Kate softened her voice, putting down the cutlery rack on the bench so I could see she was genuinely worried. ‘He’s a commitment-phobe, Abbey. He’s never going to say he loves you. Also, he’s being a massive prick, because you can’t hide the fact that you are in love with him, so he knows, and he still keeps leading you on.’
I felt heat climb up my face and my heart start to race. I hated that other people could see that, but I was also furious that she was just cruising on into my feelings and my relationship with Nick, as if I needed her opinion.
‘Kate, enough.’ My tone was warning her to back off, while I concentrated on putting the plates in the cupboard.
‘No, Abbey. You need to hear this. Sebastian is a good guy and Nick is a fucking arse.’
‘Nick is not a bad guy, Kate.’ My voice was still calm, but I could feel the adrenaline kicking in.
‘Abbey, you are being pathetic. He’s leading you on.’
He’s leading me on? Hang on, where’s the Kate that had G & Ts with him and bullied me to go to that fucking party in that fucking dress?
‘He’s not leading me on Kate. Fuck.’ I whipped around to face her, and my voice rose. ‘He’s not commitment-phobic, Kate. Every single person he has loved has died on him. He’s fatalistic and realistic and he associates love with risk. He doesn’t want to feel like that again. He doesn’t want to feel broken. He is terrified of everything he loves and being invested in a person who could leave him.
‘And, yes, I love him. I am wrecked with love for him. My heart beats only for him. And if he could say he loves me too, which I think he does, then you would have to just get over yourself and get along with him and respect and love him too. But don’t worry, because that’s not going to happen. I know this. I also understand that I need to move on. I’m trying. I don’t need you to fucking rescue me. I’m fine. So stop railroading me.
‘Also, stop advising me. You are four years younger than me and your longest relationship is six months. Also, I think it’s time for you to find your own place. I love you, but Jesus, Kate. I need some space.’
I had not meant to let all of that out at once and Kate, naturally, did not take any one part of it particularly well. She had packed her things the next day and moved out.
So everything was fine. Just fine. Swimmingly fine. At least I had the Nick thing under control.
Having successfully implemented Gran’s rules at work with Nick, I wasn’t entirely sure what he made of my new distance, as I had been busy avoiding his wounded eyes. I was pretty proud of myself. I mean, he wasn’tthatattractive. I could definitely resist a moderately hot Englishman with murky eyes and floppy hair. No problem. I was a fucking Cavendish woman. It was all about the rules.Just stick to those rules, Abs.
I was surprisingly calmer on the one-hour flight from Sydney to Melbourne than I had been on the eighteen-hour trip to the Maldives and, with all the other business people on board along with a couple of girls-weekends-away groups, I felt competent and mature.
When we touched down, I hailed a cab to the hotel. I had packed lightly in a single carry-on in case of disaster, but had absolutely no intention of staying and had a return flight booked later tonight. The idea of hanging out with Nick for the weekend was not a good one. In fact, it almost certainly would involve the breaking of all the rules, which was completely fine if I wanted to have hot sex and a broken heart.
Melbourne has a distinctly different vibe to Sydney and, over the years, I’d built a deep love for it. It is more artsy than Sydney, with interesting sculptures and design points throughout the city. Without the glittering harbour, which most people could not help but fall in love with, it had somehow evolved a funkier, edgier quality to it and the river was still beautiful, despite its muddy colour.
The Delacqua Melbourne was my favourite of all of our hotels. It sat at the Paris end of Collins Street and had been a hotel for over one hundred years. Eric commissioned a renovation and extension back in the early 2000s, and the hotel was meticulously brought back to life. It was opulent and charming.
The original hotel had five stories of art-deco features, which had been expertly repurposed. Floors one and two held function rooms, in which Melbourne’s most fashionable and discerning brides wanted their weddings. Floor one was in particular demand because a section of the hotel was partitioned out into an atrium with a garden inside, a feature that looked magnificent on Instagram (or so I was told). On level three was Australia’s most sought-after restaurant. An additional eleven storeys of hotel rooms were built on top of the old girl, but the American architect had managed to achieve an eclectic art-deco vibe to the additional floors.
I climbed the marble stairs and walked behind the check-in counter, saying hello to the staff I knew and introducing myself to the ones I didn’t. I noticed the staff all looked extremely polished, and the place was pristine, setting a shining example for their new owner.
One of the many benefits of keeping the original building was the classic, ornate lift that came with it. The black wrought-iron gate and white marble floors were beautiful and old-fashioned, distinctly Parisian, with gold-coloured mirrored tiles decorating the inside.
Iris had once told me that she had been on stage in the theatre down the street back in the sixties and had stayed in the original hotel. She talked of ball gowns and orchestral bands and, frankly, you could easily imagine it just by standing in the lift.
I checked my makeup in the mirrored wall. Sometimes a woman could use dress as an arsenal and I would need every single weapon available to me for my meeting with Jack Fife. I wore a high-necked black dress which clung to my curves and tied at the neck, with a white blazer. Jack Fife was notorious: short-tempered, talented to the point of arrogance, horrendous to any staff not meeting his exacting standards and a renowned womaniser.
The elevator opened, my heels making an impressive noise as I stepped out from the marble of the lift onto the marble of the corridor.
‘Why did you book an earlier flight than me?’ His voice was crisp and authoritative, but held a faint trace of exasperated humour. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was leaning on a wall, feet crossed at the ankles.
I let out a huff and Nick gave one of his rare laughs. ‘Abigail Parker, I think you’re trying to avoid me.’
His tie was off, and he had a few undone buttons revealing his glorious neck. I forced my eyes from his throat and the memories of how he tasted there, how the soft skin and coarse hair felt against my lips, how much heat came from him. I dragged my eyes up to meet his, only to be caught in the river-current colour as he held mine captive for a few seconds.
He reached for my arm, walking us towards the restaurant, and despite the warmth of my jacket, my skin erupted in goosebumps.Goddamn it, the rules are failing all over the place and it’s been two minutes, Abbey. Two fucking minutes.
He reached his mouth down to my ear. ‘I know what you’re doing, Abbey.’
I stopped walking and turned into his chest. ‘What does it matter to you, Nick? What are you doing? And more to the point,whyare you doing it?’ I put my hand over his heart, and he covered it with his.
‘Have dinner with me tonight?’
