This Man Confessed
Page 24
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‘My period is due tomorrow. I know it’s not coming, and so does Jesse.’ I sniffle and Kate leaves me, hurrying over to a unit of drawers. ‘I’ve been ignoring it, which has frustrated Jesse, but I’m not ready for this, Kate, and now I just feel furious with myself and even more incensed with him. I let things pass sometimes, but this is taking control to a whole new level. I can’t let him do this.’
She hands me a tissue, and I set about wiping my nose as she takes a seat next to me. ‘I completely agree.’ she says. I can’t believe how relieved I am to hear her say that. I know she’s very fond of Jesse, and generally nothing fazes her, not even my husband in all of his challenging ways, but this has shocked her, and I’m so glad. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks, ‘Make him sweat?’
‘Have an abortion.’
Kate’s mouth hits the table. It doesn’t help.
‘Kate, can you imagine what he’ll be like? He already smothers me, and I like it to a certain extent, but being pregnant?’
She scoops her chin up. ‘Oh God, Ava. You’ll send him to the loony bin.’
‘That’s not a good enough reason.’ I reply quietly. I know what this will do to him, but he hasn’t considered what any of his actions will do to me. I’m not ready for this, and he hasn’t stopped once to consider how I might feel. ‘It’s not just that, though. I have a career. I’m twenty six years old. I don’t want a baby, Kate.’
‘I don’t even know what to say.’
‘Just say I’m doing the right thing.’
She shakes her head a little. I need her to understand. ‘Okay.’ she says reluctantly. She doesn’t think it’s okay at all, but her willingness to halt any guilt trip is enough for me. I feel guilty enough already, although I shouldn’t. I need to regain control, and I can’t see any other way of doing it. I can’t have a baby.
‘Thank you.’ I whisper, picking up my tea and taking a shaky sip.
Chapter 8
It’s Monday. I wake at the crack of dawn and cry silently to myself. I’m only delaying the inevitable. I need to see Doctor Monroe. I exit Green Park tube station onto Piccadilly and stop for a few moments, absorbing the frantic rush hour blur of people. I miss this. I miss the chaos of the tube and walking the few blocks to my office—all of the hectic scrambling, the dodging of bodies and the loud voices, mostly shouting down a mobile phone. That, coupled with the screeching of cars and buses, the honking of impatient horns and the ringing of cyclist bells, all strangely bring a small smile to my face, until I get nudged in the back, and then ridiculed for keeping the frantic stream of pedestrian traffic from flowing. I snap out of my daydream and shift my feet into gear, heading for Berkeley Square.
‘Morning, flower.’ Patrick’s big body strides out of his office towards my desk.
I take my seat and swivel to face him. ‘Good morning.’ I need to fake chirpiness on a stupidly over-the-top level.
He perches on my desk, prompting the usual shriek of strained wood and my usual tensing in anticipation. It’s going to give one day. ‘How’s the blushing bride?’ He clucks my cheek affectionately and winks.
‘Perfect.’ I smile, laughing at myself and my ability to choose the most inaccurate word to describe how I’m really feeling. I could’ve said good, or fine, or great, but no… I say perfect. Perfectly distraught, that’s what I am.
‘It was a wonderful reception. Thank you.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ I brush off my boss’s appreciation. ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, desperate to divert the conversation from my shambolic wedding, and probably shambolic marriage, too.
‘Sal’s in the stationary cupboard having a tidy up, and Tom and Victoria should be here by now.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Van Der Haus,’ he returns his eyes to mine, and I struggle to look relaxed at the mention of my Danish client’s name. ‘Has he been in touch yet?’
‘No,’ I load my computer up and jiggle my mouse to get the screen on. It doesn’t escape my thoughts that I’ve been given a deadline of today to inform my boss of Mikael’s revenge mission, but given my current state of affairs and the fact that I’ve left Jesse, I’m thinking my Lord will not be pressing me on this issue. ‘He said he’d be in touch once he’s back in the UK.’
‘Fair enough.’ Patrick shifts on my desk. I will him to at least be still if he insists on torturing the poor thing. ‘And anything to report on your other clients? The Kents, Miss Quinn… Mr Ward.’ He chuckles at his own little joke, and although I’m in turmoil with my new husband, I’m grateful for Patrick’s acceptance of mine and Jesse’s relationship. If there will even be a relationship after the next few days.
