It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2)
Page 13
“I’m sorry,” he says, and my rage intensifies. Apologising always came so easy to him, but his words were rarely sincere. “And I’m sorry, real sorry, that you left.”
I want to leave. I should leave, but something I can’t put my finger on is keeping me rooted to the spot. His cologne, the same woody cologne he always wore, invades my senses and takes me back to my rented apartment in Harlem: one room, one sofa-bed, one table, two chairs. Red brick walls inside and out. Tall black-framed windows leading onto a fire escape. White cotton sheets. Dark walnut floors. A creaky radiator. A patch of damp in the corner of a grey ceiling. The sound my shower made as it sprayed lukewarm water onto his hard, athletic body. His deep voice singing soul songs as I watched him from my bed, amazed he was mine. I thought I loved him. Maybe I did.
“What exactly are you sorry for, Ryan? Are you sorry you lied, or are you sorry I found out? Please tell me, because it’s been four years and I’d like to know.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Oh my god, will you ever change?” He takes a few steps towards me, but then changes his mind and retreats to the sofa. I don’t join him. “I was right to leave you and wrong to have believed you in the first place. A cheater will always cheat, and a liar will always lie.”
He sighs in the exact same way he sighed when I first confronted him with the truth all those years ago. “I wasn’t lying when I told you I loved you.”
“Great. Just what every girl wants to hear – that she’s loved by someone whose mouth is full of lies. You know, I’m always disappointed when a liar’s pants don’t actually catch on fire after they talk crap to me, so if there’s nothing else, I think I’m going to head off home. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, Ryan, but I have better things to do with my time than be reminded I’m an idiot. Like go home and puke a night’s worth of vile vodka shots into my toilet.”
He stands and holds up his arm as I walk past him. “Wait.”
I turn back around. “Why? What’s the point of this?”
“We never got a chance to talk.”
“Are you for real? We were together for the best part of a year. You had all the time in the world.” I almost choke on air. “But now, it’s late, and you have nothing I want to hear.”
“What if I tell you I’m sorry for half-lying?”
Is he fucking kidding me? He cracks a smile, and it’s all I can do not to punch it clean off his face. “Do you think this is funny?”
“No, I don’t. Not even close. You left without so much as a goddamn fucking word. Just fucking disappeared. Have you any idea what that did to me?” He swallows hard and then falls silent. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You told no one you were going. You didn’t give notice, you left projects unfinished . . . It took me weeks to find out you were safe in London. Have you any idea what that was like for me? I was out of my freaking mind. I didn’t know if you were okay, or sick, or living on the street . . . I didn’t know if you were alive. You had no family or friends I could call . . .”
His voice fades to a tremble, and my chest aches with regret as I accept his anguish is genuine. But then I remember. “Couldn’t your wife console you?”
He shakes his head and sits back down on the sofa. “Lea and I were broken up before I met you. I never lied about that. I may not have been completely honest about the logistics, but that’s because it takes time to split when you have kids.”
“The logistics? You mean the fact you told me you were separated when you still spent every weekend sleeping in the same bed as her?” I think back to his wife’s beautiful, tear-stained face on the day she arrived unannounced at my apartment. I remember the cruel words she spat out of her mouth. I can still taste her anger, pain and grief, and my heart breaks all over again when I think about the part I played in her misery. “You made me hurt someone in the worst possible way, Ryan. I believed your lies. I believed you when you told me your wife was unhinged – that she said all those things to me because she couldn’t come to terms with you leaving her. You made me hurt her and your children when I gave you a second chance, and I hate myself for that.”
“I already said . . . God, why won’t you ever listen? Lea and I had broken up. We hadn’t made love in a year when I got together with you. It was over between us – long over. We shared a bed in the same way goddamn Bert and Ernie shared a bed!”
“Not according to your eleven-year-old daughter.”
