A Little Crushed
Page 27
Madonna chose that moment to remind him she was the most important creature on God’s green earth. Breaking into a doleful Hound of the Baskervilles solo, she broke the perilous spell.
“Christ, but I wish you wouldn’t do that.” James crash-landed back in reality. “It’s scary.”
Madonna’s expression hovered between disdain and however-this-sub-species-is-in-charge-of-the-menu.
“Don’t push it, Blondie.” He skewered the canine with what Alex called his ‘man’ glint. “I love you about as much as you love me. A few more hours, and we need never see each other again, but until then, my rules, okay, so get over it.”
Raising an eyebrow, Madonna yawned.
Sighing, James shook his head. He could recognize defeat along with the next man. “I’ll take that as in-your-dreams, pal.”
Deciding he’d commanded enough of her royal attention, the dog nimbly jumped up on to the sofa, not in the least perturbed that her mud-caked feet smeared the cushions.
“Oh God.” James ran his fingers through his bed head. “Alex is going to kill me. Get off, you jumped up Paris Hilton wannabee. He lunged for the coat before ‘Paris’ turned it into a pillow. As he whipped it out from under saucer-sized paws, a card slipped from a pocket and fluttered to the floor. Thinking it was a game Madonna lunged for it.
“Not this time, Blondie.” Grinning his triumph, he pulled it from under her nose. “And don’t tell your mum I called you that.”
Flicking the card between finger and thumb, he read the address. “Mmm, Worthington Hotel. Classy.” He pursed his lips. “Looks like the not-so-happy couple isn’t short of a bob or two.”
Deep in thought, he walked over to the window and stared out across the road to the sodden park beyond. What were his options? Should he follow her now and risk barging in on a lovers’ tiff? His habitual cynicism reared its ugly head. So much for wedded bliss. Sparring on the honeymoon? If her distress was anything to go by, the guy she’d married just had to be a colossal wanker. If he had a girl like...
“Blondie, what am I saying?” Incredulity nudged at his semi-comatose brain cells. Oh the joys of jet lag, and his hellish day wasn’t yet over.
The grandfather clock burst forth with its hourly chime, and Madonna let rip with another Country and Western style rendition. He winced. And there by the grace of God went his longed for forty winks. Black-tie events were the bane of his life even when held in his honour. He didn’t want another friggin award, and he was tired of having his ego stroked by a bunch of inconsequential journalists whose idea of pictorial brilliance was a snap of a B celebrity’s snatch on You Tube. Shit, but he could do without it!
Somewhere over the Pacific, exhaustion had set up home in his bones, a testament to his punishing schedule. That wasn’t the only thing demanding retribution. Alex was gone. Breathing space? A commitment assessment more like. Depression vied with weariness for first place. He needed a drink.
Pyjama bottoms trailed over his bare feet, polishing the waxed planks as he crossed the room to the annexed kitchen. He rummaged in the freezer for Alex’s clandestine supply of vodka. Bingo. Wrenching his prize free from a month’s build up of ice, he unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his mouth. The liquid seared his lips before gripping his gut with its fiery fingers.
“So,” he spoke to his reflection in the stainless steel door. “This is good. Our relationship is still in with a chance, or there’d be no vodka, right?” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Who was he trying to kid? “Focus, James.” Resting his head against the cool metal, he closed his eyes. “We’ll get through this.”
Dragging himself back to unwelcome reality, he made for the stairs, bottle dangling from his fingers. From the sofa arm, the burgundy coat challenged him. He’d return it tomorrow, and should he come face to face with jealous husband, well, Madonna did a mean impression of a rabid werewolf. Taking the stairs two at a time, he emptied his mind of waif-like Titian beauties and marital discourse. Two hours to go, and he hadn’t even begun work on his speech.
* * * *
“Room 108, please.”
Beyond caring that she dripped a puddle the size of Texas all over the Art Deco tiled floor, Cassie challenged the supercilious receptionist behind the marble-topped desk to comment. Wisely, she didn’t. Cold, wet, and totally humiliated, Cassie curled her numb, blue-tinged fingers around the offered key. The Viking blonde’s, “Have a nice day,” trailed her to the elevator.
“Yer right!” Cassie punched at the button on the wall. “We’re in friggin Notting Hill, not L.A.” As the gilded cage door rattled open and she squelched into the velvet opulence, she realized she’d forgotten her coat. Scowling at her reflection in the mirrored wall, she wondered if her life could get any worse. Her image now smiled back at her. Poetic justice, perhaps? The coat had been Martin’s engagement present. Well she hoped Madonna was using it as a bed.
She opened the door to the suite just as her mobile rung out shrilly, making her wince. Again Martin’s doing; that stupid ring tone would drown out Michael Moore. Stumbling into the room, she lunged for the bedside table where the slim cell phone spun and vibrated, banging her leg against the cast-iron bedstead on the way. Definitely not worth the pain because it was Martin. Habit made her answer.
“Hi.”
Bile rose into her mouth. Hi? Was he serious? But then, he was Martin—skin as thick as a rhino’s, conscience gossamer thin.
“I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Anger surged. He sounded awkward, contrite even, but she knew him better than that. “Listen, Martin, if you want to atone for your sins, get a job with UNICEF. Go away, and leave me alone!”
Throwing the mobile onto the bed, she covered her face with her hands. No tears came. She’d lost them somewhere during her sprint through the rain. The hotel internal line pierced her private Hades with its discreet trill.
“I’m sorry,” The Scandinavian accented tone oozed feigned remorse. “But I forgot to ask if you wish to confirm the taxi for seven p.m.”
“Taxi?” Confusion blurred coherent thought. And then it clicked. She’d planned on going to see a show. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, why waste a week’s supply of to-die-for theatre tickets? Martin again—ever the pragmatist.
“Madame?”
“Sorry…no, I won’t be requiring a taxi after all.” She was in no mood for The Phantom of the Opera. Her own life was dramatic enough, thank you.
Alone again with her thoughts, the lilac damask room cruelly mocked her. It was a lovers’ room, the honeymoon suite, a room for romance. Stripping off her wet clothes, Cassie’s deliberation turned to the stranger with the magnetic blue eyes. How on earth could she have broken down like that? Mortification seeped into every one of her fragile pores. Thank God, she’d never see him again. Snuggling under the satin duvet, she curled into a ball.
A Little Crushed © 2012 by Viviane Brentanos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-77127-230-8
First eBook Edition *December 2012
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