She flipped the switch for the lights and strolled into the kitchen. ‘Don’t rush, savour it,’ she murmured, pouring herself a glass of fruity Merlot. She couldn’t face another flute of champagne. She wanted substance. Colette opened the massive fridge doors and surveyed the array of food in front of her. She moved aside the conch salad to get to the platters of lobster and salmon. She placed them on the kitchen counter and took a crusty baguette from the ceramic bread bin, her mouth watering. She hadn’t had bread in ages. She rarely allowed herself to eat white carbs. Colette cut the bread lengthways and slathered creamy butter all over it and bit into it so that she left teeth marks. It was gorgeous! She took another huge bite and stuffed some lobster and a hunk of salmon into her mouth so that her cheeks were bulging. A slug of wine and then more bread and lobster. Oh the comfort of it. The reward of it. How she deserved this solitary indulgence for all the stress she had endured. She felt exhilarated and utterly reckless and free as she feasted, until she could feast no more and she lay bloated, and bleary-eyed from drink, on the fat-cushioned chintz-covered sofa in the lounge.
Guilt, self-hatred and disgust consumed her and Colette wept bitter tears before running to the toilet to purge her body of the vile food she had consumed. Shaking and sweating as she retched, she vowed that this truly was the last time and she would go on a strict diet and she would never, ever binge again.
Later as she lay in bed curled up in a ball, revolted with herself, she realized that there wasn’t one person in the world she could confide in. Not her husband, not her mother, not even Hilary. Her pride wouldn’t let her. What did that say about her? Colette had never felt so lonely in her life. She sat up and got her Filofax out of her bag and studied her diary. It was fairly crammed but there were a few appointments she could lose. She wanted to go home to Ireland. It had been two years or more since she’d visited. She had been to London a few times last year but hadn’t gone back to Ireland. Jacqueline and Frank had flown over to them. They were more inclined to come on mini breaks to New York, so going back to Ireland had not been a priority for Colette.
It would be good to talk to Hilary. Even if she couldn’t tell her everything that was going on in her life, she could vent about some aspects that were driving her mad. And it would be a relief to step off the treadmill for a while. Her spirits lifted somewhat. A trip home was just what she needed. She would check her dates with Des and book flights tomorrow.
Worn out and sore and bloated from her food binge, Colette lay back against the pillows and fell into a restless sleep.
Des Williams felt the effects of the Ambien begin to hit as he lay on his massive queen-sized bed, naked apart from a soft towel around his hips, enjoying the sensuous movements of his lover’s oil-slicked hands across the tightly bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders. He was beyond exhausted. If Skylar was hoping to get some tonight, she was going to be disappointed, he thought sleepily, groaning when her thumbs went deep into his deltoid muscle. Sex was the last thing on his mind. All he craved was sleep. Deep, deep sleep to revive him for a 6 a.m. start the following morning. The weekend had gone beyond his expectations; he had felt as high as a kite when the sleek long-range jet had raced along the runway at Provi Airport, lifting and soaring over the glittering waters of Grace Bay heading northwards over the vast Atlantic in a direct route to La Guardia.
His companions were relaxed, chatting animatedly as the stewardess handed out flutes of sparkling champagne to start the two and a half hour flight home. He was looking forward to casually mentioning to work colleagues that he had leased a jet to fly friends, including his boss, to a villa in TCI. He was a player now; this weekend had put him on another level. Colette had played a blinder; she deserved her two extra days to wind down and it would give him a chance to spend some quality time with his mistress, and get her off his back about how little attention he paid her.
Win! Win! Win! was Des’s last thought before the Ambien took effect and he began to snore, much to Skylar’s disappointment. Wall Street high-flyers were a disaster in the bedroom, she thought morosely, but the new diamond pendant hanging between her rounded silicone breasts was sufficient to keep her by Des’s side for the time being. She wiped her hands on the towel that covered him, and turning onto her back, propped herself up against the pillows. She flicked on the TV, poured herself a glass of ice-cold bubbly from the bottle of Cristal nestling in the ice bucket and settled down to watch