His face changes. The anger is replaced for a moment by something that looks like regret, but as he’s a self-centred bastard, I know the only thing he regrets is what he lost. He doesn’t care about the pain he caused me, his wife or his children. “Alexis should never have said those things to you. Lea poisoned her mind. Used her in a way no mother should ever use a child.”
I wonder what Alexis is like now. She must be fifteen – a young woman – and her sister eight or nine. Is Lea happy? I hope she is. I know she’ll never forgive me, but I hope she’s happy.
He takes off his suit jacket and makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. It’s strange seeing him in a suit. Ryan Rafferty attended the Richard Branson school of business. It wasn’t unusual for him to turn up for work in blue denim jeans and a heavy-metal t-shirt. He claimed casual dressing helped focus his mind.
“Lea and I divorced three years ago. I moved out, got an apartment in Manhattan and I’d like to say I’ve never been happier, but I have. I was happier when I was with you.”
“Ryan, don’t . . .”
“It’s true. And I know I fucked up, but I never lied. At least, I didn’t think I was lying at the time. My marriage was over when I met you. Lea’s work, my work, the kids . . . we never saw each other back then, and when we did we fought like hell. I should have severed ties sooner, but I was trying to protect the girls.”
“If the only person who knew your marriage was over was you, then it wasn’t over.”
He looks away from me for a moment. His arm rests on the back of the sofa and his chin rests pensively on his hand. When his gaze returns, it is penetrating. “Okay, you’re right. Technically I did cheat on Lea and technically I did lie to you.” He stands up and walks towards me, straightening the cuffs of the ridiculous shirt he looks so odd in. “But I did love you.”
I loved you too. The words are on the tip of my tongue, begging to be said. But I swallow them back down. I feel afraid. I don’t know why I’m still standing here and I don’t know why I’m feeling like this.
“Hey, remember all those great times we had?” His Boston-Irish accent grows stronger as he talks fervently. “I’ll never forget having front-row seats at the Met on the opening night of Rigoletto. Or watching Shakespeare in the Park every chance we got. And what about that shoot we did up in Canada?”
“Don’t remind me of that.”
“Oh, right . . . the helicopter.”
He laughs at the memory. We were shooting a commercial which called for snow, but it was May, so we had to fly up to northern Canada. The shoot went well, but there was a freak snowstorm on the last day and we were cut off from the nearest town. I hate the cold more than anything. I hated snow as a kid. I never found anything fun about bombing down hills on a plastic sledge. So, given my hatred for snow, you’d think I’d be keen to get as far away from a Nunavut snowstorm as I could get, right? Well, apparently not if the only possible escape route involved a helicopter and I have a ridiculous brain that thinks helicopter rides are scarier than freezing to death. Ryan had to physically bundle me onto the helicopter, and I spent the entire forty-minute flight alternating between mumbling obscenities and screaming that I was going to be sick. When we landed, I punched him then vomited in a pile of snow.
“I’m here until Wednesday.” He closes the gap between us until I can smell his familiar woody scent. I want to flee, but at the same time I feel a strange, fluttery warmth in my belly.
My brain clicks into gear. “I’m really busy over the next few days. I have a shoot in Paris nex
t week. My first campaign as creative director.”
He nods and his eyes glisten with intensity again. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I half expected I might bump into you when Dylan said he needed me in London.” He moves closer again. I take a step back, my eyes dodging his gaze. “I tried to imagine how I’d feel seeing you, and I’m going to be honest here: it’s kinda knocked the wind out of me. If I go back home Wednesday without spending time with you . . . well, I know I’m going to be looking for a reason to cross the Atlantic again.”
When Ryan reaches out and runs his hand down my arm, it takes a second or two for me to realise what’s happening, but by then it’s too late. He brings his face close to mine and then one of his hands is in my hair, the other gently cupping my cheek. His gaze is so intense that my skin burns. Everywhere. I open my mouth to speak, to tell him no, but before a sound leaves my mouth, he covers my lips with his.
