“He had his arms around her.”
“But how did he look? Like, what was his face doing?”
“God, El.” I don’t want to go through this again.
“Just humour me. You know what Katya’s like, showing up in lingerie, pulling stunts to get him back. How do you know this wasn’t another one?”
“Fine.” I huff out a sigh, and think back again to one of the worst moments of my life. How had Myles looked? I’d been so horrified I hadn’t really been able to take much in, just wanting to get out of there. I picture his face and… Huh. Surprise flickers through me. “He looked shocked. As shocked as I was, I guess.”
“See!” Eloise bounces on the sofa. “See! It must have been a stunt!”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know Myles,” she says. “I’ve worked for him for years. He’s not someone who tells lies, or plays games to get what he wants. Why is it so hard to believe he might actually have fallen for you?”
I stare at her, my heart bleak. “Because he didn’t try to follow me. He let me go.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that.
Myles
How could I have let her go like that?
Shock is a strange thing, I suppose. It paralysed me that morning, as I lay in bed with another woman’s hands on me, watching everything I wanted walk out the door.
That was probably the biggest mistake I made that night. Not telling her how I truly felt. Not trusting myself enough to share that final part of me. I know now, though.
I’m in love with Zara.
It’s been six years since I’ve said those words to another woman and, while I did love Cassandra, it was nothing compared to how I feel now. The fracture in my heart has opened up again, but it is more of a crater, a hole through the very core of me. I don’t think it will ever heal.
Finding out Zara had left the hotel was one of the worst moments of my life. The message I received from her, a few hours later, was another.
I’m sorry about the photos; it was my fault. In light of everything that’s happened I think it best I resign, effective immediately. I realise I’ve been unprofessional in the extreme. You did say you were going to rescind my job offer. And I think that’s for the best. Zara.
How the hell are the photos her fault? I’m the reason they were taken, not her. Another screw-up, another way I’ve hurt her, simply by bringing her into my world.
At least Katya seems to have finally got the message. She’d called me, screeching, from the hotel in Morocco. I was already back in London at that point. She’d found Zara’s underwear on the balcony where she’d left it– the image of her sliding the lace down her exquisite backside is one that will never leave me– and demanded to know whose it was.
I lied.
I told her it belonged to a woman I’d met in Morocco, and that things were over between us, and I could fuck whoever I wanted. She hadn’t taken it well, but I can take her bullshit. What I don’t want is for it to be directed at Zara. So, I protected her again, a shield against the world for her.
The tabloid story has already been quashed. A few calls to a few friends and it’s already yesterday’s news, killed off as quickly as it came. The pictures are still out there, but all they show are two people having dinner together. I can’t look at them. The memory is seared into my mind anyway, every moment we spent together haunting me, my life now seeming grey and cold without Zara’s presence.
I received my clothes back from the hotel, along with several additional items. The things I gave Zara, and the dress she’d worn on our night together, with a note saying they’d been found in her room after she left. I tried to send them to her, but they were returned, along with everything else I’ve sent. I’ve stopped production on the silk dress, unable to bear the thought of any other woman wearing it. The original hangs in my office closet, still holding a faint scent of her. Maybe it’s morbid, but I don’t know what else to do.
Martin is still pissed with me, but I’m used to that. As I say, the story is dead. Katya and I are finally done, and she has a nice new apartment in Paris as a thank you gesture for keeping her mouth shut, more than anything. Martin says I’m lucky it didn’t cost more than that.
I’ve heard nothing from Zara. Not a word. She ignores my messages, won’t answer my calls. I’m at a loss.
I look up from my desk as someone knocks on my office door. It’s early, but I’ve been here for a few hours already.
“Come,” I bark.
The door opens slowly and a young woman with a slightly terrified expression sticks her head around it. “Um, morning, Mr Brandon. I have the post for you.”
“Bring it in,” I say, returning to my work. I’ve been putting in long hours lately, mainly because I can’t bear being at home alone. Scott and Sally are worried about me; they know something happened in Morocco but I haven’t been able to talk about it, not yet. Sally drops off meals at the office for me sometimes, in the evening. I’ve been over for dinner a couple of times but left early, unable to bear being around the love between her and Scott for long, reminded of what I lost. Scott’s ankle is gradually improving, and he’s promised to go surfing with me later this year, once he’s cleared to go. The Maldives, though. I’m not sure I can go back to Morocco again, not for a while.
