Now, what to respond?
The same debate goes through my head every time a message lands in my inbox, me not wanting to give any false signals but needing the connection. No signals could be false, though; his friendship is everything to me. He is important to me. I hit the reply button.
Amy and I have downed multiple bottles of plonk tonight. We’re celebrating me being home for a change. Girl chat and glitter… How are you? And the kids? xoxo
We send messages back and forth for an hour. The conversation is platonic, but I love hearing about every aspect of his day. Hannah keeps him on his toes. David is the apple of his daddy’s eye, and I suspect Lance is loving every minute of being a hands-on dad.
I haven’t told him about Brad yet. I should, but the right time never seems to come along. Even when we spoke on the phone a few nights ago, I bottled it and didn’t tell him, terrified it wouldshut the door we’ve just began prying open again between each other.
Changing into my pink silk nightie, I crawl into bed. The ringtone I’ve allocated to Brad to warn me of his calls echoes through the room. Shit, I forgot to call him earlier. The call rings out and diverts to voicemail. Maybe he won’t call again, but I know he will. He never doesn’t.
The music starts again; I admit defeat and answer.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Brad growls. “I’ve called you multiple times today.”
“Sorry,” I stutter. “Amy and I were busy sorting out the flat.”
He scares me when he’s angry. Even when he’s barking down the phone, he makes me nervous. The veiled threats. It’s what he doesn’t say that’s more unnerving. The mentions of my career and what he can or can’t do.
“Katie,” he shouts, every word biting a little deep. “You’re mine. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Brad,” I mumble, feeling two inches tall.
“What we have is an agreement. A contract. You do as I say, and I’ll continue to help you. When two people like us partner up, the risk of fallout is always greater for one.”
And there it is again. The hint. The arm-twisting. The not so subtle warning that he has the power.
“I’ll respond in the future,” I whisper. “Immediately.”
I know I should stand up to him. Not let him talk to me like that.
But he’s one of the most loving and generous people I know when we are together. Then when we’re apart, he’s controlling and intrusive. He expects me to check in with him multiple times per day, as well as provide him with a schedule for my week ahead. He says it’s so we can synchronize plans and coordinate phone calls. No one knows what he’s like—everyone thinks I’m so lucky to have him.
But I’ve been here before, at the mercy of a man more powerful than I am. Last time I stayed because, being young, I didn’t realize who he was until I was financially trapped.
This time…I stay because my newfound success is connected to him. A smokescreen of independence that he could scatter in a single phone call. End it as quickly as it began, because he has connections and isn’t afraid to remind me. I can’t take the risk. Not at my age, not at this stage in my life.
Being with him is better than being alone. He’s a catch. And I should be thankful he cares as much as he does.
I can manage him. I know I can. We just have to learn to get along. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
“Katie, I’m coming to London. I’m bringing you back to New York. No arguments. I need you here with me by my side. You’re my partner.”
I stare at the phone, speechless.
“Pardon,” I splutter. Then the ghost of the woman I was becoming before I met him peeks out from her hiding place. “Brad, I can’t. Not now. I’m busy with writing, with promotions, and I’ve only just got home.”
“Home?” The word burns my ears. “Your home is here now. With me.”
I wince.
“You don’t even need to work or answer to a publisher. I can fund it all, here with me.” His voice changes from uncompromising to pleading. My resolve wavers. The nerves in my brain relaxing as the pressure lifts. The headache that was threatening recedes.
“We can talk about it,” I mumble. Not wanting to upset him further.
“My flight’s tomorrow,” he says, softly. “I’ll be with you in the evening.”
Before I can protest, he wishes me good night and cuts the call. He’s coming—whether I want him to or not. Brad, once again, is planning our schedule.