It only lasts a second, but I let it happen. At least I think I do. My eyes close and I wonder why I’m not pushing him away. But then he stops, his face flushed with longing.
“Oh god, I could take you back to my hotel right now and not stop kissing you till morning. You make me so fucking crazy. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not once. Not for four years. You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
I try to process what I’m feeling. No more flutters. No more anger. I don’t think I’m feeling anything, except pain. Ethan’s face flashes in my mind – his words, his laughter, and his kisses . . . WALLOP! I feel like I’ve been hit by a train. What did I just do?
He reaches out to move a stray curl of hair from my face. I push his hand away and his face changes. Confusion. Guilt. Shock. “Shit, Violet, I’m sorry. I didn’t think this would be on the cards, but seeing you again has done something to me. Can I call you tomorrow? Give us both space to think things through.”
A sick choking feeling climbs its way up my throat and I gasp for air. I breathe once, twice, three times. Nothing. My lungs burn. “I can’t breathe.”
His face cracks with concern. “Violet, are you okay?” I turn my back to him and try to shut it out. Why did I let that happen? I can still feel the taste of his lips on mine. I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself down. Why didn’t I stop him? Oh god, this makes me a slut, doesn’t it? I’m officially a dirty, horrible slut. Have I cheated on Ethan?
“Let me see you get back home safe. Where are you living now?”
“No!” I shout the word as if saying it now will make up for not saying it earlier. “No, I’ll be fine. I can get a taxi.” I pick up my bag and immediately drop it. Its contents spring out onto the floor. Shit and double shit. If this day isn’t the worst first day at work anybody has ever had, then I’ll eat the oldest, ugliest hat I own.
He stoops down and starts picking up my things. “Ryan, please just leave it.” I can’t disguise the shake in my voice as he passes me my mobile phone and a lipstick. “I’m . . . not really in the right place for this.”
He stands back up. “What do you mean?”
The nausea is still there. “I’ve had too much to drink tonight . . . so, I just need you to leave me alone. Please.”
“Okay, I’ll call you. I have three prospective clients to visit tomorrow, and Wednesday looks hectic, but I’m staying at the Crowne Plaza.”
“No. I don’t want to see you.”
His face drops. “Okay. If you’re sure that’s what you want,” he says with barely disguised disappointment.
“It is what I want. I’m sorry, but I have a new life. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Maybe you just need time to think—”
“No, Ryan, I don’t. The answer is no.”
He apologises again and then he leaves.
14
ETHAN FLEW TO NEW YORK on Tuesday. Stella arranged for him to hook up with BEST Inc.’s bid-tendering guru just as he closed a nine-figure contract with Coca Cola. I forget the guy’s name, but last year he won a similar nine-figure contract with Mercedes Benz, so seeing him in action was an opportunity too good to miss.
In a way, I’m glad I haven’t been able to see Ethan. Having the last four days to myself has given me time to mull things over, as well as calm down. If I’d seen Ethan the day after Ryan kissed me, then goodness knows what hell I may have unleashed upon myself. The fear of destroying my life is very real.
Ryan called me on Tuesday, but I didn’t answer. He flew home on Wednesday, leaving me a text message I deleted. So, terrifyingly, that means Ryan and Ethan are both in New York at the same time. What if their paths cross? Would it unleash some kind of cosmic paradoxical fabric-of-the-universe-shifting phenomenon? Max has tried to teach me sci-fi terms but they’re very confusing. I don’t know if a Ryan-meets-Ethan eventuality would create a wormhole, some kind of Twilight Zone thing, or whether it would send me back to the future on a hoverboard. What I do know is that in true hysterical Violet fashion, I’ve thought up hundreds of possible Ryan-meets-Ethan scenarios in my head. Each torturous daydream always starts with the Coca-Cola-deal-closing-guru guy – who my brain imagines looking like Obi-Wan Kenobi – walking the halls of BEST Inc. with Ethan, his young Jedi Padawan, at his side. Then they bump into Ryan. In every scenario, Ryan says “I kissed Violet on Monday night, I love her and I want her back.” Then Ethan whips out a lightsabre and slices his head off.
