Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(19)

His is holding hands with her son.

His son?

His face turns white. “Elena.”

But that means…

“You’re married,” I choke out. The scene couldn’t be clearer if someone drew a picket fence and a dog around them.

He blinks rapidly. “It’s not how it looks.”

I stand stiff, not moving, not breathing.

This isn’t happening.

The ballerina looks between us, narrowing her eyes. “You cannot be serious. You fucked the cleaner? The cleaner?”

Tristan turns abruptly to her. “Not here, Gemina, not in front of Daniel.”

“Damn you, asshole” she roars at Tristan, triggering the son to start bawling his eyes out. Ballerina rushes forward and pushes against Tristan’s hard chest. “You think you can humiliate me? No!”

With a swift swipe of her arm across the breakfast bar, she sends two plates hurtling to the ground, smashing into tiny pieces.

I jump about two feet in the air.

Tristan steps back, stunned, then recovers. “Don’t do this in front of Daniel,” he pleads. “Sara!” he roars in the direction of the stairs. “Can you take Daniel and go for a walk? Daniel, go upstairs to Sara. Everything’s okay, Mummy and Daddy just need to talk. Mummy’s a little upset.”

Daniel stands still, eyes closed, mouth contorted, letting out a wail that could rip through your bones.

I feel like doing the same.

Just get out of here. Process it later. With shaking hands, I gather up my belongings and put my rucksack on my shoulders.

Unleashing a slew of expletives, the wife picks up a third plate and hurls it at Tristan, missing him by an inch. It smashes hard against the wall behind him.

“Gemina!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Daniel, go upstairs.”

What the fuck? I didn’t ask for front-row seats at the theatre production of The Exorcist. This woman is taking the Greek tradition of plate smashing too far.

I scuttle past, getting out of the angry woman’s line of fire.

She turns her wrath on me as I escape. “You’re nobody, girl! Just another fling,” she screams as I stumble up the steps. “He’s just trying to make me jealous!”

Sara, the nanny, passes me on the stairs, giving me a fleeting panicked look.

I reach the deck and feel a strong hand pull me back.

“Wait,” Tristan begs, holding me in his grip. “It’s not how it looks. You need to let me explain.”

I refuse to let the tears fall. I shrink back from his touch and slap him hard across the face. So hard, it sounds like a whip. “Fuck off, Tristan!” My voice has an uncontrollable tremor in it. “Don’t come near me again!”

I climb off that boat faster than an Olympian runner and sprint down the dock, ignoring his shouts of my name behind me.

When I turn the corner, the dam opens, and I blubber uncontrollably on the street, ignoring the stares of random vacationers. My dumb phone pings. With trembling hands, I unlock the phone.

“Where are you? Let me explain. Please.”

Wiping snot from my face, I click on his contact details and hit block. What a gamut of emotions I’ve gone through in a single day.

How could he? And how could I be so easily fooled? I hung onto every word he was saying. I thought I was smarter than this.

Nope. I’m just a naive girl who mistook a holiday romp for a fairytale.

If this is what island-hopping is about, I’m ready to bungee jump off this place.

One thing he didn’t lie about: he is a cliché. And now, he’s made me one too. The dopey younger woman who falls for the older playboy leading a double life.

He made me a mistress at twenty-four.





7




Elly

Seven months later

My ears are assaulted by the creaking bed and a headboard slapping against the wall upstairs. The rhythm quickens, followed by two loud moans, one male, one female.

Does this guy ever stop? It’s midweek, not even the weekend.

That’s Frank the Shagger, one of my housemates, upstairs. We don’t talk too much but I know intimate details about his love life, like some sick peeping tom. It’s the closest thing I have to a love life. That and listening to the foxes mating in the garden. There’s been a drought since him.

My phone says six a.m.

I feel dazed like I went to sleep ten minutes ago. Am I awake? I’m not sure. It’s so hard to get up when it’s dark outside.

Megan's first alarm goes off next door. She won’t wake up; she never does. Her snooze button is banged more times than a hooker. The alarms will go off every ten minutes until I wake her. I, on the other hand, wake up with her first alarm.

Megan and I live in a house-share in Tooting, South London, with six random strangers. We moved from Wales a few weeks back and it’s been a culture shock. The only rule you’re taught is to ‘mind the gap’ in the underground. Megan and I had to pick up the others the hard way such as standing on the RIGHT side of the escalator. Standing on the left will earn you a scolding. Also, always have your ticket ready at the barrier and don’t dither. In fact, any dithering inside the London zones is not permitted.

And the one that nearly got me wiped out—some cyclists are colour-blind and cannot see red lights.