The Marriage Surrender

The cold touch of glass against the back of her raised hand brought it jerking away from her eyes.

‘Try this,’ Sandro advised. He was standing over her, holding out a glass. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he informed her as she stared suspiciously at the contents. ‘It may help give you back some courage. You seem to be flagging.’

Mock, mock, mock. She took the glass, put it to her lips and swallowed half its contents down in one go in sheer defiance.

He ignored her defiance, going to seat himself in the chair opposite to sip more slowly at his own drink, looking supremely relaxed while her body was bonegratingly stiff, his eyes annoyingly implacable while hers were giving much too much away.

‘Since when have you had this apartment up here?’ she asked, cowardly, shying away from what she knew she should be talking about—the money.

‘Since always,’ he replied. ‘It has always been here.’

She frowned. ‘But I never knew about it.’

That is because I have a perfectly acceptable house in Belgravia where I preferred to live with my wife,’ he answered with sardonic bite. ‘This place is merely a convenience for when I have to work late. Time zones being the inconvenient things they are,’ he explained while her own mind leapt backwards and began wondering if all those nights when he hadn’t come home to the house in Belgravia while she’d lived there he had been right here instead.

The perfect escape from the pressure of his lousy marriage.

‘Where are you living now, exactly?’ he asked casually, bringing her mind crashing back into sharp focus on him.

But she had to look away from him as she answered that question, not wanting to see the distasteful expression that was bound to cross his face.

It was clear in his voice, though; she could not escape that. ‘Do I have to presume, from that kind of address, that the five thousand pounds is protection money?’

Inside she shuddered. Sometimes, she decided, she hated him—despised his sarcasm and his superior attitude. ‘I can protect myself!’ she snapped.

He made no comment—a derisory comment in itself. She took another deep slug at the gin and felt her head start to swim. She’d had no food today, couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last, so the alcohol was hitting her empty stomach and instantly entering her bloodstream.

‘All you have to do, Joanna, is say it,’ Sandro suggested gently.

‘Say what?’ Her eyes flashed him a wary glance.

‘Say what you need the money for and I will give it to you.’

Just like that? No strings attached? She could barely believe her luck—except for one small thing. It was confessing why she needed the money that was the most difficult.

‘I’ve been working behind the bar in a casino nightclub for the last twelve months,’ she said, trying to sound casual and knowing she failed dismally. ‘S-since Molly died,’ she added, because it was in actual fact a very important part of why she was here today. ‘I...’ Her glass was empty and she was suddenly wishing it wasn’t.

‘A refill?’ Sandro offered, getting smoothly to his feet.

‘Please.’ She held the glass out to him. He took it and walked away, giving her a few moments to sag while he wouldn’t see her doing it.

‘So,’ he prompted as he mixed her second gin. ‘Molly died and you went to work in a casino. What happened next to make the penny-conscious Joanna get herself into debt?’

Did he know—had he guessed? She frowned at his back and couldn’t decide. He was acute, he was perceptive, he always had been able to out-think her brain ten to one in any discussion. But...?

No, she decided, even Sandro wouldn’t suspect her, of all people, of gambling.

Gambling. The word on its own could actually make her feel physically sick now! Or was it the gin? Or the lack of food? Or the stress she had been living under recently?

Or was it just sheer reluctance to confess the full truth that was making her feel so sick?

He came back, handed her the refilled glass. She accepted it and took a gulp at it while he returned to his own chair.

‘Please go on,’ he invited.

‘When—when Molly died, I...’ Fell apart, was the wretched truth of it. She’d felt as if she had nothing and no one left to live for. ‘The job was offered to me by the same man who lent me the money to pay for Molly’s funeral...’

The choking sound coming from Sandro brought her eyes up to clash with his. He wasn’t quite in focus, she realised—which made it easier to keep this story moving.