by J. D. Chase
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m free. Are you still in the same apartment?’
He nodded, delight flooding his features. ‘We sure are. Number 316. Shall we say seven?’
‘Seven it is. I’m looking forward to it already.’
After a hug and goodbyes were exchanged, Joshua went on his way. Isla still had mixed feelings about the prospect of having dinner with him and Fran but she decided to try to keep positive. If Joshua could steer Fran away from too much wedding talk, she could steer the conversation away from the topic of her private life.
When she sank on to her sofa, shattered from lack of sleep and the physical exertion of her afternoon, she felt slightly better. She’d recovered from a long-term relationship going bad; she’d bounce back in no time from her short fling with Xander.
Chapter Seventeen
When morning came around, Isla woke at six o’clock gripped with anxiety at the prospect of going into work. She’d still heard nothing from Xander. She assumed he was too busy playing happy families. By six thirty, she’d convinced herself that there was no point in putting herself through any more pain and that she had better things to do, like find a new job. She called the hotel and informed Margot that she was ill and didn’t know when she’d be back in the office. She also advised her to contact Xander in the event that anything came up that needed dealing with quickly. Then she turned off her phone and her alarm and promptly fell back to sleep.
After a day of job hunting, she came to the conclusion that if she wanted to keep a roof over her head, she would have to take on not one, but two menial jobs. That’s all that seemed to be on offer. There was no way that one low-paid job would enable her to meet her mortgage payments so she’d have to take on a weekend or evening job as well.
Great. I have to work two shitty jobs to pay for a flat that I’ll hardly spend any time in. Fuck my life. I should have listened to myself . . . all men are bastards . . . when am I going to learn?
But he’s not a bastard. He’s just married. And has a kid. That doesn’t make him a bastard.
Oh okay, life’s a bastard. My life is a great big, stinking pile of crap.
Isla found it was actually a refreshing change to get ready for a social event. Again, she had to make do without her perfume, most of her make-up, and the only hairbrush in the world that seemed unable to prevent her hair sticking out at ninety degrees from her head. In the end, she tied it back into a neat chignon before she spent almost an hour deciding what to wear. She’d had no money to spend on clothes – apart from the items she’d purchased in sheer desperation to hide the marks that Xander left behind. She found herself absent-mindedly rubbing her wrist, although it bore none of Xander’s trademarks.
When she realised what she was doing, she hastily snatched her fingers away and grabbed the nearest thing out of her wardrobe. It was a pretty salmon-pink sundress that she rarely wore because she felt it made her breasts look even bigger than they were. She shrugged, put on a nude minimiser bra and slipped the dress over her head. Cream sandals and a cream clutch bag completed her ensemble and she set off for the tube.
Joshua and Fran’s apartment was as lovely as she remembered it. Well, she reasoned, it ought to be. Fran was an interior designer after all. When they’d greeted her at the door, she remembered how she’d always thought they were such an unlikely couple. They really were like chalk and cheese – at least physically. Where Joshua was average height and heavily built, Fran was tall and willowy. He was dark; she was blonde. He dressed like his father; she wore the latest designer fashions. But they had plenty in common. Not least that they could talk both hind legs off a donkey, and that they were incredibly generous hosts.
Sitting back and patting her crammed stomach after a beautiful three-course meal that she knew Fran would have had delivered by a catering company that afternoon, Isla realised that she missed socialising more than she’d thought. The conversation had flowed – most of it wedding related, much to Joshua’s dismay and Isla’s amusement. It hadn’t made her feel awkward at all. Nobody could deny that this couple was very much in love and nobody could deny Fran the opportunity to share her wedding plans. Yes, plans. Fran had so many amazing ideas that it was proving impossible to decide exactly where and how the wedding would take place. Of course, being excellent hosts, they’d begun by attempting to find out all Isla’s news. She’d kept her answers brief and the lack of elaboration seemed to give them the message and the conversation had moved on.
