That should’ve been the end.
“Do you honestly think that marrying a woman who’s been married three times before is a good idea? Don’t you think you could end up getting hurt here? That’s what I’m trying to stop. I don’t want to see you in pieces, Liam and that was what I told her.”
I moved her hand away.
“What you pretty much told her is that I would hurt her and use her.”
She shook her head and looked to her left, as if someone was watching us. They probably were. It wasn’t the greatest bar and was haunted by groupies and media hacks.
“Whatever is happening between me and Sophie is between me and Sophie. I don’t want it to have anything to do with you. Say whatever you want in the press about me; say anything about her and I’ll have my solicitor take you to the cleaners, plus your dirty laundry still dressed on their skeletons will be hung about the press before you can say Barbados.”
“You’d never say anything about that. You promised, Liam.” Her voice was quiet, begging.
I ignored it. When I did wake up on that island I’d found her still partying and the end result hadn’t been pretty. We hadn’t been pretty together.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. “One final question.”
I braced myself. “What?”
“Why her and not me. If you needed to get married – why not me?”
She knew. She knew about the building in Iceland and why I was getting married. When she’d finished our meeting in Reykjavik she’d have started researching because that was how she made her living.
“Because we would’ve destroyed each other.”
She didn’t disagree. “Is that it?”
“No.” I stood up, leaving the half-full beer. “I also feel a lot more for Sophie than I ever did for you. I’m sorry that it hurts you and if I ever did anything to make you think otherwise.”
She shook her head and walked away before I did, heading back over to the band, her arm going around the waist of one of them who I thought was the lead singer.
I looked at the floor, knowing which direction she’d take this in, but I didn’t feel sorry. She was an adult. We were all entitled to own our mistakes.
19
Sophie
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
Liam’s voice sounded a little too far away.
It was panic. Anxiety. Fear. There were dozens of names to label what I was feeling right now, all because I was about to step on a plane and be completely out of control where my fate was concerned.
But it was either this or sail, and that would take a long time, and a lot of money.
“I’m good. This flight happens several times each day. The pilot is experienced as is his second and the plane’s been checked countless times. Logic tells me there is no reason this won’t be a successful flight.”
They were words my therapist had gone through with me.Look to what you know.Use that to predict.I had to get to the point where I could fly without needing medication or alcohol. Or both.
“Okay. I don’t like the colour you picked for the flowers. I thought now might be a good time to tell you.”
Liam didn’t give a shit about the colour we – I – had chosen for the flowers at our wedding. When I’d asked him I’d received a shrug and a mumble which roughly translated as ‘I don’t give a flying rat’s ass about girly things’, so I’d gone ahead and opted for reds and oranges.
It was a distraction technique.
“You don’t care about the flowers. You’re just trying to take my mind off flying.” I double checked my seat belt. It hadn’t changed since the first time I’d checked. This was the fifth.
