Henry starts typing, then pauses. “Not that last bit. Too personal.” He finishes the message and sends it without showing me. “There. Detached. Professional, but supportive.” He angles the screen to show Julian, who gives a thumbs up. “Don’t send her anything else,” Henry finishes, handing me back my phone.
“And meet with Melanie again.” Julian drums his hands on my desk. “Get the deal over the line. She’s much more fun than I thought she was in that first meeting. She’s dynamic, ambitious. She’s everything you are, but in a skirt.”
“Thanks,” I say, voice heavy with sarcasm. “That’s exactly what I want in a partner.”
Henry flashes me a sympathetic smile. “You want the deal, though, right?”
I did. I wanted that deal. That agency. But it doesn’t seem nearly as important as it did before. I can’t bring myself to care. But I know I should want it, and I know Henry expects me to say yes, so I do.
“Then go get it,” Henry says, but I can tell from his lacklustre tone that he knows I’m not nearly as invested as I once was.
He excuses himself, taking Julian with him. I bid them farewell, and when they’re gone, I check my sent messages, opening up the one to Diana.
Me: Well done. You’re exceptional. I am so proud of you.
Rafe.
37
DIANA
Christmas has been and gone. I spent it alone. My sister wanted me to come over, but I couldn’t face anyone; my heart was broken. I could hardly function, hardly get out of bed, and it took all my willpower to focus on launching my course.
I didn’t celebrate the launch, and the only person I wanted to share the success with was Rafe. A few days later, I gave in and sent him a message, and his response—I’m so proud of you—made me cry.
January was cold, and February was colder, the chill sinking into my bones like sadness. March was warmer, and now, just as it felt like spring was finally coming, we’ve been swept back into a bitter Siberian winter. TheBeast from the East,the meteorologists have nicknamed it, and it’s bringing snow to London.
Recently, Sylvie’s been pestering me, complaining that she missed me at Christmas and that I don’t keep in touch, and that I have to come over for Easter because she has ‘big news’. So tonight, I’ve agreed to come for dinner, despite my reservations. Dad moved her into my old flat after he kicked me out, and it’shard not to feel like it was a deliberate move to remind me that I’m out of favour and Sylvie isin.
I nod to the concierge in my old building as I pass into the lobby. He returns my nod, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the last time I was here too.
“Miss Marchetti,” he says. “Good to see you again.”
In a few moments, I’m outside my old front door, knocking on it, my heart thumping. This is weird. It feels strange to be back under these circumstances. Confusing.
I’m uncomfortable.
The door swings open, and my sister is standing there in a short black dress with an apron over the top, cinched at the waist. Her blonde hair is perfectly blow-dried, and she looks movie-star gorgeous.
“Diana, it’s been too long,” she says, pulling me into her arms.
“Hey,” I murmur as I take in the sight of my old home over her shoulder. The decor is all different. The bookshelves are gone. The carpet is totally different too; where I had a brightly patterned rug, Sylvie has that bland rattan stuff that scratches your bare feet.
A lump rises in my throat. Are we going to address the fact that she’s living in my old home? Or are we going to ignore it?
“Come in, come in,” she says with a smile. “You know your way around.” Her voice is light, but there’s a hint of something else there. An awkward tightness to the words.
Damn straight it’s awkward. She’s always been the favourite, and now she’s living in the flat in St James’. And we’re not going to talk about it?
Dave, her boyfriend, is lounging on a designer sofa, and he glances over at me, which is all the acknowledgement I get. He’s some hot-shot city boy, apparently raking it in. Earning millions. Dad chose him, of course. As we pass by, Sylvie rolls her eyes at me like she’s on the anti-Dave team too and disapproves of hislack of greeting, but she doesn’t reprimand him. But then, she wouldn’t. Dave’s the boss in this house, and Sylvie wouldn’t dare tell him off.
“Can you grab the red wine for me?” she says, and for a second I think she’s talking to Dave, but when he doesn’t move, I realise she means me. “It’s on the sideboard. Corkscrew’s there too.”
Sylvie walks into the kitchen, and Dave looks over at me, raising his glass. “Love a top up, Di.”
I grit my teeth. I hate Dave. I can’t look at him without remembering theshe’s only good for giving headcomment he made about Sylvie. I can’t believe she forgave him. She told me about it in a moment of drunken weakness, wept on my shoulder one night, and moved in with him the next day. Never mentioned it again.
I hope she didn’t give him head for at least a month.