The wee rotten … I clenched my teeth to hold back my annoyance. “As a team, it would have been more considerate of you to ask me before you suggested it to Hilary.”
She rapidly blinked her dark brown eyes, feigning innocence as she reached out to squeeze my arm in fake reassurance. “Oh. Well, of course. You’re right. Next time, I definitely will.”
“You’ll find someone else. Have a good night.” I turned away, choking back the multitude of obscenities I wished I could hurl at her, and pressed the button for the lift. When I stepped on and turned as the doors closed, Becky didn’t hide her vindictive glare. Why would she? There was no one around for her to pretend to be nice in front of.
When Will and I met at a rugby game, we’d both been amazed to discover we lived minutes from each other. My two-bed flat was buried behind Hart Street, on Hart Street Lane, and his much larger flat was on Albany Street. I was only a ten-minute walk north from Pennington’s on Princes Street. Will’s place was on my way. Often, I’d either stop by his for dinner or stay overnight instead of heading home. It was never the other way around. He said my flat was too small, but really, I think Will just preferred his place. I didn’t care enough to squabble about it.
Once we were married, we were going to find a home together anyway, so the point was moot.
Though I would miss my flat on Hart Street Lane. An attractive apartment in Edinburgh’s historical New Town was a long way from the forgotten Glasgow tenement I’d grown up in.
“Sorry I’m late!” I called as I let myself into Will’s place.
The apartment was typical of the Georgian architecture in this area of Edinburgh. High ceilings, ornate cornicing, floor-to-ceiling windows with working wooden shutters. Will’s flat had been renovated so that part of the wall separating the kitchen and living room had been removed to allow a semi open plan feel.
Other than the biscuit-colored paint on the walls and the original hardwood floors, the space was masculine. Dark cabinets and black marble countertops in the ultramodern kitchen. Black leather sofas and glass-top tables. There were no drapes or cushions or rugs. And anytime I’d tried to introduce a wee bit of soft femininity, Will shot me down. He’d promised when we had our own place we’d work together to compromise on the interior design.
I strode into the living area to find Will sitting with his hands grasped together between his knees, his head bowed.
I halted as he lifted his chin to look at me.
Between the strange atmosphere in the room and the pleading sadness in his gorgeous blue eyes, my stomach turned over.
“We need to talk.”
There was a sense of what was coming as I dropped my key on the sideboard and walked slowly across the room. The smell of Thai takeout drew my attention to the kitchen where the food had been plated, most likely cold now.
I sank down onto the sofa opposite my fiancé and twisted the engagement ring nervously on my finger. “I know I’m late again.” But it wasn’t like I was the only one who was ever late home from work. Of the two of us, Will was the one who constantly changed our plans because of his job. Will owned his own company, a thriving business. He worked in exposure management and traveled around the country, and sometimes abroad, identifying and assessing risks to organizations, i.e., cyber threats, terrorism, natural catastrophes.
Last year the company’s gross profit was five million pounds. And it was growing. I was proud of him. Though I could do without him telling everyone how much his company made last year. In fact, everywhere we went lately, all Will did was talk numbers and income. He’d always been ambitious since I’d known him, and I loved that about him, but this past year his drive for financial gain had become somewhat of an obsession.
It was also the reason we’d made no plans toward our wedding. We hadn’t even had an engagement party yet, and we’d been engaged for eighteen months. I had close friends and family who hadn’t met him!
“That’s not what this is about.” Will took a shuddering breath, his eyes washing over my face. “Christ, you make this hard when you walk in here looking like that.”
Make what hard? I felt nauseated.
Will had been distant for weeks.
I’d ignored it because I’d hoped it was just work that was keeping him busy.
“Looking like what?”
“So beautiful I sometimes can’t believe you’re real.”
When we first met, his compliments had filled the empty place inside me that constantlybattled a sense of unworthiness. But over the last three years, my feelings about his focus on my outward appearance had grown complex. Sometimes I no longer knew how his compliments made me feel. Maybe because I was obsessed with my appearance to the point of anxiousness, and his preoccupation with it only worsened my hyperfocus on my exterior presentation. And not for the reasons people might think.
“What’s going on?”
Will nodded nervously. “You … uh … you know Birgitta?”
Instantly, I stiffened.
Birgitta was Will’s ex-girlfriend from university, a Swedish international student at Edinburgh. They broke up because she returned home after graduation. Then, a year ago, Birgitta moved back to Edinburgh for a job, and she and Will struck up a friendship. It made me uncomfortable because it was clear the Swede was not over Will, and she treated me with icy politeness.
“Nothing has happened,” Will hurried to assure me. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I wanted to be relieved but felt increasing panic instead. “Okay …”
