Whirling, she ran inside so that she could be there, waiting for him when he came in. She didn’t run all the way to the front door. That would have been too needy. Too clingy. She went to the kitchen, ostensibly to check that the curry she was making was fine. Which, of course, it was. She always cooked for him on a Friday night, knowing he would be too tired after his long drive to take her out anywhere. Besides, she liked to conserve his energy for other things.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called out as he walked in, one arm full of red roses as usual. And a bottle of champagne in the other.
‘Is this to celebrate the big reveal?’ she said, beaming.
For a split second, he hesitated to answer. And then he bent to give her a brief peck on the lips. ‘But of course. What else?’
Why, she wondered, did his voice sound so odd, as though he was disappointed about something? Had she said something wrong? Done something wrong?
‘I made your favourite curry,’ she raced on as she put the bottle of champagne in the fridge. When she turned, she found him arranging the roses in the vase which was always at the ready on the pine counter. ‘You know you don’t have to buy me flowers every week.’
‘But I like to,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘Come on, best show me Francesco’s apartment before we do anything else. I know that’s what you want to do. You’ve been talking about nothing else every night this week. But be warned, if I don’t like it, you’re in big trouble.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said with mock worry, because she was sure he was going to like it.
He did. In fact, he loved it, even the fact that she had had all the walls stripped back and painted white. Not a stark white, however; a soft off-white which had a hint of cream in it. It was the perfect backdrop for the furniture she’d chosen: Mediterranean style pieces made of richly grained wood, which gave the place the kind of solid but warm feel she’d seen in pictures of Tuscan villas she’d sourced on the Internet. The deep plump sofas and chairs she’d chosen for the living room were covered in soft linens in warm colours: creams, fawns and a buttery yellow, with the occasional splash of olive-green thrown in. The fireplace remained, its once-heavy wooden surround replaced by Italian marble made in a warm brown shot with gold streaks.
The two en suite bathrooms and kitchen were white, of course, but she’d used the same brown marble on the counter tops and dual vanities. The fittings were gold—though not real gold—evoking quality without being over the top. The living areas were tiled in large cream tiles, with thick rugs dotted here and there for warmth and colour. The carpets in the bedrooms were sable, which went well with everything.
What pleased Jack the most—and consequently thrilled Vivienne—was her choice of artwork, both for the walls inside the apartment and the art gallery on the top landing. Not originals and not worth a fortune, either: prints of famous landscapes and seascapes, which definitely looked like things he would recognise: beautiful beaches and graceful sailing boats. Stately mountains and picturesque valleys. Their frames were expensive, however. Some were gilt, some shabby-chic white, depending on where they were positioned.
‘You like, boss?’ she said cheekily when he just stood staring at one seascape for a long time. It was hanging over the fireplace in the living room, and was of a spectacular beach on a rugged coastline.
‘Too much,’ he replied.
‘How can you like anything too much?’ It was a peculiar thing to say.
He didn’t answer her, just turned away from the picture abruptly and strode across to the sliding glass doors which led out onto the balcony. He reefed one back and stepped out into the cold night air, going over to where the rusted and broken railing had been replaced by clear panels of toughened glass. Vivienne followed him out there, unsure what was happening here. He stood at the railing for a long time in silence before turning and facing a by-then shivering Vivienne. Inside was air-conditioned, but outside was now very chilly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘I thought I could do this but I can’t. Not any longer.’
‘Do what?’ Vivienne asked, suddenly feeling sick to the stomach.
‘Wait...till Francesco’s Folly is finished.’
So this was it, she thought despairingly. He was going to break it off with her.
She wanted to scream that she wasn’t ready yet. That she needed longer with him.
But then she realised that no amount of time would ever be enough. If he didn’t care about her the way she cared about him, then what was the point of delaying things?