“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.