Just think of the money that will be in your account by the end of the week,I tell myself.And try not to think of his very obvious BD.
Marrying for money. Lots of women marry for money. Men too, I reason with myself as I stare at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom. My suitcase stands packed at the end of my bed, my clothes laid out for my early morning, but still I can’t sleep. Instead, the shadows from the trees in the garden dance like wraiths against the ceiling while I do what I do best; overthinking.
The world is full of women being bankrolled by their spouses for all different reasons. I won’t be the first, but rather, I’ll be joining their ranks. What I can’t seem to get my head around is why does getting married for sex sound so much seedier? Maybe I’m looking at this wrong. Maybe I should think of it as a perk.Especially after yesterday.
So many conflicting thoughts and feelings.
I agreed to have sex with him and tell myself it’s because I have no choice—that I’ll do whatever it takes to save my business. To save face. But in the dark, quiet moments, I can admit the truth to myself. And when I think about the deal I’ve made with the devil, my skin starts to tingle and my core starts to ache. I want him so badly no matter how many protestations I make.
Everyone has a price. My price? It’s complicated.
I’m cranky and tired as I get to Gatwick at an unearthly hour the next morning, but perk right up again as I’m ushered into the business class cabin, allocated my lovely seat-cum-bed pod and handed my first glass of champagne. There really is nothing to complain about when travelling in style. And it’s odd that I can manage to sleep while hurtling through the sky at eight hundred miles an hour, but I can’t travel in a lift without feeling sick.
I’ve packed for three weeks, but as we’ll only be there three days, I’ve probably overdone things. But Beckett didn’t happen to mention what kinds of functions, if any, I’ll be expected to attend apart from our courthouse wedding, for which I’ve packed a summer dress.Something old?
After a mostly sleepless night, I’ve come to a few conclusions. Decisions, I suppose. Ways to deal.
Number 1: I’ve decided to think of this next six months as a part-time job that I’ve taken on in order to help my business. Which isn’t a bad analogy as far as these things go. I’ll gain some much-needed business acumen from Beckett while adding a little extra money to my pocket. I’ll be to Beckett what Heather is to me. Sort of. And I’ve chosen to focus on the plus points and let the rest take care of itself.
My business will benefit.
I’ll make it a roaring success.The only kind of revenge I’m interested in.
I’ll be able to eat proper food.
I’ll grow.
I’ve already accepted that Beckett is going to be a pain in my ass. It’s not as though I’m not expecting that.Your time isn’t as important as mine. Sacrifices will have to be made.What a prick.
But if luxury travel is the kind of sacrifice I’ll be forced to endure, then I think I’ll be able to cope for six months without killing him.
Number 2: I’ve decided on the separation of sex and our marriage, a little like the separation of church and state. I’ve agreed, by signing his paperwork, that I’ll submit to his will on the point of consummating this thing, but that’s all I’ll give. After that? Who knows. Maybe we’ll hump like bunnies, or maybe once will be enough for us both.Don’t laugh.
Number 3: And perhaps the most important decision of all. I’ve decided that, because he brings out the worst in me again and again, I’m going to try a little reverse psychology. From now on, I’m going to turn my murderous frown upside down and kill him with kindness. With polite enquiries and soothing words. With smiles and shit. I’m just not going to let him get under my skin anymore.
And he’ll hate it.
I might be resigned to my fate, but I’m not going down without a fight.
Or maybe I’m not going down until he’s gone down first.
Yes, totally like that.
With a small yet smug kind of smile, I settle into my flight. I’ll watch a few movies, drink a few more glasses of champagne, and maybe take a nap before we’re due to touch down.
Chapter 18
OLIVIA
I suffer the usual pains after landing. Immigration queues. Bags lifted from the conveyor belts at the baggage claim, leaving passengers to play hide and seek with their belongings. You’ve got to love JFK. The hustle, the bustle, the rude people.
Just like London.
What I’m unprepared for is the sight of a familiar steely gaze as I push out of the baggage hall.
Damn. I thought he’d send a driver. I haven’t yet prepared my game face.
‘I was considering sending a search party,’ he begins in a tone dripping with boredom. It’s the kind of tone that makes me want to slap the back of his head.