Eventually though, once more alcohol than was sensible on a school night had flowed, Fran steered the conversation back to Isla and her break-up with Jamie.
‘Jamie’s not been the same, you know,’ she exclaimed. ‘Since you left, he’s been much quieter. He doesn’t socialise as much and he seems to live for his job. Well . . . he did. He got that promotion, you know. The one we always joked about, with the two of you going head to head.’
Isla nodded. ‘Yeah, he told me. He deserves it too. He’s good at what he does and is an asset to the company so why shouldn’t they promote him?’
Joshua nodded in agreement but Fran disagreed. ‘Yes, he’s good but he’s not as good as you – Joshua always said that. He said you would have had that promotion if you’d stayed. And you would have, if he could have kept his dick in his underpants.’
Looking horrified, Joshua intervened. ‘Come on now Fran. I don’t think Isla wants all that brought up tonight.’
Giving him a grateful smile, Isla shook her head. ‘It’s okay. Thanks Fran. I gave my all to that company. It’s satisfying to know that’s what you think. And I’m hardly going to disagree with your comment about Jamie.’
The blonde gave her fiancé a mildly gloating look and he rolled his eyes good naturedly.
‘You told Joshua that you saw him last week. Have you seen him since? Do you know what’s happened?’ Fran’s tone had taken on a serious note, making Isla frown.
‘About what?’ Isla was genuinely confused.
‘Tell her, Joshua,’ Fran urged, before continuing herself. ‘Jamie was in the office when Daisy, you remember . . . from reception, well, she called to let him know he had a visitor. He went down and left with her. He didn’t come back into work that afternoon, nor for the rest of the week and Joshua says he wasn’t in work today either. They’ve tried calling him but he doesn’t pick up. That’s very unlike Jamie, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Joshua?’
He nodded, the concern evident on his face.
Isla didn’t need them to let her know that it was out of character for Jamie. Even during their breakup, he’d gone out of his way to avoid it affecting his work. He was a dedicated employee and fiercely ambitious. ‘Does anyone know who the visitor was? Was it a personal matter or professional?’
‘Not a clue,’ Joshua said with a shrug. Isla could tell from his face that he was worried.
Something jingled in the back of her memory. ‘So that’s why you were keen to know when I’d seen him? And why it didn’t matter since I’d not seen him since he’d disappeared from the office. Why didn’t you tell me?’
He shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘I’m not sure really. It didn’t seem worth worrying you, since you obviously knew nothing and, to be honest, I was confident that he’d be back in work today. But he wasn’t.’
Fran nodded. ‘We assume it was something to do with the visitor. All we know is that the visitor was female. A blonde. Daisy hadn’t seen her before and she refused to give her name when she demanded that Daisy call Jamie to tell him that he had a visitor. It’s all very odd. I wondered whether there’d been a crisis in his family . . . a death maybe. Certainly something seriously bad. But that doesn’t explain why he didn’t tell Daisy before he dashed off. Nor why he hasn’t called in since. It’s so out of character for him. I just hope he’s okay . . . and that he has a good excuse. Joshua says it’s not going down well in the office, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
Isla nodded. She knew only too well how such behaviour would not be tolerated; the place was run
by tyrants. Unless Jamie was lying in a hospital bed with total amnesia, he’d better be prepared to have his balls slammed in a drawer.
‘Are you still in contact with his parents?’ Joshua asked her, as she shuddered at the thought of her former employer being on the warpath.
‘Hmm? Not really, no. Oh, has anyone tried calling them? They should be on file as his next of kin,’ she replied.
‘They looked but found that you were still listed as his next of kin . . .’ Joshua’s voice trailed off and Isla gave him a reassuring smile. He was so sensitive and thoughtful and always tried hard not to upset anyone.
