A Wild Affair (7 page)

The woman shook her head and said something; Max nodded. Then she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him so tightly I thought I was going to stop breathing. And then, just like that, she kissed him. It was only on his cheek, but she kissed him in a way that lingered and suggested … well, I didn't want to think about what it suggested. I was so shocked, so stunned, that I couldn't seem to move; openedmouthed, I stayed rooted to the spot.

He waved goodbye, the door closed, he was walking toward me, and still I stayed still.

“This way,” a voice said, pulling me out of view just as Max crossed the road. It was Giles; his arm was shaking violently. Then I realized it wasn't his arm that was shaking; it was me. My entire body was shuddering.

“That was Max,” I said, weakly.

“I know,” Giles said, squeezing me tightly. “I know it was.”

I BARELY NOTICED the journey back to Clerkenwell. Giles was talking, but I wasn't listening. All I could think about was Max. All I could think was that I'd seen him, with my own eyes, with that woman. I'd never felt so humiliated in my life. Never felt so hopeless. Until I'd met Max, I'd been fine on my own. But now … now I was a mess. The idea of losing him made me feel physically ill. It couldn't happen. I wouldn't let it.

“You don't have to go back to work,” Giles said as we pulled up outside Milton Advertising. “Come out for a drink. We'll plot your next move.”

I shook my head. “I need to talk to Max,” I said levelly.

“You're sure? I could come with you.”

“No,” I said. “No, I need to do this on my own. I'll call you later, okay?”

Giles nodded as I got out of the cab and headed for the large glass entrance doors. I turned briefly; he gave me a little wave, then the cab drove off and I was alone again.

Max was already there. I could see him through the doors as I approached them. He saw me, too, and rushed to open them.

“There you are,” he said as I arrived in front of him, and he leaned down to give me a kiss.

“Not in the office, remember?” I managed to say and he pulled back, his eyes twinkling.

“Sorry. But you look so forlorn. So lovely. Where have you been? I've been calling you.”

I reached into my bag to take out my mobile. “I turned it off,” I said, barely trusting myself to speak.
I turned it off when I was outside 44 St. John's Wood Road, watching you
, I nearly added.

Max looked at me worriedly. “Jess, is everything okay? Gillie said you were looking for me.”

I took a deep breath and looked at him searchingly They always said it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for. And they were right. I'd never understood women who fell for charming con men who wooed them, took all their money, and then disappeared into nothingness, back to their fifteen other wives, their yachts and cars paid for by other unsuspecting women. I'd never felt much sympathy either for women who returned to the same cheaters over and over again, believing that they were sorry, that they would change. I'd always thought these women must be stupid, must have brought their misery on themselves by being too gullible, too desperate for love. But maybe those men were like Max. Even now, even when I knew full well what I'd seen, I was hoping there would be an explanation. Even now I was unwilling to accept the truth.

“Yeah, it wasn't so important after all,” I said lightly as we walked. “I've been with Giles talking about flowers, actually.”

“Flowers. Great,” Max said. I could feel his eyes on me, but I ignored them. I couldn't look up at him. Couldn't look into his eyes.

“So where were you?” I asked when we were inside his office. My voice was studied, devoid of any emotion. “Gillie said you had a lunch?”

Max nodded. “Yeah, just a client. You remember Roger from Speedy Logistics? Bit of a duty lunch, really. I didn't enjoy it.”

I closed my eyes.

“I don't remember him, no,” I said. I looked at him searchingly waiting for him to say something. I wanted to shout at him, wanted to demand the truth. But I knew I wasn't going to. I was too afraid. Actually, I was terrified.

“Max, can I have a word about that logo? I want to show it to you on my screen. We've tweaked the color a bit.” We both turned around to see Gareth, chief creative, hovering in the doorway.

“Sure.” Max smiled. He put his hand gently on my shoulder as he passed me. It felt so comforting, so reassuring. Even his gestures lied, I thought desperately. “Won't be a minute, Jess.”

I smiled back tightly, watched as they walked away. Then I walked over to Max's desk and picked up his mobile. I quickly opened his address book and scrolled down. Edward Finnian. Eleonor Harris. Esther Short. As I saw the name I inhaled sharply. Then I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, scribbled her number down, and left Max's office. I stopped at my desk briefly to welcome Caroline back from her shopping trip, tell her that the meeting with Chester had gone wonderfully, and to ask her to man my phone for the rest of the day. Then I put on my coat, grabbed my bag, and left, stopping only to tell Gillie to inform Max that I'd gone home. That I had a headache.

Esther Short. I may not be ready to face Max yet, but I'd face her, no problem. I would call her, I thought as I walked toward the tube. I would call her up and warn her to leave my man alone or suffer the consequences.

I sighed. What was I thinking? If Max didn't love me, if he loved her, then I couldn't bear to be near him. Stupid woman, with her chic little hairdo, her smart and clingy clothes. Who did she think she was anyway? What on earth did Max see in her?

Probably the chic hairdo and clingy clothes
, I thought bitterly, trudging into the station and swiping my Oyster card. Well, if that was what he wanted, he was welcome to it. More than welcome.

