheeky wink, making me laugh. ‘Dry or dirty?’