‘I’ll have a look in my address book. If I have their number, I’ll give it to you. I suggest you let HR have it. I’m not calling them and frightening the life out of them. If they know nothing, they’ll be worried sick.’ Isla recalled the recent telephone conversation with her own parents after they’d been alerted to her going AWOL. ‘I’m sure Jamie has a reasonable explanation. God only knows what it is but he’ll have one. He lives for that place. There’s no way he’d risk his job unnecessarily.’
Fran and Joshua nodded and the conversation moved on. It was gone midnight when Isla noticed the time and felt guilty for overstaying her welcome on a school night.
‘Oh my goodness guys, have you seen the time?’
Fran laughed. ‘Time flies when you’re having fun catching up with a lovely lady whom you haven’t seen for way too long.’
Joshua nodded. ‘I have to be up in less than five hours but who cares? I’ve loved catching up with you. We must do this again very soon.’
Isla nodded earnestly. She’d had her misgivings but she’d loved every second. As she waved goodbye from the back seat of the taxi cab, she realised that moving on doesn’t have to mean leaving everything from the past behind. And that if you did, as her mum would say, ‘You’d be cutting off your nose to spite your face’. It was a sobering thought.
Does that mean that I could still work at Rouge Passion? Would I be spiting myself if I walked out on my job? Should I at least give working for Xander . . . and his wife . . . a try? Maybe find something else before I leave?
As the taxi drove through the dark, she pondered these questions and, by the time she’d alighted, she knew the answers.
As long as I don’t have to work side by side with Xander, I’ll give it a try. I can’t afford not to. But if he insists upon working at Rouge Passion then I’m gone.
The one thing she didn’t know the answer to was whether Xander intended to maintain an active presence at the hotel. As she tumbled into bed, she resolved not to contact him first. How could she? He was at home, playing the role of the doting husband and father. She could hardly call him there. No, sooner or later, the shit would hit the fan at the hotel. It couldn’t run smoothly without them both. When it did, the ball would be in his court. She’d left instructions for him to be contacted in her absence.
As she pulled the duvet around her, she reasoned that she was due some time off. Officially, she was ill and was entitled to full sick pay so her mortgage payment would be covered for the month. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered what would happen if she hadn’t heard from Xander by the end of the week. By then, she’d need to see a doctor to gain proof of her alleged sickness and, unless she lied, that wouldn’t be happening.
Oh well, let’s cross that bridge if, and when, I get to it.
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday morning arrived along with trepidation, tears and tantrums. Before Isla even opened her eyes, she felt a heavy ache. The bereft ache of loneliness and loss. She’d unwittingly slid her hand out and felt nothing but empty sheets and the crushing realisation that she was not only in bed alone, but was once again on her own in life hit her hard.
She curled into a ball and pulled the duvet over her head, not knowing whether she was attempting to fight off the bitter wave of despair or succumb to it. She felt no comfort, though. She felt tiny in her king-sized bed. It was too big. It was too cold. It didn’t smell of Xander’s scent any more. It was barren. Her sanctuary had become a mocking reminder of all that she’d lost. And all that she wanted.
She threw back the duvet and stomped into the kitchen to make coffee. For some unfathomable reason, except that Xander was obviously on her mind, she reached up and took two mugs from the cupboard above her head. When she realised, she picked up the second and hurled it at the tiled floor. Shards of porcelain ricocheted off the cupboards and the walls, making her cover her face with her hands.
When she lowered her hands, instead of feeling remorse or resentment at the mess on the floor, she felt an odd feeling of satisfaction. She made no move to clear up the mess, instead she made her coffee and stood sipping it as she stared at the mess.
It’s broken. It’s a mess. It can’t be fixed.
Just like Xander and me . . .
It could be swept away in seconds . . . all traces erased.
Not like Xander and me . . .
The mug can be replaced.
Xander can’t. There’s no other man like him. What he does to my head . . . my body . . .
But he can’t be mine. He can never be mine.
But I want him. I want him so badly.
Why is life so unfair?
