Page 162 of Wife After Wife
“Notquitehow it works.” His smug smile made her want to slap him.
He walked around the table and came to stand behind her. “Now look. If you tell Mr. Denham to drop his demands, we’ll take no further action. I suggest you hurry along and meet up with your agent to see what you can salvage of your career. Although, if you take my advice, you’ll start retraining in some other field. Something like... let’s see. Pole dancing?”
She stood up, making an effort to stop the tears, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
Tom didn’t move, looming over her. She could hear him breathing.
“Oh, and don’t forget to sign those papers,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll find yourself in court.”
She went to head for the door, but he didn’t move aside. She looked up into his face. He licked his lips. His breathing was heavier. He raised his right hand and touched her arm, stroked it.
“Come, come, Caitlyn. It’s just a divorce. You’re young and you’re...” His eyes traveled to her chest. “Verysexy. You’ll find some other sugar daddy. In the meantime, perhapsIcan help you.”
She shrugged off his pudgy fingers. “Excuse me, I’d like to go now.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice smooth. He finally moved aside, and as she walked past him, she felt his hand on her behind. He patted it, then squeezed it. “I can see why Harry enjoyed you,” he said. “Good luck.”
•••
Caitlyn let herself back into the flat. There was no one home. The silence was overwhelming. The emptiness of it all.
Harry had been right. Her “grubby little life” was sordid and the flat reflected that, strewn with dirty plates and takeaway cartons; smeared glasses with brown and yellow dregs in the bottom, and a smell of something gone sour. Storm and Frankie had dragged her down, and she no longer had the strength or energy to kick against them. What was the point?
She sank onto the arm of the couch and fished out her phone, tapping out Florence’s number.
No reply.
She was alone in the world. She had no one. She was nothing.
She had to get away, couldn’t face seeing Frankie after what he’d done. She grabbed her bag and left, hailing a cab and giving the driver Florence’s Stockwell address.
She redialed, and this time Florence answered. Briefly Caitlyn explained—she’d had a bust-up with Frankie and needed a few days to get her head together. Could she stay again?
“How many times have I told you, Caitlyn?” Florence’s voice was exasperated. “You’ve gotta kick him out. It’syourflat, not his. Get rid. Now.”
“I will, but I need to get myself together first. I’ve had a terrible day, I really need to talk to you about it.”
“It’s not a good time, Caitlyn. We have people coming round for dinner—one’s a prospective client. Look, call me tomorrow.”
“Florence, please, I—”
“Not now. Sorry, I really have to go. Take care.” She hung up.
Caitlyn leaned her head back and closed her eyes. For a few minutes she didn’t move. Finally she opened them and saw they were crossing the Thames. It was already dark, the lights of London reflected in the inky blackness below.
Caitlyn asked the cabdriver to pull over.
“What, here, love?”
“Yes. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll walk to the station and take the train back.”
“I voted for you in that castle thing,” he said. “What you up to now?”
She paid him. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Keep the change.”
“Resting, eh? Well, good luck.”
Caitlyn stood staring over the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, her coathood pulled up against the cold. All around her people were hurrying home, to their families, wives, flatmates.
