Страница 95 из 129
“Yes . . . bour-bon.” He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start
on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.
“I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia,” he says, slurring his words. “You should always be in satin or silk.” He runs his hands up and down my hips
then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.
“And we have an invader in here.”
I stop breathing. Holy cow. He’s talking to Little Blip.
“You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?” he says to my belly.
Oh my. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.
“You’ll choose him over me,” he says sadly.
“Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she.”
He frowns. “A she . . . Oh, God.” He flops back down on to the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I undo one shoelace and
yank off his shoe and sock, then the other. When I stand, I see why I’ve met no resistance—Christian has passed out completely. He’s sound asleep and snoring
softly.
I stare at him. He’s so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed.
He looks young—but then he is young; my young, stressed out, drunk, unhappy husband. The thought rests heavy in my heart.
Well, at least he’s home. I wonder where he went. I’m not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He’s on top of the
duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.
He’s still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, remove his tie, and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles
something incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it’s off. His shirt
has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can’t resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.
has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can’t resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.
I sit up and gaze at him again. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . what am I going to do with you? I brush my fingers through his hair. It’s so soft and kiss his temple.
“I love you, Christian. Even when you’re drunk and you’ve been out God knows where, I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed, and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the
bed . . . Yes, I’ll do that.
First I’ll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie, and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor. I
pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another.
Fuck. My scalp prickles.
*It was good to see you. I understand now.
Don’t fret. You’l make a wonderful father.*
It’s from her. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson.
Shit. That’s where he went. He’s been to see her.
I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He’s been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with her! He snores softly, sleeping the
sleep of a seemingly i
Oh no, no, no. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he?
How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But
this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and
fro, weeping softly.
What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel
about that woman. How could he turn to her? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?
Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers. Oh, Christian. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he
does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.
For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife. I love you. C x
No, no, no—I can’t believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that’s how it’s always been with him. After each setback,
we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery? I think about how he’s been this last,
horrible, wonderful weekend. His quiet strength while my stepdad lay broken and comatose in the ICU . . . my surprise party, bringing my family and friends
together . . . dipping me down low outside the Heathman and kissing me in full public view. Oh, Christian, you strain all my trust, all my faith . . . and I love you.
But it’s not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do this to me and our Blip. Dr. Fly
—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
Christian stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for something,
then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm outstretched.
Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing with the Bitch Troll? I need to know.
I glance once more at the offending text and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check
the other recent texts, but can only see messages from Elliot, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from Elena. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he
hasn’t been texting her, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my. The wallpaper on his phone is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny
Anastasias in various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring, and a few of José’s photos, too. When did he do this? It must have been
recently.
I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Christian’s e-mails. See if he’s been talking to her. Should I? Sheathed in
jade-green silk, my i
There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various
executives in his company. None from Bitch Troll. While I’m at it, I’m relieved to see there are none from Leila either.
One e-mail catches my eye. It’s from Barney Sullivan, Christian’s IT guy, and the subject line is: Jack Hyde. I glance guiltily at Christian, but he’s still snoring
gently. I’ve never heard him snore. I open the e-mail.
From: Barney Sullivan
Subject: Jack Hyde
Date: September 13, 2011 14:09