Tears began to stream down her cheeks. She knew that she’d vowed to be strong but she accepted that she couldn’t deny her feelings and her frustration. She would take the time to wallow in pity and, when she felt better, she’d return to being strong. What she’d had with Xander was special – okay it short but it warranted mourning. It warranted resentment.
It warrants me going over there and . . .
And what?
Confronting her and . . .
Making a fool out of yourself?
Making myself feel better.
Would you?
Oh I don’t know. Initially maybe. But I’d curse myself for doing it afterwards.
Would it achieve anything?
I doubt it. It won’t bring Xander back. And, even if he offered, I couldn’t deny a baby the right to have his father present, no matter how badly damaged his parents’ marriage. I couldn’t be the one to instigate the break-up of a family. That’s if Xander was willing . . . for all I know he’s forgotten all about me and is revelling in his new role. It might cement the cracks in his marriage. It might give him the happy ever after that we all dream about.
But what about me? What about my happy ever after?
Oh for fuck’s sake, Isla. What’s wallowing in pity going to do except drag you down? You need to pick yourself up and forget all about that man. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can move on.
And you need to fuck off.
The shrill ringing of her mobile phone interrupted the argument inside her head. She snatched it up, resisted the temptation to throw it once she saw that it wasn’t Xander’s name on the screen and hit the connect button. She didn’t notice who was calling, just that it wasn’t him.
‘Yes,’ she snapped.
‘Isla? It’s Joshua.’
Feeling slightly guilty at her abruptness, she replied, ‘Oh hi, Joshua. Sorry, I’m just in the middle of something.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to know whether you had Jamie’s parents’ contact details. The shit has hit the fan big time this morning. His clients have been trying to contact him at the office and now they’re going mental. Basically, if he doesn’t turn up very soon with one hell of an explanation, he’s gone.’
‘Oh my God. I haven’t had a chance to check. Give me five and I’ll call you back, okay?’
Isla hung up and quickly looked through her address book. Nothing.
Oh, I got a new address book when I decided to eliminate him from my life completely. Anyone connected with Jamie was omitted from the new one. And they were moving house when we broke up . . . think Isla, where were they going? . . . I can’t remember. Oh crap.
She called Joshua and gave him the bad news. He’d so
unded uncomfortable when he asked her whether she could think of any way of contacting Jamie and warning him of the situation at work. She'd shrugged it off. Work had his contact details and she didn't know where he frequented these days.
However, as she showered, thoughts of Jamie losing his job after he'd got his promotion raced around her head faster than the soapy suds swirled around the plughole. In order to assuage her conscience, she decided to call him. If he wasn't answering his phone from any of his colleagues, she doubted that he'd pick up when he saw it was her.
He didn't. It rang out until his voicemail clicked in.
So he's charging his phone . . . that means he isn't lying in a hospital bed somewhere. He's obviously compos mentis and is making a conscious decision to avoid calls. Oh well, if he knows what he's doing, then on his head be it.
She dressed, not bothering to put on make-up. She didn't plan on going anywhere. That wasn't to say that she knew how she was going to spend her day, just that it would be inside her flat. Not wallowing the dismal state of her love life. Just quietly accepting things for what they were.
And waiting for Xander to call.
Thoughts about her job invaded her mind but she pushed them away. She had decided that she wouldn't return to Rouge Passion unless she was invited. Then she would give working with Xander a trial and take it from there. She felt that she couldn't be there until she knew what his wishes were. For all she knew, he didn't want her there. And she guessed that hell would freeze over before his wife would allow them to work together.
Feeling the crushing weight of despair once more, she strode into the kitchen and set about clearing away the broken mug. It took quite a while; broken shards were everywhere. She was in the process of hunting down the final few – including the tiny fragments from under the microwave and inside the sink – her phone rang.
For fuck's sake . . . I love you, Joshua but really, Jamie's plight is none of my concern. He’s a big boy and makes his own fuck-ups.
