by Laura Carter
If not for the rise of her back as she takes a deep breath she’d be perfectly still.
“Last night, was… I’ve wanted that for—”
“Don’t, Clark. Don’t feed me bullshit. Please.” She stands and turns to face me. The sight of her tears is like a blunt dagger to my gut. “Last night shouldn’t have happened. I’m not blaming you. I… I wanted it.” She swipes the back of her hand across her cheeks quickly and lifts her empty suitcase onto the bed, opening the lid. “But it shouldn’t have happened.”
She pulls her clothes out of her wardrobe in one bulk, hangers still attached.
I don’t move. I just watch her, trying to work out my next move and coming up blank. “What are you doing?”
She throws the clothes in the case. “I’m leaving.”
“But it’s your birthday weekend. Your flight is tomorrow. Dayna, this isn’t necessary. Stay. We can talk this out.”
She keeps packing, and I start to panic. I have no fucking idea what to do or say and I’m freaking out. “You don’t have to do this.”
She stops and looks me in the eye. A look that I think I’ll remember for the rest of my life. “I can’t do this, Clark. I can’t be back here.”
There must be something I can say. Some kind of speech about trying, about doing things differently this time around. But nothing comes.
“I’ll go.”
She swallows hard enough that I see it in the hollow at the base of her throat. “It’s your chalet.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to tell you I shouldn’t have come. I’m glad I did. I’m not sorry about being here or last night. But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you again, Dayna.”
My throat tightens. My eyes feel like someone struck a match at the sockets. I need to get out of here. I head downstairs, pull on a t-shirt, and start packing my case.
“I take it you slept with her.” Spencer is standing in the doorway, yawning, stretching casually, as if the whole world isn’t falling down around me.
“Not now, kid.”
“Leaving seems a bit extreme.”
I launch the pair of jeans I’m packing at the wall and drag a hand over my face. “I don’t know what else to do. She was going to leave. Am I supposed to let her leave?”
“You don’t hate each other. Far from it. Why don’t you try the not packing up and leaving approach for once? Then the pair of you might stop fucking up so badly.” He walks away, scratching his back and creaking his neck.
Another text from Connie lands on my phone. PLEASE. I NEED TO TALK.
Christ, what do I fix first?
I run from my room and bound up the staircase a second time. She’s standing by the window, looking out across the white horizon.
“I’m not going.” I step into the room and wait. She eventually turns to face me. “I told you last night that I broke things off with Connie because I loved her but I wasn’t in love with her.”
“Clark, please.”
“No. You can listen to what I’ve got to say because I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, Dayna. Not this time.”
A fresh tear traces a path down her beautiful face, and my ribcage starts to feel like a lead weight crushing me. I’d give anything to take away her pain. And the best I can do is give her honesty.
“What I didn’t tell you was that the night before the wedding, I found out my father had been having an affair. Do you know how he justified it? He said he was married to the woman he was supposed to marry. What he meant was, not the woman he wanted to be with.”
She folds her arms protectively across her chest. “What has that got to do wi—”
“I realised then that I’d both feared and idolised my father all my life. Until that moment, when I lost whatever respect for him I had left. I didn’t—don’t—want to be like him, and I knew that if I married Connie, there was every chance I’d one day end up following in my father’s footsteps.” All I want to do is go to her, but I’m afraid if I do, she’ll retreat. “I wasn’t in love with Connie, Dayna. She was the woman I was supposed to marry, but the woman… the woman I want to spend my life with is standing right in front of me.”
Her shoulders shake as she takes a short, shallow breath.
“I love you, Dayna. I do. I always have. I don’t expect you to trust me, not yet. But I’m not walking away. Whether you want me as a friend or whether you want to be with me in every way, I’m here, in whatever form you’ll take, because I need you in my life. It’s you. Only you. It’s always been you, Dayna. I was just the dickhead who couldn’t get his shit together. And I’m sorry.”