‘All great. Mr and Mrs Kent are in full swing, Miss Quinn’s work starts tomorrow, and Mr Ward would like me to commission the beds for the new rooms as soon as possible. They could take months.’
Patrick laughs. ‘Ava, flower, you don’t have to call your husband Mr Ward.’
‘Habit.’ I grumble. I could think of a lot of words I could call him at the moment.
‘You mean those lovely lattice style beds?’
‘Yes,’ I pull out the design from my drawer and present it to Patrick.
‘Stunning,’ he says simply, ‘Bet these will cost a few quid.’
Stunning? Yes. Expensive? Ridiculously. But Patrick doesn’t realise the benefits of these beds in a place like The Manor. To my big cuddly bear of a boss, The Manor is still just a lovely country retreat. ‘He can afford it.’ I shrug and take the design back when he hands it to me.
I’m happily filing the drawing away when the sharp cracking of splintering wood rings out through the quiet of our office, and I watch in shock as Patrick crashes to the floor with a look of alarm on his face. I don’t know why. He had it coming. My lap is littered with pieces of desk, and I’m eternally grateful that my legs weren’t tucked under it. They’d be broken.
‘Bloody hell!’ Patrick shouts, rolling around among the many pieces of broken wood and stationary that graced my desk, including my flat computer screen. I don’t know whether to jump up to help him or just laugh. A rip roaring giggle is bubbling in my throat, and it’s taking every modicum of power to hold it back. This is just too funny.
I lose the battle. A burst of laughter flies from my mouth. There is not a chance on earth Patrick is getting up from the floor without any help, but I doubt I’ll be of any assistance. He must weigh six times more than me. ‘I’m sorry!’ I chuckle, re-gaining control of my twitching body. ‘Here,’ I put my hand out to him and he reaches up to take it, his stretch straining his shirt buttons. It flies open, scattering buttons all over the office floor and revealing Patricks potbelly. This does me no favours, my earlier laughter returning full force.
‘Drat!’ he curses, keeping a tight hold of my hand. ‘Double drat!’
‘Oh God!’ I cry, bending over to stop myself from peeing my knickers. ‘Patrick, are you okay?’ I know he is. He wouldn’t be rolling around and cursing if he was seriously injured.
She hands me a tissue, and I set about wiping my nose as she takes a seat next to me. ‘I completely agree.’ she says. I can’t believe how relieved I am to hear her say that. I know she’s very fond of Jesse, and generally nothing fazes her, not even my husband in all of his challenging ways, but this has shocked her, and I’m so glad. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks, ‘Make him sweat?’
‘Have an abortion.’
Kate’s mouth hits the table. It doesn’t help.
‘Kate, can you imagine what he’ll be like? He already smothers me, and I like it to a certain extent, but being pregnant?’
She scoops her chin up. ‘Oh God, Ava. You’ll send him to the loony bin.’
‘That’s not a good enough reason.’ I reply quietly. I know what this will do to him, but he hasn’t considered what any of his actions will do to me. I’m not ready for this, and he hasn’t stopped once to consider how I might feel. ‘It’s not just that, though. I have a career. I’m twenty six years old. I don’t want a baby, Kate.’
‘I don’t even know what to say.’
‘Just say I’m doing the right thing.’
She shakes her head a little. I need her to understand. ‘Okay.’ she says reluctantly. She doesn’t think it’s okay at all, but her willingness to halt any guilt trip is enough for me. I feel guilty enough already, although I shouldn’t. I need to regain control, and I can’t see any other way of doing it. I can’t have a baby.
‘Thank you.’ I whisper, picking up my tea and taking a shaky sip.
Chapter 8
It’s Monday. I wake at the crack of dawn and cry silently to myself. I’m only delaying the inevitable. I need to see Doctor Monroe. I exit Green Park tube station onto Piccadilly and stop for a few moments, absorbing the frantic rush hour blur of people. I miss this. I miss the chaos of the tube and walking the few blocks to my office—all of the hectic scrambling, the dodging of bodies and the loud voices, mostly shouting down a mobile phone. That, coupled with the screeching of cars and buses, the honking of impatient horns and the ringing of cyclist bells, all strangely bring a small smile to my face, until I get nudged in the back, and then ridiculed for keeping the frantic stream of pedestrian traffic from flowing. I snap out of my daydream and shift my feet into gear, heading for Berkeley Square.
