‘We’re in the same club now, the I’ve-been-fucked-and-fucked-over-by-Daniel-Foster Society.’
Don’t believe it.
‘Would you like a handkerchief?’
‘Not from you.’
She shrugs.
‘So now you finally see what a bastard he is. You meant nothing to him. He used you.’
Don’t believe …
‘Whatever he said, all those wonderful words, they were just lies. Because that’s what he does. He lies.’ Still watching me, she bites her bottom lip, her eyes gleaming. ‘Did he tell you he loved you?’
I open my mouth, temporarily unguarded, and she catches the answer in my expression.
‘Did he tell you he’d be there for you … forever? Did he tell you he’d wait for you?’
She’s digging again, rummaging for information. And just in case Boyd has sent her, I need to protect myself.
‘Nobody’s waiting for anyone,’ I say crisply, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. ‘It’s over. It’s been over since the accident, and you know that. Now take your poison and fuck off.’
A black Bentley draws up next to us. Instinctively, I move away from the kerb. It’s become a habit in recent weeks.
‘Oh, just in time,’ Claudine chirps. ‘Here’s Isaac.’
The driver’s window rolls down and Isaac’s droopy face appears, his lips struggling to raise themselves beneath the handlebar moustache.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ he smiles.
‘Yes,’ Claudine replies breezily, turning back to face me. ‘I wanted you to paint a picture for me, Maya. I wasn’t lying. And you did. A lovely picture. A real work of art. Thank you. I enjoyed it very much.’
I’m on automatic pilot. Dropping into Slaters to retrieve my handbag, I dump the magazine in the bin and make my excuses for the day. I spend a while wandering aimlessly through Soho, pretending to study the shop windows for a good hour or so before I take a seat in the Square and pretend to study the mock Tudor pagoda instead. Eventually, I wander up to Tottenham Court Road, and navigate the maze of tunnels to the Northern Line. It’s a short tube ride to Waterloo. Emerging from the station, I walk along the embankment, finally reaching my target – fifteen floors of darkened glass, the headquarters of Fosters Construction.
Lost in a swarm of bodies, I look up at the top floor. He’s up there right now, and in all probability, he’ll be fully aware that I’m lurking outside. So, is he looking back down at me? And if he is, what’s on his mind? Perhaps, like me, he’s paralysed with longing. Or perhaps, if Claudine’s right, he’s simply wishing I’d vanish. After all, this break’s given us both thinking time and while it’s only confirmed my need for him, maybe he’s come to a different conclusion. Maybe I’m too much of a liability, not that special, utterly replaceable.
I check my phone. Just after five. No wonder the Embankment’s filling up. On top of the droves of tourists, rush hour’s throwing an endless stream of workers into the mix. Without a clue what I’m doing, I leave the Embankment and begin to wander the back streets. Before long, I find myself in a lane behind Fosters, pinned down by inertia, leaning against the corner of an office block.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I whisper to myself, answering my own question immediately. ‘Stalking, you bloody idiot. You’re a stalker.’
I should go. I know I should. But I stay in position. A need to see him has dragged me here, and now it won’t let me leave. And logic must have given a helping hand, because he might have made a good recovery, but I’m willing to bet a long walk home’s still out of the question. He won’t be using the revolving doors at the other side of the building. He’ll either emerge from the garage, driving himself, or he’ll be chauffeured home. As I settle in for the wait, palpitations flutter through my chest. I have no idea how long I stand rooted to the spot, fixated on the doorway across the street, but I’m about to call it a day when a car pulls up at the rear entrance. I withdraw slightly, peering round the edge of the building.
And then, he appears.
I get my first view of Dan in almost three months and immediately, I’m a quivering, quaking mess. Good God, I’m pathetic. Like some crazed teenager, spying on her latest crush. Relieved there’s no limp, no obvious sign of his injuries, I watch as he walks toward the car. He hands his briefcase to the driver, stands by the open rear door and without any warning, looks my way.
Yes. He definitely knows I’m here.
My pulse races. I’m frozen to the spot.
Move, I tell myself. Just bloody well move.
But I can’t. Even from this distance, he’s got me mesmerised. I need a sign, one little sign that everything’s okay. But there’s no smile, no warmth in those eyes, just a hard edge of nothing. Finally, he turns away, speaks to the driver and manoeuvres himself into the back of the car.
I’m released from his hold.
Reeling back against the wall, I begin to shake.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
If he really is moving on, he’ll hate me now. I am a liability. A bloody big one.
It’s a couple of minutes before I manage to get my body back under control, and then I make my way back to the embankment. In a blur, I negotiate a path through the evening crowds, heading for Gabriel’s Wharf, where I finally come to a halt in a tiny coffee shop. I place my order, settle myself at a metal table in the courtyard and with my cappuccino delivered, take a few absent-minded sips, staring at the shops, the mural, the South Bank Tower.
And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, I realise I’ve come
