She knew Lucy wasn’t home. His wife had apparently given him a kick up the arse, taken the baby and moved out. For how long would be up to him.
Things were worse than Jennifer had realised. Worse than even Anna had understood.
Guilt cajoled her anger. She should have realised. If not for everything else on her plate, she probably would have. But bailing out of their company without a single word to her, bringing a total stranger into their midst—it felt like the ultimate betrayal.
Through the bevelled glass of the heavy black door she could make out his approach and she stepped back. Her eyes scanned the traditional London townhouse as she waited.
She heard the latch shift and looked to the door as it opened, Tony’s head appearing at its edge. She swallowed back a gasp. He looked like hell. His blond hair flopped around his face, his eyes were glassy and sunken in their shadowed sockets.
‘Jenny,’ he rasped, eyes squinting, one hand holding a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and swinging it upwards to rest against the frame.
‘You going to let me in?’
‘You sure you want to come in?’ His words were slurred and he looked towards the street, eyeing it up and down as though someone might be following.
‘I don’t think you want this particular conversation out here.’
He snorted and swung back, the door moving with him. ‘Suit yourself.’
Jennifer stepped inside. Holding her breath against his alcohol-tainted air, she bypassed him and headed straight down the Edwardian-style hallway for the lounge.
He couldn’t have been home alone for long—the house was too clean, too orderly. The high-ceilinged lounge barely looked lived in. All a marked contrast to his haggard state.
Tugging off her coat, she tossed it on one of the beige sofas but didn’t sit. She wasn’t ready to make herself at home. Instead she strode to the window, and waited until she heard him shuffle in behind her.
She tried to muster up the anger, the hurt, but as she turned to face him all she felt was sadness. He was pale and clammy, his white shirt hanging half open, his dark trousers out of place and a dramatic contrast to the pasty white feet sticking out beneath.
She took a steadying breath. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He swung the bottle and took a swig, wincing as he swallowed it down.
For fuck’s sake!
She strode across the room and reached for the bottle. ?
??Let me get you a cuppa.’
His gaze dropped to her hand, his eyes wavering with the effort to focus. ‘I’m good.’
‘You’ll be better with tea.’ She closed her hand around the bottle and pulled.
He resisted, but only for a second, then his hand dropped away. ‘Ah, Jennifer, you always know best.’
‘And don’t you forget it.’
She’d managed to inject a jovial confidence into her tone, but inside she was trembling, tears biting at the backs of her eyes. She needed to get away from him before she broke down.
‘Go and sit down. I’ll be back in a second.’
He slumped off to fall onto the nearest sofa and Jennifer hurried into the kitchen, her shaky hands tapping on the kettle and reaching for mugs. She placed them on the worktop and pressed her fingers to her cheeks, breathing back the tears.
How long had he been this bad? Why hadn’t she seen it?
She wanted the truth out of him—all of it—and she wanted it yesterday. But right now she’d settle for having the old Tony back. The one who had given her a career break and the backing that had got her where she was today. She’d forgive him everything and deal with whatever the future held for the company, for her, for Marcus...
The kettle bubbled with its impending boil, but its sound was broken by the shattering of glass.
What the hell?