“I can’t do this again. Nobody has ever hurt me like you. You broke my heart and I just don’t know if you can fix it.”
I nod because I have no idea what else to do.
“You were supposed to be married, Clark. I’m not your rebound.”
“But I’ve told you…”
“I know. I heard you. But it’s raw. You say you’re not in love with Constance but maybe you’ve just lost the fire. You do love her. You said as much. All we have is lust. Don’t mistake that for more than what you have with her. You can’t spend the rest of your life with lust, Clark. At some point, the spark will fade. Go get it back with Constance.”
I’ve never believed people really see red mist when they’re angry enough. Until now. “What the fuck? Dayna, fucking listen to me.”
“I am.”
My phone starts ringing in my pocket, and I take it out to shut the thing up. Connie’s face is lighting up the screen.
“Is everything okay?” Rachel’s voice comes from behind me. She’s at the bedroom door, in silk pyjamas and furry boots. “That’s an obvious no,” she says, coming into the room.
Shit.
“Answer it,” Dayna tells me.
She’s staring right at me as I accept the call. I try to tell her I’m sorry in a look. “Connie, is everything alright?”
I glance back to a picture I’ll never forget. Dayna drops to her knees and cries into her hands.
“No, I am not alright,” Connie yells into my ear.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“Hurt! Hurt would be the understatement of the century, Clark.”
I grab my coat and boots from my room and head outside to the porch. “Connie, I can’t do cryptic right now.”
“I’ve just been sent a picture of you and Camilla Normen. From Facebook.” She starts crying. I swear my head is about to explode. I sink into a wooden chair on the porch and force myself to think about last night and whatever happened with Camilla Normen. Now I realise I do have a hangover. The hangover to make all other hangovers take to the knee and beg for mercy. “How could you do that to me?”
“What, Connie? Do what?”
“Sleep with her!”
Shit.
“How could you sleep with Camilla when we’ve only just broken up, Clark? I mean, I didn’t think we were that done.”
I take a breath. “Camilla? Connie, I didn’t sleep with Camilla.”
IT’S IRONIC REALLY. Four years ago, I didn’t intend to fall in love. But I did. Hard. Fast. I loved him with every part of me. Back then I would have given anything for him to feel the same. Now, he tells me he loves me and I’m on my knees, sobbing into my hands with Rachel’s arm around me, because he only thinks he loves me.
Today, those three words hurt me more than if he’d never said them. Love can’t undo the past. Maybe that’s what I’m crying over now, the past. It certainly feels like it. That same, crippling agony, striking me in my head, my chest, my heart. It flows with my blood, searching for its source, the one wound that can be clotted and plugged. But there’s more than one wound, there are too many to heal.
Rachel pulls me to her and holds me. She just lets me cry until my tears run dry. I’ve hidden the true depth of my scars from everyone except Doctor Holland for so long. Now, in less than twelve hours I’ve cried on
two people I lo—I shake my head, killing that dangerous thought.
“Okay?” she asks, sitting me up and rubbing her thumbs under my eyes.
“I’m sorry. This is ridiculous.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
I rub the wet patch I’ve made on the shoulder of her silk pyjamas and let out a short, miserable laugh. “Really don’t.”
“Alright then, let’s get some breakfast, and I’ll tell you how good Spencer is in bed.”
I gasp as she holds out a hand to help me stand. “You didn’t.”
She shrugs and leans her head to one side.
“You did. Cougar!”
“I’m not that much older than him,” she laughs.
“You’re such a tart,” I say, nudging into her side as we head downstairs.
“Please, it wasn’t me who was banging down the walls all night. I mean, really, did you two get any sleep?”
I wince. “Too soon, Rach.”
“You know, I thought that as the words were leaving my mouth.”
We find everyone in the kitchen. I try not to look the others in the eye, knowing our little soap opera probably woke them up.
“Coffee?” Teddy asks.
