by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
“Are you saying you don’t want to be with me?”
“You’d be so much better off with a different sort of woman, Emile. Someone who shares your priorities. Someone who can be there when you need her.”
“You’re breaking up with me because you don’t like football?” He sounded incredulous.
She almost laughed, only the tears in her eyes made it come out more like a sob. “It’s not about the damned football.”
“So it’s me you don’t like?”
“I like you, Emile. I…care about you. Too much to pretend that this could work.” If he couldn’t see that, she’d have to be the one to be firm about it.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck that.”
The phone went dead. Theresa threw it at the wall. For a moment, that helped. Then she collapsed onto the sofa and cried.
Chapter Thirteen
Summer drifted on into September and early October, with unseasonably warm temperatures and bright blue skies, so that Theresa found it easy to ignore the dates on her calendar. But with creeping inevitability, the date of their wedding anniversary kept getting nearer, and she couldn’t put it off forever. She had one last responsibility to Emile and then she could draw a line under the whole thing. At least she’d learned one lesson: not to shoot herself in the foot simply for the brief pleasure of disconcerting her mother.
Her parents had been quietly sympathetic when she’d told them that she and Emile had separated. Julie had been unsurprised but loudly insistent that Emile was a prick who didn’t deserve her. The rest of the world was temporarily entertained by almost wholly fictitious stories of their split in the tabloids. Prada had landed a job as celebrity correspondent on a daytime TV show. Theresa just wanted it to be over, once and for all. Maybe then she’d be able to get him out of her head and move on. She was in the running to make partner within the next twelve months. She was determined to do it, no matter how many hours she had to put in. The work helped, too, giving her something else to think about that demanded all her concentration. She was tired, but it felt good.
A week before the anniversary, she filled in the petition for the divorce, ready to file it on the due date. She couldn’t cite adultery, because she and Emile had been together within the past six months. Besides, she had no desire to know which women he was sleeping with now. Unreasonable behavior was vague enough to cover their situation, and since the divorce wouldn’t be contested, there was no reason to provide detailed evidence.
It would take a few weeks to get their decree nisi, and six weeks and one day later, the decree absolute would confirm it. The marriage that ought never to have taken place would finally be dismantled without, she hoped, too much collateral damage. They wouldn’t have to worry about settlements since their pre-nup covered everything. She submitted the divorce petition and arranged for a courier to collect the rings. That was it, then. She’d expected to feel relief. Hadn’t anticipated the sheer desolation that threatened to overwhelm her.
An hour later, her phone buzzed.
Sending rings back. They’re yours.
Damn. They’d agreed Emile would take the rings back, but he was obviously in a mood to be difficult. It wasn’t worth fighting about now. She punched out her reply, letting her phone feel her frustration.
I’ll donate them to a charity shop.
Maybe that was petty, but she didn’t want them in her house.
If that makes you feel better, chérie.
That was not appropriate. She was not his chérie. She counted to ten, took a deep breath, and put her phone in her bag. He was trying to provoke her, and she wasn’t going to let him.
The court sent out notification of the divorce petition a week later. Theresa’s was merely for reference since she was the one who’d filed. Emile would have to sign his, indicating that he didn’t intend to contest the divorce and that they had reached agreement about the division of their assets. Since there was no division of assets to agree to, this ought to be a formality.
She was shocked, therefore, when she got a notice from the court, informing her that the respondent had indicated his intention to contest the divorce and setting a date for the proceedings. She skimmed through the papers. What the hell was he playing at? Why hadn’t he just called her if he thought the settlements weren’t fair? Though what he could possibly have found to disagree with, she had no idea.
She frowned and read through the papers again. Oh, hell. He wasn’t contesting the settlements. He was contesting the divorce itself.
She picked up her phone and dialed his number, counting to ten before she hit send. She needed to be calm for this.
“Chérie.”
“Don’t call me that. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” So much for calm.
“I play football. On occasion, I play poker.”
“Emile, I haven’t got time for this sort of nonsense. You’re contesting the divorce.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I am.”
“We agreed. You signed the contract.”
“My lawyer assures me that prenuptial contracts are not technically binding in this country. Something about a prior contract which was superseded by a later one. Or something like that. You will understand it better than I do, chérie.”
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” she forced out through gritted teeth.
“It’s hard to get out of the habit.”
“Tell me what you’re trying to achieve. Do you want money? Is that it?” It seemed unlikely, but she honestly couldn’t work out why else he would be doing this.
He laughed. “As you’ve told me before, I have more than enough money.”
“So what? You want to drag me through the courts? Destroy my reputation?” Her brain froze for a second as the implications suddenly became clear to her. “Destroy my career? Is that it?”
“Nothing so dire, chérie. I just want to have dinner with you.”
“Dinner? You couldn’t just have phoned up and asked?”
“Would you have agreed?”
She didn’t answer that.
