“She’s a felon,” Winston said.
“Shut up,” Richard and Evita said simultaneously.
They were on his side. Both of them. He’d marvel at that, but he was too preoccupied with trying to sort out the horrible tangle his thoughts and feelings had become.
“What if I can’t fix it?” he asked.
“What if you can?” Richard replied.
What if you can?
Oh, fuck. What had he done?
“Right.” He walked straight out of the room. By the time he hit the end of the corridor, he was moving at a dead run.
“Cath! Bloody hell, Cath, stop and talk to me.”
“No.” She stalked down the road, moving as quickly as her stubby little legs would carry her, but there was no way for a woman on foot to escape a car, no matter how fast she went.
Just mow me down, already. Get it over with.
He drove along behind her at turtle speed, slow enough to stall the engine of a less finely tuned machine. She refused to look at him. On the narrow road that connected Leyton to the village of Harpenden, tall hedgerows boxed her in, trapping her in a green corridor under the ridiculously hot August sun with a luxury sedan nipping at her heels.
There was a bus stop in Harpenden. She’d seen it on the way to the house. In five minutes or so, she’d be there, and she’d take the first bus to wherever, and she’d never lay eyes on Nev again.
Good riddance. The worm. The jerk. Shoddy excuse for a man, dressing her up like the world’s stodgiest baby doll so he could get some kind of promotion at work. She didn’t know the details, but she didn’t need to know. He’d sold her out. Made her a pawn in his chess game with Mummy and Winston. Meet the wife! Where’s my raise?
The car rolled to a stop behind her, and then the engine cut out and she heard the door open. She felt Nev’s presence beside her, but she didn’t turn her head.
He grabbed her hand. “Cath.”
She yanked hard, freeing herself from his hot, possessive fingers. “Don’t you touch me, or I swear to God I will scream so loud you’ll be arrested for assault.”
“Christ, Cath. Can’t we talk?”
“What can you possibly have to say to me? ‘Sorry I pimped you out so I could get a promotion’?”
“I didn’t pimp you out.”
“No? Then why do I feel like such a whore?”
She looked down at her outfit—a prim brown linen skirt, pink ballet flats, and a white T-shirt under a brown short-sleeved cardigan. Old-lady clothes. The only thing she wore that belonged to her was the T-shirt. Everything else, Nev had bought. She unbuttoned the sweater and pulled it off, dropping it in the road. Nev ignored it.
“You’re not a whore, love.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your love.” If he’d loved her, he would’ve defended her. He wouldn’t have sat there, cold as a whole goddamn tray of ice cubes, while his brother told him what an awful person she was. He wouldn’t have sat there while she took off her rings and threw them in his face and walked out.
Never mind that he’d come after her eventually. It was too little, too late. He could go to hell.
“You are. I love you. I want to marry you.”
“Oh, please. Go home, Neville. Go back to work at your precious bank, and find somebody with a pedigree and papers to marry. This thing between us doesn’t work. I was going to end it anyway, as soon as we got back to Greenwich.”
That stopped him for half a minute, but eventually he caught up at a jog. She wished he weren’t so damn fit. Running away was a lot harder when the guy you were fleeing kept in such excellent shape.
“Why?”
“Let it go, Nev. We’re not worth fighting for.”