I got to Max's flat in less than twenty minutes—it wasn't ours anymore, not to me anyway—and had gathered up some clothes and other essentials in under five. I was being melodramatic, I knew, but quite frankly I wanted to be. I wanted to throw things on the floor, break stuff; I wanted to disappear, leaving Max to worry about me. I wanted him to realize what he'd done, wanted him to be full of regret and self-hatred. I got to the door, bag in hand, then I stopped. I wasn't ready to leave. Not quite yet. Not before saying goodbye.

Carefully, I put my bags down and went back into the living room. In the corner, at the small table I'd commandeered, was a large pile. Our wedding pile. Magazines, venue details, photographers' details, gift lists … It was all there, covered in highlighter pen and scribbled notes. I'd given Max a “to do” list, which involved agreeing on various suggestions, telling me who his best man would be, and writing a list of his invitees. And he had—on each picture, article, or proposal, his funny little comments had been added at the bottom. “Love this,” he'd written on a torn-out article about “Dressing the Bump: Why Pregnancy Is No Barrier to Glamour,” even though it was abundantly clear from all my notes that he was supposed to be commenting on the ad on the other side for groom's attire. I couldn't help smiling as I realized he'd scribbled on that side: “You want this man at our wedding? Fine. But I still get to be the groom, right?”

Forcing the smile from my face, I screwed the piece of paper into a little ball and threw it across the room. Then I picked up the invitations that Max had dutifully addressed and put in envelopes over the weekend; they were just waiting to be stamped and sent. I flicked through them morosely, looking at the names of people who had come so close to seeing us get married. Ten were my friends and about forty were his; I knew he'd kept his list purposefully short so I didn't feel bad about having so few friends and absolutely no family. He'd been the only person I'd ever really
spoken to about growing up without my parents, with only a grandmother who resented my existence. It hadn't been her fault—in fact, if I hadn't been staying with her when my mother was killed in a car crash, I'm not sure she would have volunteered to take me in. But I had been, so she did, and since my mother had never told her who my father was and didn't have any sisters or brothers herself, Grandma was pretty much it in terms of family. And now she was dead, too.

So really, apart from Max, I didn't have anyone. And I didn't even have him anymore.

I looked down the list, tears pricking at my eyes at what might have been, at the hope and excitement I'd felt until now. Then I dropped the invitations as though they were on fire. He'd betrayed me. Max had betrayed me and there was going to be no wedding, no hope, not anymore. I ran out of the room and pulled on my coat, then grabbed my bags and left, leaving my key on the table by the door.

And it wasn't true that now I had no one. I had Helen. I had Giles. I guess I even had Ivana. And each of them was worth five of Max. Ten. Twenty. Running out into the road, I hailed a cab. Then I went to the only place I could think of, to the ramshackle flat that Helen and I had shared for years and which she was currently rattling around in by herself, if it was possible to rattle around in a two-bedroom flat that was smaller than your average studio flat.

I went home.

“TELL ME AGAIN WHAT HAPPENED.”

Helen and I were sitting on her sofa. Our sofa. We'd bought it together for £100 at IKEA the week after I got my job at Milton Advertising. I looked down at it miserably and repeated the entire story about the phone call, about my following Max up to Maida Vale after Ivana's tip-off, about him telling me he'd been at a boring meeting with a male client, not in a house with a woman who wore her hair in a chignon.

I hated that bit. I was so not a chignon kind of person. Never had been, never would be. And I hadn't thought Max was, either.

“And it was definitely him? I mean you're absolutely sure?”

I raised my eyebrows. “You're really clutching at straws now. I mean, I think I know what Max looks like.”

“I know, I know,” Helen sighed. “It's just so … unlikely.”

I nodded. “Which is what makes it worse.”

“Exactly,” Helen said. “I mean, if you can't trust someone like Max, then …”

“Then we're all doomed. Now do you understand why I've always been so cynical about relationships? Because of this. This is what happens. This is what happened to my mother. Grandma warned me not to fall for any notions of romance and now look what's happened.”

Helen frowned. “We can't all be doomed.”

“You still seeing Sam?” I asked.

She cringed. “He invited his ex-girlfriend on the Champagne weekend. Can you believe it?”

I put my arm around her in solidarity. “It'll probably be canceled,” I said bleakly. “When I cancel my order for the champagne.”

“Great,” Helen said ruefully. “That makes me feel much better.”

I leaned back. “So what do I do?”

“Do?”

“Do I cancel the wedding? Do I cut up Max's suits? Do I just walk out of his life, never to return?”

“Don't you work with him?”

I shot her an exasperated look. “Not helping.”

“You could quit,” she said thoughtfully. “I mean, you hardly need the money, do you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Helen, I don't work for the money. I work because …” I frowned. My usual reasons were on the tip of my tongue, but somehow now they didn't sound terribly convincing: because I love it; because I get a huge kick out of doing something well; because I wouldn't quit working with Max for anything in the world … “Because it's good to work. It's important. And I'm good at what I do. I'm successful.”

“Okay, so maybe you could buy the firm behind his back and fire him. Ooh, do that!”

I looked at Helen stonily. “Tempting,” I said, “but I don't think so.”

“Fine,” she said, folding her arms. “So then I'm just saying that the walking-out-of-his-life-forever strategy might not be that practical, that's all. What do
you
think you should do?”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.”

She nodded seriously, then disappeared out of the room. When she came back in, I looked up hopefully. “So?”