Nina Harrington - In Bed with Her Ex

So that was that. He was snubbing her, escaping to some place where she couldn’t follow. Perhaps she should simply take the hint and leave, but that seemed too much like giving in without a fight. How he would triumph if he returned to find her gone. Grimly she settled down to work.

LAURA Degrande had settled contentedly in a small house in the suburbs of Paris. It wasn’t a wealthy district, but she always said life was better without wealth. Her marriage to Amos Falcon had not been happy, and the only good thing to come from it was her son, Marcel. He would have kept her in luxury, but she refused, accepting an allowance that was comfortable, but no more, despite his indignant protests. It was the only blot on their otherwise affectionate relationship.

Her face lit up when he appeared at her door.

‘My darling, how lovely to see you. I was thrilled to get your call this morning. What is it that’s so urgent?’

Hugging her, Marcel said, ‘I need to look through some old stuff that you stored for me.’

‘Have you lost something?’

‘You might say that. Are the bags where I left them?’

‘Still in the attic.’

‘See you later.’

He hurried up the stairs before she could answer, and shut himself away in the little room, where he began to pull open bags and boxes, tossing them aside when they didn’t contain what he wanted. When Laura looked in he turned a haggard face towards her.

‘There’s something missing—a big grey envelope—I left it here—it’s gone—’

‘Oh, that. Yes, I found it but there was only rubbish inside, shreds of paper that you’d obviously torn up. I thought they should be thrown out.’

‘What?’ The sound that broke from him was a roar of anguish. His face was haggard, desperate. ‘You threw it out?’

‘No, calm down. I thought about it but then I remembered what you’re like about not throwing things away. So I stored them safely—up here on this shelf. Yes, here’s the envelope.’

He almost snatched it from her with a choking, ‘Thank you!’

Laura left the room quickly, knowing that something desperately important had happened, and he needed to be alone to cope with it.

Marcel wrenched open the envelope and a load of small bits of paper cascaded onto the floor. Frantically he gathered them up, found a small table and began to piece them together. It was hard because his hands were shaking, and the paper had been torn into tiny shreds.

As he worked he could see himself again, on that night long ago, tearing, tearing, desperate with hate and misery.

He’d left the hospital as soon as he was strong enough, and gone straight to Cassie’s home. The lights were out and he knew the worst as soon as he arrived, but he still banged on the door, crying her name, banging more desperately.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ said a voice behind him. ‘She’s gone.’

Behind him stood a middle-aged man who Marcel knew vaguely. He was usually grumpy, but today he seemed pleased at the bad news he was imparting.

‘Gone where?’ Marcel demanded.

A shrug. ‘How do I know? She packed up and left days ago. I saw her get into a posh car. Bloke who owned it must be a millionaire, so I reckon that’s finished you. She saw sense at last.’

Seeing Marcel’s face, he retreated hastily.

At first he refused to believe it, banging on the door again and screaming her name, until at last even he had to accept the truth. She’d gone without a backward glance.

He didn’t remember the journey home, except that he sat drinking in the back of the taxi until he tumbled out onto the pavement and staggered into the building.

On the mat he found an envelope, with his name in Cassie’s handwriting. The sight had been enough to make him explode with drunken rage and misery, tearing it, tearing, tearing, tearing—until only shreds were left.

He’d left England next morning. At the airport he’d had a brief glimpse of Cassie, dressed up to the nines, in the company of a man who clearly had money coming out of his ears. That sight answered all his questions. He’d screamed abuse, and fled.

In Paris he’d taken refuge in his mother’s home, collapsing and letting her care for him. When he unpacked it was actually a surprise to discover that he’d brought Cassie’s letter, although in shreds. He had no memory of putting it into his bag.

Now was the time to destroy it finally, but he hesitated. Better to keep it, and read it one day, years ahead. When he was an old man, ruling a financial empire, with an expensive wife and a gang of children, then he would read the whore’s miserable excuses.

And laugh.

How he would laugh! He’d laugh as violently as he was weeping now.

When at last he could control his sobs he took the bits of paper to his room, stuffed them into an envelope and put it in a drawer by his bed. There it had stayed until he’d moved out. Then he’d hidden it away in the little attic, asking his mother to be sure never to touch his things.

As the years passed he’d sometimes thought of the day that would come when he could read her pathetic words and jeer at her memory. Now that day was here.

He worked feverishly, fixing the pieces together. But gradually his tension increased. Something was wrong. No, it was impossible. Be patient! It would come right.

But at last he could no longer delude himself. With every tiny wisp of paper scrutinised to no avail, with every last chance gone, he slammed his fist into the wall again and again.

When there was no word, and her calls went unanswered, Cassie came to a final reluctant decision. As she packed she chided herself for imagining that things could ever have been different. Her flesh was still warm from their encounters the night before, but she should never have fooled herself.

He was punishing her by abandoning her in the way he felt she’d abandoned him. The generous person he’d once been would never have taken such cruel, carefully thought out vengeance, but now he was a different man, one she didn’t know.

She called the airport and booked herself onto the evening flight to London. There! It was done.

‘You are leaving?’ asked Vera, who’d been listening.

‘Yes, I have to. Would you please give this to Marcel?’ She handed over a sealed envelope. Inside was a small piece of paper, on which she’d written: ‘It’s better this way. I’m sure you agree. Cassie.’

‘Can’t you wait just a little?’ Vera begged.

‘No, I’ve stayed too long already.’

Take-off was not for three hours but she felt an urgent need to get away at once. She took a taxi to the airport and sat, trying not to brood. She should never have come to this place, never dreamed that the terrible wrongs of the past could be put right. How triumphant he would feel, knowing his snub had driven her away! How glad he would be to be rid of her!

At last it was time to check in. She rose and joined the queue. She had almost reached the front when a yell rent the air.

‘Cassie!’

Everyone looked up to see the man standing at the top of a flight of stairs, but he saw none of them. His eyes were fixed only on her as he hurled himself down at breakneck speed and ran to her so fast that he had to seize her in order to steady himself.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded frantically.

‘I’m going home.’

‘You’re staying here.’

‘Let go of me.’

‘No!’ He was holding her in an unbreakable grip. ‘You can either agree to come back with me, or we can fight it out right here and now. Which?’

‘You’re impossible!’

‘It took you ten years to discover that? I thought you were clever. Yes or no?’ ‘All right—yes.’