“Hey, have you got a few minutes?”
Freja comes into my office bearing a grave expression. She smiles and makes eye contact, but her pointed jaw is so tense that her expression does little to disguise her underlying mood. My stomach winces with nerves – I’ve never seen Freja like this. She sits down in a chair opposite my desk.
“What’s the matter?” I say, trying to ignore the worry that is sloshing around in my guts.
“I’ve got to tell you something.” Immediately my brain races with possibilities: something has happened between Jadine and Ethan, or Georgie has accidentally blabbed my secret (I’ve learned this week that she’s as scatty as a kitten who sleeps on a pillow stuffed with catnip). Then there’s the worst-case scenario – Ethan has lightsabred Ryan’s head off.
“Freja, what is it? Has something bad happened?”
“It’s nothing terribly bad . . . It’s about the Belle Oaks campaign.”
My heartrate slows. Thank Christ for that. Even if Belle Oaks has pulled the plug on our ad, it’s got to be better than Ethan being on death row.
“A few of us have concerns about next week’s shoot. To get straight to the point – we’re not sure the concept fits the client brief.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m sorry,” says Freja, clearly picking up on the hurt in my voice. “I already said what I thought in the brainstorming sessions and I’ve tried to get behind you on this, but I’m not sure this is the best work we can do.”
I bristle at her certainty – and her criticism. Even though the idea I went with for the Belle Oaks campaign was originally Georgie’s. “I thought everyone was on board. Ruby said they were.”
“Ruby is scared of you.”
“What?”
“She’s afraid to tell you what she thinks. So is Tom.”
I feel my walls go up. “So they sent you to tackle me?”
Freja sighs. “They did. They didn’t feel able to approach you.”
“For fuck’s sake, am I that bloody terrifying? I’m five foot five and I’m built like a bird. I’m not confrontational in the slightest . . .” She looks unconvinced, which is understandable given my talking voice has progressed to my shouting voice. “Okay, I might be a little bit confrontational, but only when I’m agitated or when someone has done something incredibly stupid. Who isn’t?” Freja smiles in that ridiculously intuitive way of hers. I may as well give up defending myself now.
“I’m telling you this because I care about you. I’m not convinced on the ad, and I do think Ruby and Tom’s original idea is a better fit. So does Jadine.”
I laugh. “Jadine?”
“I know that. I also know it’s too late to alter the ad. Georgie and Max have worked their socks off, and Tamara, the client account manager, has approved their idea. You’ve seen what Georgie has been like this week. On her first day she threatened to have Max kidnapped and fed to her father’s foxhounds. She said they’re mostly unemployed since the fox-hunting ban and would like to get their teeth stuck into an irritating German. Day after, Max said good morning by shouting ‘Tally-ho’, and then he blew a horn in her face. And when I say ‘horn’, I mean one of those foil blowers kids get in party bags. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that they found a way to work together.”
Freja rolls her eyes dismissively and the hurt hits me square in the chest. “Forget about them. The art studio isn’t your responsibility. You gave Belle Oaks to Tom and Ruby and you should put them first. I love Georgie, but she can be full-on. You shouldn’t let her railroad you.”
“I didn’t. I genuinely love her Les Misérables idea.”
Her eyes pop. “Really? We’re advertising the finest-quality luxury handbags, not a new line in guillotines. Enthusiasts of the French Revolution are not our audience.”
“Actually, it’s a common misconception, but the events in Les Misérables take place during the June rebellion of 1832. The French Revolution happened over forty years earlier and that’s the one with the guillotines . . .” I trail off when the bored look on her face registers with my brain.
“Well, it’s very nice that you and Georgie share a love of fake French revolutions, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the Belle Oaks brand.”