She still felt numbed by it all; not just by his ending of their relationship but by the speed with which he had completely disappeared from her life.
The partnership had let him go without insisting on his serving out any period of notice; he had removed his things from the flat that same day, having told her that he had found work with an agency.
He had been in touch with her only once, leaving a message on their—now her—answering machine with a forwarding address for his mail.
His address and a telephone number. In case she changed her mind and gave in… left the partnership; accepted the limitations he had put on their future… on her future.
Tears blurred her eyes. Only she knew how much she had been tempted to do just that, but how could she? She knew herself too well. It would never work if she did that. Sooner rather than later she would start to lose not just her respect for him but her respect for herself as well.
‘You don’t need me,’ Mark had said bitterly, but he had been wrong. She did need him, and that was what hurt her most of all: the fact he had not recognised and understood the need; the fact that he had allowed himself to be blinded to that need by the opinions and false judgements of others.
The fact that she had been promoted while he had not had made no difference to the way she valued him. Even though he had accused her of treating him differently, of reinforcing his own growing sense of ‘coming second’ in their relationship, it was simply not true. She had never felt like that about him. He was the one who…
Tiredly she shook her head. What was the point in going over and over what had been said? Mark had gone and the only way they could be together again would be for her to capitulate to his terms. It wasn’t pride that stopped her and it certainly wasn’t ambition… her career… No, it was more than that. It was the knowledge that in giving up her job and allowing him to dictate the terms of their relationship she would be helping him to destroy something very precious and rare—and she would be destroying herself as well. To give up her job would demean her as a human being… as a woman, just as Mark had claimed that having to take second place to her at work had demeaned him.
Angry tears filled her eyes; desolately she brushed them away.
Ryan had been openly contemptuous of Mark’s departure from the office. Whenever he asked about what he was doing, she parried his questions—or ignored them.
Despite her insistence to Mark that Ryan had offered her promotion on merit alone, she was beginning to feel increasingly wary of doing or saying anything that might lead Ryan to believe that she wanted anything other than a strictly professional relationship with him.
Bitterly she told herself that there was one point at least on which both Ryan and Mark thought alike, and that was that sexually she was vulnerable to Ryan.
Both of them were wrong. No matter how sexually frustrated she might f
eel—and she did—going to bed with Ryan was the last thing she was likely to do.
He kept on subtly pressuring her, though, full of praise for her one moment, fiercely critical of her the next, slowly isolating her from her peers, she recognised, publicly making it plain that she was his personal protégée… his personal property, ostensibly elevating and supporting her, but at the same time subtly undermining her position with the others.
And yet there was nothing he had said or done that she could actually complain about. He was far too subtle for that.
Only yesterday, when he had rebuked her in public, treating her as though she were a mere junior, she had challenged him about her promotion.
‘You’re still on trial—remember,’ he had warned her silkily. ‘Nothing’s official… yet.’
Silently Deborah had digested that warning along with the unpalatable suspicions that went with it. She knew she was good at her job; she knew she had earned and deserved her promotion. But now Ryan seemed to be teasing her with it like an adult offering and then withholding a bag of sweets.
The comparison was too uncomfortable for her to dwell on too deeply.
It was Friday evening and the weekend loomed emptily ahead of her. She missed Mark so much. Ached for him, emotionally, mentally and physically, but how could she pay the price he had set on their love? His love. Hers was given freely, unconditionally—too freely and too unconditionally?
She walked into the bedroom and took off her office suit, changing into leggings and a loose sweater.
In the hallway were the cans of paint she had bought on the way home. Grimly she surveyed the bedroom walls. ‘Right,’ she told the room grittily. ‘This time tomorrow you’ll look so different I won’t be able to come in here and see Mark everywhere.’
She looked at the bed. She had even bought new bedding. Hers still smelled of Mark, she swore, even though she had washed it a number of times since he had gone.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, grimacing as she remembered that she had forgotten to buy food. A forlorn bottle of wine caught her eye. She reached for it.
* * *
She ought to be in the bedroom painting, not lying here on the settee drinking wine, Deborah told herself severely.
She was, she admitted to herself, distinctly tipsy. Tipsy? She was damn near drunk, she corrected herself.
The doorbell rang, the sound cutting sharply through the silence of the flat, reinforcing her awareness of her loneliness.
The doorbell… Mark… She swung her feet to the floor and got up hurriedly, grimacing as she almost lost her balance and fell over.