“I thought so. Tonight?”
“I can’t,” she said automatically. “I have to work.”
“Tonight,” he repeated. “I’ll pick you up from your office at eight. That’s plenty late enough, even for you.”
“And then you’ll drop your objections?” This was crazy. She almost smiled. It had all been crazy from the start. Why on earth had she assumed they could end it in a sane, rational way?
“Then we’ll see.”
“Emile…”
“At eight. Don’t keep me waiting.”
…
She hadn’t made any effort with her appearance. Whatever lipstick or mascara she’d put on in the morning was long since gone. She might have run a comb through her hair, though it was hard to tell. He recognized the slightly narrowed eyes and slumped shoulders that indicated a long, tough workday, but he knew better than to offer to carry her laptop or briefcase.
“I’m not going to change,” she warned him. “So you’d better be taking me somewhere it won’t matter what I’m wearing.”
“I am.” He’d thought about bringing her back to the apartment but decided that would be the quickest way to spook her. “Here.”
He pulled up the car outside Gérard’s restaurant and handed the keys over to the valet parking service.
“I wanted moules frites, and this is the only place worth eating them in London.”
“Of course. You wanted moules frites, so that’s what we both have to have.”
“You can order anything you want, chérie. Gérard will cook it for you if I ask him.”
He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the busy dining room to the small nook in the corner that Gérard had reserved for him. Public but secluded. Perfect. He ordered a bottle of red wine, and Theresa asked for some sparkling water and a menu.
When she’d chosen steak frites and the waiter had poured the
ir wine, he lifted his glass in a toast.
“To the most beautiful woman in London.”
Theresa rolled her eyes. “Is that who you’re sleeping with these days?”
“I have not slept with her since one morning more than three months ago in Rio de Janeiro.”
“Emile.” He hated the sadness in her voice. Hated more that he was partly responsible. He should have found a better way to play it. Should have understood that she still easily spooked and ready to run at the very mention of commitment.
“Theresa?” He winked at her, hoping that she might relax a little bit. “Drink your wine.”
She drew her glass towards her and fiddled with the stem, but she didn’t drink. “Just tell me what you want, because we’re not taking this case to court. It’s ridiculous. There’ll be legal fees and it’ll take forever and there’s no point. We’ll still up divorced, just a lot poorer and more frustrated.”
“I am hoping we will not end up divorced.”
He’d missed her every single minute since Rio. It had been hell, but he’d listened to what she’d said she wanted and done it. But when the divorce petition had landed, he’d just seen red. There was no way in hell he was going to let her go without a fight. He’d taken the petition to his own lawyer and announced that he wanted his wife back. The lawyer had recommended that he talk to Theresa. So here he was. Talking.
“If we don’t get divorced, we’ll still be married.” She sounded as though she was explaining something patiently to a very stupid child.
He grinned. “Well done.”
Her face dropped, and for an instant, he could see the deep weariness in her eyes. She’d been working too hard, and if there was any justice she wouldn’t have been sleeping well, either. He still woke at least once a night, reaching for her and finding the bed empty every time.
“Thérèse, eat your dinner. We’ll talk later.”
The waiter brought huge bowls of perfectly crispy, salty frites, with another dish of moules in garlic and white wine for him, and a rare steak for Theresa. She ate hungrily, he was glad to see. He took his time over his meal, simply enjoying being with her.
Eventually, she pushed her plate away and looked up at him with a smile. He’d pay anything to keep that smile on her face.
“Better?”
“Yes. Thank you, that was delicious.”
“My pleasure. Dessert?”
“Something with chocolate.”
“Of course.” He gave the order to the waiter and leaned back while the table was cleared. As soon as they were alone again, Theresa spoke.
“Emile, we have to get divorced.” God, he loved it when she used her lawyer voice. “It’s important that we don’t let it lie. What if you meet someone else?”
“What if you do?” What if she already had? His stomach clenched at the horrifying thought.
She shook her head. “I’m never getting married again.”
“Has it truly been so awful?”
Her eyes widened. “You were there. What do you think?”
“I think it was the best year of my life. But I know I let you down. I’m asking you to give me another chance, Thérèse. I want to start again. Husband and wife with everything that entails. No time limits, no restrictions. Living in one place and sharing everything, like a normal couple. I want us to try being married.”
She stared at him in utter shock. “You don’t want that. You can’t still want that.”
“Actually, I do.”
Whatever she’d thought he might say tonight, that wasn’t it. She’d thought he was just being difficult for the sake of it. Or maybe he had some objections to the details of the divorce that he’d wanted to talk about in person. But he was serious. His eyes hadn’t left hers, and she was struggling to breathe normally under the intensity of his gaze.
“You want to get married?”
He laughed gently and shook his head. “We are married, Thérèse. I want us to stay married.”
She barely noticed when the waiter put a plate of chocolate cake in front of her. Emile wanted to be married to her. Properly.