I see the two now-cold cups Clark had made sitting on the side, one of which was supposed to be mine. “Please.” My need for caffeine just went up ten-fold.
As Teddy sets about pouring me a drink, I see Clark through the lounge window, sitting on a wooden chair on the porch, his legs wide, his elbows on his knees. He rakes one hand through his hair, holding his mobile in the other. Connie.
I have no one but myself to blame for the anguish that takes hold within me.
Teddy and Matty start reading the Sunday papers on their iPads. Amy and Tim head upstairs to get dressed — they seem to be feeling the after-effects of too much booze less than everyone else and they want to hit the slopes early. Spencer appears to be playing something like Tetris, lying back on one of the sofas, his legs across Rachel, who’s talking to Yvette about the difficulty of finding knee-high boots that don’t gape around the calf. Me, I’m pretending to watch a Sunday morning food-cum-talk show, while trying not to keep looking at Clark. He’s off the phone now, but he’s still on the porch, and he’s been staring out at nothing for a while now.
I wish I knew what he was thinking.
I have to stop this. I’ve got work to do if I’m going to pull an alternative bid for the well into some kind of a plan that might actually work and submit it by Friday.
“Rach, did you change my Dubai flight?” I ask. I know she’ll have done it right after I asked her to yesterday, but I’m feeling a little apprehensive. And a lot like I need my new plan to come off.
She nods. “I pre-booked your seat, but I’ll check you in online shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I unfold my legs from beneath me. As I take my empty coffee cup to the kitchen, I realise I’m still wearing Clark’s clothes. The front door opens and closes, then Clark is standing opposite me. He drops his phone onto the kitchen island between us.
He looks tired.
“Okay?” I ask.
He leans back, just looking at me. I have no idea what’s going through his mind. “Close enough,” he says eventually.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. There’s a silence between us that should be filled. There are so many things that could be said, but it’s like we don’t have any words left. I wish there weren’t four years, an explosion, a suicide, a heart that can’t be mended, an engagement and two completely different versions of ourselves hanging between us.
But those things are between us.
I still love him. Of course I do. But maybe love isn’t enough.
I think he reads my thoughts. Or shares them. He breaks our stare, looking down to the floor before moving right in front of me. I hold my breath as he strokes my hair back behind my ear. “Don’t be sorry,” he whispers and presses his lips to my forehead. A gesture so tender that it makes me want to stay here, this close to him, forever. He brings his hands to my face. “None of this is your fault. None of it.”
I close my eyes to take my focus from his mouth and he pulls away from me.
“Anyone for hair of the dog?” he asks to the room.
“Urgh, God, no,” Rachel says.
I pull myself together and away from the kitchen side I’ve been gripping tightly. “He makes a mean Bloody Mary, Rach. You might want to reconsider,” I tell her, receiving a smile from Clark. A smile I’m happy to reciprocate.
Then I help him make a round of Bloody Marys, just like we used to.
THE WEEKEND SEEMS to have flown over in some ways. In others, it feels like a lot has passed in these mountains.
In hindsight, I wish I’d packed a trouser suit for today, but when I packed I had expected to be heading out to Dubai for a conference, not sitting down with Hassan Deeb — a member of the Bahraini government and the Gulf Cooperation Council. I’ve heard he takes no prisoners. A my-way-or-the-end-of-your-business-in-the-Middle-East kind of man. It shouldn’t make a difference, but I’d much rather be wearing trousers to meet a man with his reputation.
Arthur has tried to talk me out of this twice. This morning, I’m refusing to take his calls. He needs to get on board with this or realise that I’ll do it without him. It’s not a choice I want to make, but I want this well and I’ll get it however I can. I’m offering something neither Layton Oil nor Persian Fuels can compete with, if Hassan Deeb is onside.
