Page 16 of Two Wrongs
A moment later, the front door slams.
‘Anyone would think he owns the place,’ I say to the now empty room, Nigel long since having trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.
Dylan knows, and I’m numb. Not processing. Unmoving and just stunned. But fuck him and his victory because this house may no longer be my home, but I’m not one of his things. He doesn’t own me. He makes it sound as though I’m the only one on trial here just because I did what I did before he ruined me.
Call it self-preservation, because the only reason I’m not pooled on the floor is that I. Left. First. I saw the signs; barely married and he’s telling the actress he’s filming with that I’mjust his hair stylist. His hair stylist! And yes, maybe I was, but only because he insisted I be on set to fix his hair. Dylan isn’t that vain; I thought it was because he wanted me near, but now, I think it was probably the thrill of being able to feel me up while risk being caught. Seems nothing’s better than feeling up your wife while her hands are busy.
What is it with men? Creeping up and grabbing your arse when your hands are sudsy or full of tint?
But it wasn’t so much my job title I objected to even if it felt like he was punishing me that day. What I objected to was his intonation, his tone. That throwaway line.
Oh, she’s just my hairstylist.Just.Just!
And I very much objected to how he waltzed on by with her pawing his arm, all doe-eyed and star struck.
So we’d fought that morning.
So he was tired of us being a secret, but I had my reasons.
So he didn’t know I’d already begun to look at flights to take him home to meet my family. Screw what his agent said because when I said I had my reasons, the slime ball’s words were part of it.
Right now, he doesn’t need a wife, Ivy. He needs to feed the fan beast—make them think he’s dating the ‘it’ girls of this world; models, starlets, daughters of famous parents. Are they or aren’t they? Who will it be next? He needs to cultivate this persona; make the world ask just who is Dylan Duffy?
If anyone cared to ask, I’d tell them the truth right now: Dylan Duffy’s a complete twat.
As a star’s wife, you’ll have to prepare yourself. Actors fall in and out of love during the roles they play. It’s make believe, sure, but for them, at those moments, it’s real. You know what I’m saying, Ivy.Yeah, I knew what he was getting at. That people stray.You have to be prepared to watch from the sidelines, babe.
Not happening,babe.
Nigel pads back into the room, flopping onto his bed by the unlit fire. I don’t know whether he’s been fed or walked, exactly what time it is, or which side is up and which is down currently. I’m so tired I’m almost dead on my feet. But I still have one more thing to do. I slide open my phone like a dutiful friend. I’d sent Fin a text from the cab telling her I’d landed and that I’d Skype her soon, but I’m not in any sort of mood to be grilled again. Actually, I’m surprised she hasn’t called to ask what the delay is. I shoot her a quick text to say I’m off to bed and that I’ll call tomorrow, instead. Closing my phone, I slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.
Bed. I need sleep. My mind’s not working so well, and I’m in no mood for combat. That is if he even returns. We can continue this in the morning; he and his black temper can go rain someplace else for now.
My suitcase is small and light, having packed for only a few days, so it’s easy to carry upstairs. Though his note didn’t mention a timescale, I’ve no intention of staying long. The master suite is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, and though I pause at the doorway of the room that was once ours, I don’t go in. Instead, I walk the hallway to the room farthest away. The scene of the crime is something I don’t need to see.Wonder how many women he’s had in there since?
I’m surprised Nigel isn’t behind me; he used to sleep at the end of our bed. It’s hardly surprising he isn’t trotting at my heel. He probably feels like I abandoned him, too. Once I’ve brushed my teeth and removed the grime of travelling by virtue of a quick shower, I shove on a tank top and shorts set, then leave the bedroom door open a wee bit. That way, should the woolly mutt change his mind, he won’t resort to howling.
It has been known. A couple of times, Dylan locked him out of the room. Nigel’s a bit of voyeur, and Dylan didn’t like him staring when we... you know. No need to worry about that happening again. Not for me, anyway.
The linens are cool against my skin, though I feel off balance lying in the guest room. I’d decorated this room with my parents in mind, hoping they’d visit once they’d gotten over my husband bombshell.
That’s never going to happen now.
I’d turned the thermostat higher before collapsing into bed because I hate sleeping in the frigid air conditioning. Give me good old Scottish weather with the rain pelting the windows and the wind outside blowing a gale—give me that, and I’ll show you the perfect antidote. The upside of living somewhere where it rains three hundred and fifty days a year—a hot toddy, a Kindle, and the central heating turned up full blast.There’s just something about a room feeling like the sauna in a Swedish massage place.
And that’s pretty much the last thought I have.
It’s dark. The floor creaks, but for some reason, I don’t open my eyes. I’m not frightened, reassured perhaps by the quiet whine of Nigel. Seems I’m not the only one having their sleep disturbed. My breath halts as Dylan’s voice whispers in the darkness; a small praise I don’t quite catch. My heart jumps into my throat even as, without opening my eyes, I can see him patting Nigel’s head. Without any real cognitive processing, I continue my feigned sleep as Dylan’s body lands heavily on the chair across from the bed.
Then nothing. No further movement. Just the sounds of our breathing, deep and even. I know he’s watching me, and my skin prickles from the weight of his gaze, the fine hairs on my forearms standing like pins. The room is warm now, overly so, and I’ve kicked the blankets to the end of the bed, it seems. I’m suddenly aware of my tiny pyjamas; have my boobs fallen out of the thin cotton tank? Without reaching to touch, I can only guess, and even as I do so, my nipples harden against the fabric.
I’m not flashing him, am I?
Guilt comes next. Because I feel uneasy that he’s here? That I pretend to sleep? Whatever the cause, I fight the urge to open my eyes. A sick sense of need fuels my sleeping pretence as my mind and heart are suddenly filled with a million conflicting things.
The clink of ice against a glass brings me out of my confused misery, and the sense of him taking a sip makes me almost want to lick my lips. I manage to keep my breathing deep and even, though the cogs in my mind whir.Why is he here and what am I to do about it?
‘I hate you.’ My heart stops again—properly. His voice is little more than a whisper; an exhausted sound in the darkness that pierces my chest. ‘I really, really hate you,’ he repeats, his voice a little stronger now. Then he utters my name like a curse.