‘Morning, flower.’ Patrick’s big body strides out of his office towards my desk.
I take my seat and swivel to face him. ‘Good morning.’ I need to fake chirpiness on a stupidly over-the-top level.
He perches on my desk, prompting the usual shriek of strained wood and my usual tensing in anticipation. It’s going to give one day. ‘How’s the blushing bride?’ He clucks my cheek affectionately and winks.
‘Perfect.’ I smile, laughing at myself and my ability to choose the most inaccurate word to describe how I’m really feeling. I could’ve said good, or fine, or great, but no… I say perfect. Perfectly distraught, that’s what I am.
‘It was a wonderful reception. Thank you.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ I brush off my boss’s appreciation. ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, desperate to divert the conversation from my shambolic wedding, and probably shambolic marriage, too.
‘Sal’s in the stationary cupboard having a tidy up, and Tom and Victoria should be here by now.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Van Der Haus,’ he returns his eyes to mine, and I struggle to look relaxed at the mention of my Danish client’s name. ‘Has he been in touch yet?’
‘No,’ I load my computer up and jiggle my mouse to get the screen on. It doesn’t escape my thoughts that I’ve been given a deadline of today to inform my boss of Mikael’s revenge mission, but given my current state of affairs and the fact that I’ve left Jesse, I’m thinking my Lord will not be pressing me on this issue. ‘He said he’d be in touch once he’s back in the UK.’
‘Fair enough.’ Patrick shifts on my desk. I will him to at least be still if he insists on torturing the poor thing. ‘And anything to report on your other clients? The Kents, Miss Quinn… Mr Ward.’ He chuckles at his own little joke, and although I’m in turmoil with my new husband, I’m grateful for Patrick’s acceptance of mine and Jesse’s relationship. If there will even be a relationship after the next few days.
‘All great. Mr and Mrs Kent are in full swing, Miss Quinn’s work starts tomorrow, and Mr Ward would like me to commission the beds for the new rooms as soon as possible. They could take months.’
Patrick laughs. ‘Ava, flower, you don’t have to call your husband Mr Ward.’
‘Habit.’ I grumble. I could think of a lot of words I could call him at the moment.
‘You mean those lovely lattice style beds?’
‘Yes,’ I pull out the design from my drawer and present it to Patrick.
‘Stunning,’ he says simply, ‘Bet these will cost a few quid.’
Stunning? Yes. Expensive? Ridiculously. But Patrick doesn’t realise the benefits of these beds in a place like The Manor. To my big cuddly bear of a boss, The Manor is still just a lovely country retreat. ‘He can afford it.’ I shrug and take the design back when he hands it to me.
I’m happily filing the drawing away when the sharp cracking of splintering wood rings out through the quiet of our office, and I watch in shock as Patrick crashes to the floor with a look of alarm on his face. I don’t know why. He had it coming. My lap is littered with pieces of desk, and I’m eternally grateful that my legs weren’t tucked under it. They’d be broken.
‘Bloody hell!’ Patrick shouts, rolling around among the many pieces of broken wood and stationary that graced my desk, including my flat computer screen. I don’t know whether to jump up to help him or just laugh. A rip roaring giggle is bubbling in my throat, and it’s taking every modicum of power to hold it back. This is just too funny.
I lose the battle. A burst of laughter flies from my mouth. There is not a chance on earth Patrick is getting up from the floor without any help, but I doubt I’ll be of any assistance. He must weigh six times more than me. ‘I’m sorry!’ I chuckle, re-gaining control of my twitching body. ‘Here,’ I put my hand out to him and he reaches up to take it, his stretch straining his shirt buttons. It flies open, scattering buttons all over the office floor and revealing Patricks potbelly. This does me no favours, my earlier laughter returning full force.
‘Drat!’ he curses, keeping a tight hold of my hand. ‘Double drat!’
‘Oh God!’ I cry, bending over to stop myself from peeing my knickers. ‘Patrick, are you okay?’ I know he is. He wouldn’t be rolling around and cursing if he was seriously injured.
