About Last Night

But even love had its variations. Had the artist spent the eternity of rounds counting all the ways she adored him, or had she resented the waste, knowing he’d only sweat in her masterpiece and wear through the heels in no time flat?

God, even kilt hose depressed her.

Judith gave her an inscrutable look. “I got a strange phone call this morning from Christopher.”

“Oh?” She tried to sound as though she cared, but her voice had all the verve of a funeral director’s. She was going to have to get better at faking things if she planned to survive this breakup.

“Richard Chamberlain called him at home last night and said he’d be making a hundred-thousand-pound donation to our exhibit. Any chance you had something to do with that?”

She crushed the stocking in her hand, suddenly nauseated. Richard had called last night? But that was long after she’d left, long after he’d learned who she really was. Why would he do that?

Maybe he’d done it out of duty. He’d felt honor-bound to make the donation despite his disappointment in her, so he’d gotten it over with as quickly as possible. The thought upset her so much, a helpless, mewling cry escaped her throat, and she covered her mouth with her hand, breathing in the smell of musty wool.

“You can’t take the money,” she said through the stocking. “I’m sorry, but it’s all a big mistake.”

Judith gave her a long look, then resumed peering at a red patch of darning on the toe of an undistinguished man’s work sock. Someone had embroidered a tiny, perfect owl onto it. Another I love you rendered in stitches and string.

“The money is a done deal,” Judith said. “I would be congratulating you, only you look like you’re about ten seconds from offing yourself.” She frowned deeper and mumbled, “Maybe you should tell me what happened.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

They played with socks, pretending absorption.

She’d spent six hours yesterday on buses and trains, aimlessly traversing the countryside north of London, trying to wipe Nev’s haunted expression from her mind.

He’d left seven messages on her phone before she turned it off. She hadn’t listened to any of them. She was tempted to throw the phone away in order to eliminate the possibility.

“We broke up.”

Judith scratched behind her ear and said nothing. They were deeply inept at this, both of them. Sharing information with emotional freight was well beyond the bounds of their limited friendship.

“It was for the best,” she added.

Judith snorted.

“The whole thing was a mistake.” She wondered who she was trying to convince.

Her boss walked around to her side of the table, and for an awful instant Cath thought Judith might try to hug her. Instead, she gently extricated the stocking from Cath’s strangling grip, laid it flat on the table, and smoothed out the wrinkles Cath had made in the fabric. “It didn’t look like a mistake,” she said.

“Yeah, well. Looks can be deceiving.” She thought of how he’d seemed to her before she knew him, cold and polished as a marble statue at the train station. How he really was when they were alone. Hot and messy. Intense and conflicted. Vulnerable and real.

Judith said nothing. She began pairing the socks and placing them in piles.

“We can’t take the money,” Cath told her. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“We need the money. Unless you committed a crime to get Chamberlain to promise that donation, we’re accepting it.”

“I’ll quit.” She said it quietly, but she meant it, and Judith must have heard the conviction in her voice, because she stopped fussing with the socks and stared.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“You’d never find another job. You’ve been killing yourself for months to turn this crap job I gave you into a career. You’re almost there. Why would you sabotage that over a donation?”

“I won’t if you don’t make me. I’m going to get the money. I’m just not going to get it from Richard. I have a plan.”