“My career is important to me.”
Emile gripped her arms and leaned down to her, his breath warm on her face. “So is mine,” he bit out through gritted teeth.
She jerked out of his grasp, needing to put air between them. “It’s hard to believe that, if this is any indication.” She gestured towards the table where his friends were still sitting.
“What the hell? One game of poker? I suppose you think I shouldn’t have any fun at all.”
She shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant, but it had just hit home—again—how different his world was from hers. Those were fifty pound notes piling up in the center of the table. God knows how much money he’d throw away on the turn of a card.
“It’s none of my business.”
“Damned right, it isn’t.” That had never been part of the bargain, that they’d criticize each other’s behavior.
“But since you ask, I don’t approve of your drinking while you’re still taking the medication drugs.” She her hands on her hips and faced him down.
“As you pointed out, that’s none of your business. I don’t have to answer to you.”
“And I don’t have to stay and watch you sabotage yourself like this.”
She bent to pick up her bag and leave, only to find her way barred by Emile’s crutch.
“As it happens,” he hissed so that only she could hear. “I don’t want you to, because I’m having fun, Thérèse. Or at least I was until you arrived.”
And that was the point. She was the one who spoiled the fun. He didn’t need someone like her around.
“Then, I guess I’ll be in touch next October. Goodbye, Emile.”
She made it out of the club and around the corner into one of London’s blessedly anonymous streets where people walked past each other without ever looking to see if there was agony on someone’s face.
She’d call him tomorrow. Apologize.
And then what?
Her mind cycled through the arguments all the way home. Before Emile’s injury, she’d thought they were friends with benefits. Exceptional benefits, admittedly, and somewhat mismatched friends, but it had worked.
Tonight had proved they couldn’t go back to that. They were just too different. Theresa’s friends didn’t play poker with piles of fifty pound notes casually tossed onto a table in one of London’s most exclusive bars. Theresa wouldn’t dream of drinking alcohol against doctor’s orders. She didn’t hang out with models and superstar footballers. It wasn’t her world, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
Shouting matches in public bars. Weeping in hospital rooms. Ice cold spears of jealousy. And yes, all right, crazy skyrockets of happiness at the football match. Intense passion like she wouldn’t have believed possible when his hands were on her skin.
It was too much. It was all too much.
She wouldn’t call.
It would be better to pull away now, while it didn’t hurt. Or at least, while the pain was bearable. He was just too tempting. Too good at flirting. Too good at making her believe that he really cared about her. Too dangerous, too wild, too much.
She wanted to call him. To blurt it all out and tell him how he made her feel and how that scared her and apologize for running out and beg him for another chance.
Maybe she would have done if they were in a normal relationship. One that didn’t have a pre-determined end sealed into a legal contract. But it was no good wondering about hypotheticals.
Theresa let herself into her own little house, grateful for its cool silence. She switched the kettle on and opened up her laptop. She really did have work to do. And if she switched her phone off, that was a good way of making sure she wouldn’t be distracted.
Chapter Ten
For six weeks, she didn’t think of him at all. She worked, she ate, she slept. On Saturday nights, she dragged Julie out to clubs where she could dance until Sunday mornings. She’d barely spoken to her parents and bitten off her assistant’s head for making a polite comment about being with family for Christmas.
It almost worked. So long as she could fill her conscious mind with complex legal issues or empty it of everything but the beat of the music, she was okay. It took a lot of effort, and occasionally, she slipped up. She’d hear a French accent or get caught out by a wide, wicked grin that wasn’t his. She’d forget to switch off the news program before they got to the football reports. And then an hour would be gone, lost in thoughts of Emile. She wondered how his foot was healing. Was he in physiotherapy yet? Had he rested long enough? Inevitably, she wondered how he had coped with the long days of doing nothing. Had the next nurse been as pretty as Ivonna? Had that even mattered to him, so long as she was there and willing?
She’d shake her head, forcing the unwelcome thoughts out. It was none of her business now. Never had been, not really. When she’d first suggested her crazy scheme, she’d promised him he could still have sex with anyone he wanted. Stupid to get so jealous when all he’d done was to take her at her word.
She was stupid at work, too, checking her phone several times an hour in case he’d texted. She was more distracted now than when he’d been flirting with her, which was ridiculous. They’d never had a serious relationship. Not really. They’d enjoyed each other’s company, but she hadn’t meant it to be more than that.
And yet, she missed him.
No one else in her life checked whether she’d eaten lunch or chided her for staying late at the office. She didn’t have anyone to notice when she was tired and put strong arms around her that helped her sleep. There was no one who made her laugh as much as Emile had, even when she was cross. Especially when she was cross, charming her out of her bad moods. She even missed their bickering. It had been a way of dealing with the sexual tension they’d had, and God only knew how much she missed that.
She’d made an excuse when her mother asked if they would both be coming down for Christmas. Boxing Day was the biggest day in the football season, and although Emile wasn’t playing, it was easy to pretend he still had obligations to the club, which meant he couldn’t be there for Christmas dinner. She wondered what he would have thought of the Chartley traditions. Somehow, she couldn’t picture Emile sitting patiently through the vicar’s sermon or wearing a crumpled tissue-paper hat over lunch.
She arrived on Christmas Eve, in time to help peel the sprouts and make the bread sauce to go with the turkey. She put her parents’ presents under the small, artificial tree and accepted the glass of sherry her dad gave her. For forty-eight hours, she would do her best to be the daughter they wanted. She owed them that much.
Melanie always got up at six on Christmas Day to stuff the turkey in accordance with the timetable. Theresa came down at eight, wearing her dressing gown and a pair of warm socks.
“Morning, Mum.”
“Good morning, darling. Happy Christmas.” Melanie, sporting striped oven gloves with her toweling robe, proffered a cheek for Theresa to kiss.
“Happy Christmas.”
“Can you set the table, dear? We’ll need to be quick.” Theresa checked the schedule on the fridge door. Breakfast was allocated forty minutes, allowing them time to shower and change for church afterwards. She laid the table, found the croissants, and put them on a tray to warm in the oven.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.” She took the cup that Melanie poured and leaned back against the counter to drink it. “Why are you adding another place setting?”