The Other Woman(41)

‘I don’t know.’

‘I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you,’ he said softly.

If he could just stop staring at me like that. Stop brushing my leg every time he moved.

‘You haven’t. It’s worked out perfectly, actually. I was just around the corner at a meeting and with the Tube strike, it makes sense to wait a while before attempting to get home.’ That was all true. It was a normal day, just like any other. The part he didn’t need to know was how I’d spent it trying to convince myself that my French Connection miniskirt and silk blouse were my normal work attire, even though I’d worn nothing but trousers for over a month.

‘Are you bloody mad?’ Adam had asked, as he watched me dress that morning, tying his tie into a thick knot. ‘It’s going to be freezing today.’

I mumbled acknowledgement.

‘And there’s a Tube strike, so none of us know where we might end up. You’d be better off in boots today rather than those heels.’

‘I’m all right,’ I’d said, ‘stop fussing.’ But the shards of guilt cut through my chest.

The barman placed a glass of champagne in front of me, its tall stem resting on the double-layered coaster beneath it.

‘Cheers,’ chimed James, raising his glass. ‘It’s really good to see you.’

We locked eyes as we took our first sips. I looked away first.

‘So, how have you been?’ he asked, setting his glass back down on the bar.

‘Mmm, fine,’ I said casually. ‘Really good.’

‘Strange . . . Your eyes are telling a different story.’

I blinked and looked away.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked.

‘It’s complicated,’ I said. ‘We’ll work it out.’

‘Are you happy?’

What a loaded question. Was I? I honestly didn’t know.

‘I’m not unhappy,’ was all I could offer.

‘Don’t you think you deserve more than that? Don’t you think that someone else might be out there who could truly make you happy?’

The air in my body felt like it had been sucked out of me. Tiny pinpricks of heat emitted from every pore, and my mouth felt like it was full of polystyrene, rendering me speechless.

He looked at me, his eyes desperately searching mine for a response.

‘James, I . . .’ was all I could manage.

He reached for my hand and held it. A frisson of electricity travelled along my arm, literally standing the hairs on end.

Images flashed behind my eyes like an old-fashioned cinematic film, shuttering madly. I could picture us, making our way to a room on one of the floors above. I imagined us kissing in the lift, unable to contain ourselves for a second longer than it took for the doors to close. The urgency as we’d make our way along the carpeted corridor, my shoes being kicked off as we’d hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

We’d ignore the chilled bottle of champagne standing on the dressing table, and I’d picture the anonymous faces scurrying along the bustling street below, none the wiser to the deceit and betrayal that was unfolding just a few metres away.

I’d wrap my legs around him as he pushes me up against the wall, our kisses intensifying as the heat in our bodies rises. We’d be clawing at each other, pulling our clothes off as he carries me over to the bed. We’d sink into the luxurious white sheets and his eyes would never leave mine as—

Enough!

I stopped my mind from racing on, knowing that it would only end with us lying there, lamenting what we’d done, and wishing we could undo it.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have . . .’ he said, releasing my hand.

I willed him to touch me again, so I could feel that bolt rush through me one more time.

‘I love Adam,’ I said. ‘We’re getting married. We’ve got our problems, but we’ll work them out.’

‘You deserve better,’ he said. ‘Adam—’

‘Don’t,’ I said, cutting across him. ‘This isn’t right.’

I lifted myself off the stool. ‘I’m sorry, James. I just can’t do this. This is all wrong.’

I thought of how carefully I’d selected my underwear that morning. What the hell had I been thinking? Had I really intended to go that far?

‘I need to go,’ I said, grabbing my coat and throwing it over my arm. ‘I’m really sorry.’

The cold air hit me as I pushed through the revolving doors onto the street, the wind whipping up from the Thames making a buffeting sound as I exited.

‘Have a good evening,’ said the doorman, smiling and tipping his hat to me.

I didn’t know which way to go. I thought of calling Seb to see if he was still in town, but just as I tapped his name on my phone, I was hit by a sudden urge to get home to see Adam. I needed to know that he didn’t suspect. Selfish on my part, but I couldn’t stop my stomach turning over at the thought of him knowing. What would he make of this? Of knowing that I’d come here to meet his brother, with the merest hint of intention. Wasn’t the intention almost as bad as going through with it?

I tried to pretend to myself that the tears streaming down my face were caused by the wind I was battling against, and not the shame of what I might have done. But the brain’s not stupid, and by the time I’d reached Charing Cross, I was having trouble convincing myself that I hadn’t gone through with it. My head felt as if it had been screwed, even though my body knew it hadn’t.