I head downstairs, Tim lugging my suitcase behind me. Clark and I are heading out to the airport, but the others are staying for one last day of skiing. There aren’t many flights from Geneva to Dubai, and given we’re both meant to be headed to the same conference, it’s not much of a coincidence that I’m on Clark’s flight. What he doesn’t know is that I’m connecting straight out to Bahrain. Nor will I be telling him. Whatever is, or isn’t, going on with us, it’s personal. This is business, and he’s still my competition.
“I’ve heard the sanctions are definitely being lifted on Iran, Clark.” Teddy is in business mode in the kitchen. “Once Iran starts selling back into the West, into Europe, they’re going to cause a real stir. Analysists are saying we’ll be at thirty dollars a barrel soon. It’s on a downward slope. Another two big dogs look like they’re going under this week. This is not a good time to buy, bud, and there’s no scope for you to increase your budget.”
I clear my throat. I’ve made a mental note of Teddy’s concern, since it affects me too, but I won’t let them talk shop without knowing I’m here; it’s underhanded.
Clark loosens his tie slightly at the neck and brazenly drags his eyes over my black pencil dress. “Eyes to yourself, Layton. We’re back to business.”
“Let’s talk about the kind of business I’d like to be getting down to.”
Raising an eyebrow, I pick up the half-eaten croissant on the worktop in front of him and take a huge bite. I wash it down with a mouthful of his coffee. “Or we could not.” We might be playing nice but crude jokes are a leap too far. “You ready?”
“That was my breakfast.”
“It was good, thank you. Can I finish this?” I drain his coffee and take the last of the croissant.
We say our goodbyes to the others and ride to the airport, Clark checking his emails, me listening to another voicemail from Arthur.
“Dayna, I don’t feel good about this. This isn’t the kind of meeting you should be going to alone. These men are bad news.”
It’d be nice if he stopped adding to my anxiety about this meeting. I’ve heard how tough the guys are in the Middle East. Damn it, I’ve seen the lengths they’ll go to get what they want. But I’m asking them to come onside with me, work with me. This isn’t a war. Arthur’s acting like they’ve baited me in and I have a shoot-on-sight price on my head. I went to them. I’m offering them a deal they’ll like.
I d
on’t know why I feel unsettled or why there’s lingering anxiousness in my chest, but I do know that Arthur is making it bloody worse.
Despite my protests, Clark wheels my suitcase and his own to check-in. Our other bags and ski kit are going back to England with the rest of the group. He lifts my case onto the weigh-in belt then moves to the desk next to mine.
“Dubai, sir?” his check-in assistant asks.
I cringe when my bubbly check-in lady announces, “Bahrain.”
I nod, trying not to look at Clark, knowing his eyes will be on me.
“Bahrain?” he asks as we’re heading up the escalator to security. I give him a confirmatory look without speaking. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “You were making a hand all this time. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t have balls, Cross.”
Cross. I’m back to “Cross”, and I have balls. Well, that’s probably for the best. This is what I know, business. I’m more comfortable here than locked in a chalet with Clark for a weekend, and if I must have a scrotum to play business associates with him, I guess I’ll start watching sports with my hand down my pants and scratching my bollocks.
He hardly speaks as we clear security and grab coffee. We sit at a table in the window and watch the planes taxiing and taking off. We’re not exactly on good terms, but we’re at least faking being friends who have no questionable benefits or tension hovering between us.
“Let me come with you.”
I slurp my latte. “To Bahrain?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him, thinking he’s going to laugh any second. He doesn’t. “You’re actually serious. Why would I want you to come to Bahrain?”
He leans back in his seat. “I don’t want you to go alone. I don’t like it.”
My stomach twists, and this time it’s not because he cares, it’s because yet another man is telling me this meeting could be dangerous. “What do you all know that I don’t? Hmm? These are government officials, Clark. I’m not going to the underworld.”
“You’d be closer to the underworld than you think. Trust me.”
I feel my annoyance rise. “You’ve surely worked out I’m going to talk about an alternative bid.”