‘Don’t say it.’ She holds up a forestalling hand, her tone resolute. ‘Whatever you were about to say, just don’t. And I am sorry because neither of us buy into the things I said. This is a business arrangement, first and foremost. I need to keep sight of that. Be less emotional.’
But it’s the emotion I crave, I think but don’t say. The push and the pull, the sniping arguments. The picture I posted yesterday with my face in her hand, our kiss and our smile. Have I ever kissed a woman while feeling such overwhelming happiness, no matter how temporary?
‘Look. You shouldn’t have gone into my phone.’ She pauses, her gaze sliding to the sofa before she commits to moving to it. ‘My phone is my business. You wouldn’t like me using yours.’
I lean forward and grab it from the coffee table, pitching it to land on the sofa next to her curled, bare feet.
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘I don’t want it,’ she says, glancing at the thing as though it were contaminated. ‘But the difference here is that you’ve given me permission. I did not.’
I sigh heavily, my fingers poised on the keyboard. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t invade your privacy. Whatever you think of me, that was never my intention.’ It was a mad thought, though, for one moment during the small hours when the sun was barely a smudge on the horizon. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Though I’m sure I’ve never felt as exhausted or as sated. ‘You were lying next to me, my arm curled around your waist.’
‘No wonder you couldn’t sleep.’ Her smile is small, her attempt at humour almost a win. ‘Sounds uncomfortable. I’m told I wriggle in my sleep.’
For a reason I don’t quite understand, I’m unwilling to examine how she knows this or explain how it was, in fact, the opposite of uncomfortable. How my lack of sleep seemed to stem from contentment. I’m not a religious man, but I can see the appeal of giving over your life to a deity. Just as I could see myself spending my days worshipping at the altar of Olivia. Fucking her was a divine experience, but this isn’t necessarily what I can’t bring myself to say. It’s more that I felt content for the first time in a long while, just lying there with my arm around her and our fingers entwined.
‘Go on,’ she prompts softly, bringing me back to the moment.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ My brows lower. ‘So I stretched out and brought my phone from the nightstand. Only it wasn’t mine. I didn’t realise until the screen was already open, and I was already staring at your Instagram account.’
‘And you’d sent me our wedding photograph earlier.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. Between fucking, and touching, and drinking champagne, she’d asked me why I’d taken it.
‘Proof that it had happened.’ Yes, that’s how I’d sold it to her. ‘And if it isn’t on Insta, it didn’t really happen.’ And I needed it to have happened. Needed for this to be as public as possible and for there to have been furore back home. Gossip and speculation. Something to later spin.
‘According to your demographic, yes.’
‘My demographic? You were the one who postedallthe hashtags! All that was missing was “hashtag blessed”.’ She pulls a face that I can only describe as belligerent.
‘If it helps, I also posted it to my social media accounts.’
‘You have that sort of stuff? I didn’t know you even knew what a hashtag was.’
‘Doesn’t everyone? I may be older, but I’m not dead.’ Apparently, that thought is appealing to her, so I choose to refrain from explaining how my accounts are business related and run by my assistant. ‘We hadn’t discussed how we were going to broadcast our union, and an announcement inThe Timesdidn’t seem appropriate.’
‘None of this excuses what you did.’
‘Even if I thought I was helping? Even though your website has received thousands of hits already. Hits that will, no doubt, convert into new membership subscriptions. Not to mention the possibility of attracting media attention. E-Volve’s owner finds love with the coldest man in England?’
‘None of that even comes close to being an apology,’ she mutters, examining her fingernails now.
‘I make it a point never to apologise. We’ve talked about this.’
‘How on earth do you keep friends?’
‘I keep associates. That’s all I need.’
‘Not true. Word on the street is that you need a wife. And to use your phrase against you; happy wife, happy life. Now who’s pouting?’
‘This is not a pout,’ I answer. ‘This is a calculation.’
‘Oh, God, no. What else!’ She brings her hands to her face as she mutters something unintelligible—a profanity, no doubt—before opening her hands to ask, ‘Do I really want to know?’
‘I suppose that all depends if you want advance notice of your grandmother’s visit.’
Chapter 25