“What about Prada?”
He shook his head. “You know there was nothing.”
That was true, but there would always be other women fighting for his attention. “I won’t spend the rest of my life worrying whether my husband is being unfaithful.”
“You won’t have to. I promise. I shouldn’t have spoken to Prada that night. I’m sorry.”
She twisted her lips into a half smile. “I may have jumped to conclusions.”
He shrugged. “I was sending mixed signals. My head was all over the place. My only excuse was that I’d just won the World Cup.” He gave a little crooked smile, and her heart melted.
“That’s not a bad excuse.”
“Thank you. I was pleased with it.”
She kicked him under the table.
“No, I am sorry. I have thought about this a lot. I should have made my position clear beforehand.”
“I had no idea you were so serious about us.” She took a forkful of the chocolate cake, letting it melt in her mouth while she considered her answer. “I hadn’t dreamed that you expected to be together for more than a few months.”
He nodded. “You never forgot about the divorce, did you?”
“I wished I’d never mentioned marriage in the first place. It was a stupid idea, and I should have known better than to agree to it. It was my responsibility to get us out of it unharmed.”
“Unharmed?” His eyebrows rose. “What were you planning to do to me?”
“Not like that.” She shook her head, but she was smiling. “But there were other ways you could lose out. Financially. Or in your future prospects.”
“Huh?”
“Other women,” she specified. “If our relationship was a public disaster, it might make other women more cautious.”
“You were worrying about that?” He frowned. “Really?”
“Not exactly worrying. But it was a consideration.” She’d considered everything and she’d had to pull back. She couldn’t have done anything differently.
He nodded. “I hadn’t realized how much it weighed on you. I thought you were falling in love with me.”
He’d noticed that? She stared at him in horror.
“Like I was with you.”
Her jaw fell even further. Emile reached over and lifted her chin to close her mouth. His lips were twitching with a suppressed smile.
“You didn’t know, hm, chérie?”
He’d been falling in love with her? No, she hadn’t known that. Even on the beach, when he’d told her he wanted forever, he hadn’t said that. She shook her head.
“I should have said that in Rio. If I’d been thinking half-straight, I would have.”
He took the fork she’d been using to destroy her dessert and put it on the plate. Then he clasped his hand around hers, with his thumb tracing gentle circles against her wrist. She remembered the gesture from his time in hospital. She needed its soothing effect just as much now as she had then.
“And if I’d been thinking straight, I’d have known there were things we needed to talk about.”
She had no idea what. Emile was touching her for the first time in months, and it was taking all her available brain power to keep breathing.
“The things you assumed would be a problem between us. Where we want to live. Whether we want to start a family. What we want to do with our money.”
“Our money?”
“Yours and mine. Together, it becomes ours. This is not uncommon in marriage, chérie.”
“Yes, but…”
“But so far we have kept things separate, I know. That is something we need to discuss, but perhaps not the first thing.”
He seemed to be assuming she’d agree to his plan not to go ahead with the divorce.
“I don’t know, Emile.”
She needed to think. She needed to re-evaluate everything. And she needed to do it
when he wasn’t holding her hand and turning her heart in somersaults.
He looked her over closely, then nodded. “You don’t have to decide anything now. Only, chérie, can we agree not to go ahead with the divorce until we have talked some more?”
She pulled her hand away from his, hating how it felt cold and lost without him. The desire, which had sparked their relationship from the first meeting, was still just as potent as it had ever been. She wanted him so badly it hurt. But this time he wasn’t a nameless one-night-stand. This was Emile. They’d shared eight months together and four months apart. Eight months had been plenty to experience better and worse, sickness and health, triumph and disaster. They’d had fun together and they’d been serious with each other. They’d hurt each other and found ways to heal each other.
He’d fallen in love with her and he wanted to stay married to her.
“I’ll withdraw the petition. For the moment.”
She could see the tension drain from his face.
“Good.”
“But I’m not promising anything else. Not yet.”
“We can take things slowly,” he offered. “Rushing headlong into a relationship didn’t work so well last time.”
“Slow is good.”
“Slow can be amazing, from what I remember.”
She laughed. “I mostly remember fast being incredible.”
“Want me to remind you?”
It was so tempting. She could go home with him now. They’d both have their clothes off within seconds of reaching his flat, and she’d make him go fast the first time. Later in the night, they could try slow, and he could show her how amazing it could be.
“Not tonight.”
He nodded. “When can I see you again?”
She mentally checked her diary. “Thursday. After work.”
“Should I pick you up at the office?”
She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll come to your apartment. I still have the key card.”
…
She spent Thursday continually checking her watch, calculating the earliest time she could reasonably leave the office. At quarter to five, she gave in and closed down her computer, ignoring her assistant’s raised eyebrows. The journey was crowded and slow, but finally she reached his building and let herself into his apartment.
