Monday she got through her show without anyone saying anything. Afterward she had an uncomfortable meeting with her producers where she was forced to tell them what had happened. They said all the right things, offered support and promised to talk to her should anything change, which was about the best she could hope for.
Rochelle did research on personal bodyguards, something Finola didn’t want to deal with but knew she had to consider, if the press got out of hand. She took the information and promised to contact one of the companies the second she felt threatened. Rochelle made it clear she thought Finola should have one on call before then, but Finola wasn’t ready to make the decision.
By three o’clock, she’d left the Burbank studio and was heading southwest toward Beverly Hills. She’d taken a second to log into Nigel’s work computer to check his surgery schedule. She didn’t know if he was back from his South American ski trip or if he hadn’t left yet and she didn’t care. All that mattered to her was the bastard was in town and she was going to confront him.
She left her car with the medical center’s valet and took the elevator up to Nigel’s plush offices, grateful there weren’t any photographers around. Apparently Nigel wasn’t stalk-worthy.
She’d looked up what kind of surgery he was doing that day and knew when it was going to be finished. The first thing Nigel always did after surgery was to go to his office and dictate his notes. He might be a shitty husband, but he was a good doctor, something that didn’t give Finola the least amount of comfort.
She breezed into the waiting area, waved at the perky receptionist and kept on walking. While she was fairly sure that everyone on staff knew about the affair, she was still his wife and there was no way they would try to keep her out. Not at first anyway. By the time they came up with a plan, she would be long gone.
She heard the receptionist scramble out of her seat, but ignored the movement and headed directly for Nigel’s corner office. She pushed on the partially open door and saw her husband at his desk, dictating into a small recorder. When he spotted her, he paused the recording. She closed the door and let the rage overtake her more sensible emotions. Power and strength would be required, she told herself. The next few minutes would be difficult but she was going to survive them.
“Finola, what are you doing here?” Nigel asked, coming to his feet. “I’m at work.”
His emphasis on the last word made her smile.
“Really, Nigel? Are you at work? Is this where you do your work things and have I violated that?” She waved her hand. “By the way, the office is lovely. The color scheme, the tasteful art. Hmm, who decorated this office for you? Your wife?”
“Stop it,” he growled. “What are you doing here? You can’t just waltz in here like this.”
“Your days of telling me what I can and cannot do are long over. At least I had the courtesy to wait until you were done with surgery for the day. I could have come early—shown up right before you had to do something important, but I wasn’t that much of an asshole. Only you are.”
“You’re comparing a television show with surgery?”
“I’m comparing work and what matters to each of us and being thoughtful and trusting the person we were married to. Things you’ve forgotten about.” Her anger grew and she reveled in the power. She took a step toward him. “The tabloids know. I was confronted by photographers yesterday. Word is out and it will be spreading. First you blindsided me on my show and now this. You’re a monster.”
She expected Nigel to push back. He surprised her by returning to his seat and waving her into the one opposite. She hesitated, then sat down.
“We need to talk about this reasonably,” he told her, obviously trying to keep his temper under control. “We are where we are.”
“That’s easy for you to say. We are where you put us. You’re not the one being chased by photographers.”
“Oh, please. As long as it helps the ratings of the show, what do you care?”
Tears burned, but she refused to show weakness. “Is that what you think?” she demanded. “That this is a game to me? You’re wrong. This is my life. Our life. You’re the one playing games, Nigel. You’re the one destroying everything we have.”
His gaze was steady. “I may be the one who cheated, but I’m not the only one who destroyed things. You had your part.”
“I’m not sleeping with Treasure.”
“I didn’t go looking,” he yelled. He lowered his voice. “I wasn’t searching for anything on the side. Yes, I was unhappy, but I lived with it. She’s the one who came on to me, and to be honest, it was nice to have the attention.”
“Nice to have the attention?” she shrieked, not caring who heard. “That’s how you excuse yourself?”
“I’m not excusing and I’m not apologizing. I’m telling you what happened. You can think what you want. You always do. Treasure was interested. She pursued me. She reminded me what it was like to feel young and vital and attractive to the woman in my life.”
“You’re blaming me? You’re saying I wasn’t doing things the way you wanted? You never once said you were unhappy. You never once asked for anything to be different. What exactly did I do wrong? Not read your mind? We had a good marriage. We cared about each other. We had plans.” They had been on the verge of getting pregnant, although he didn’t know that.
“This is not about me,” she told him.
He leaned back in his chair. “So I’m the bad guy here? You have no part in it? You’re not going to take even a little blame?”
“Why should I?”
“That’s an interesting question.” He pulled his cell phone out of his desk drawer and tossed it onto the desk. “Remember that time we accidentally synced up our calendars?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You unsynced with mine, but I was still connected with yours. I saw all your appointments. I figured out the code, Finola. I saw the little icon you use to remind yourself to have sex with me.”
She felt herself flush as she stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied. Shit. Shit. Shit!
He shook his head. “Don’t pretend. I can show you the calendar now, if you’d like.”
“I thought us having sex is a good thing.”
“It would be if you really wanted it. But you didn’t. You scheduled it like the dry cleaning. No one wants to be a chore.”
She remembered her father’s words that part of the breakup was her fault. She’d told him he was wrong, but listening to Nigel, she thought maybe, just maybe, he’d been partially right.
“It wasn’t like that,” she whispered. “It was never like that.” Only it had been exactly like that.
“I didn’t go looking for Treasure,” he repeated. “She came looking for me. I was flattered and lonely and maybe later I’ll regret it but right now she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t explain how I feel when I’m around her, but it’s like a drug.” He stood. “I didn’t mean to hurt you and I’m sorry about the tabloids, but I can’t undo either.”
And he didn’t want to, she thought. Or wouldn’t want to if the price was giving up Treasure. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. She knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking.
She looked at him. “It’s not going to last and then what? Do you expect me to take you back?” A question that presumed he wanted to come back in the first place.
“I guess we’ll have to see where it goes.”
“Just like that?” She stood. “You’re willing to risk everything?”
“For her? I am.”
* * *
Ali found herself scrambling to be ready for her Saturday move. There had been an unexpected work crisis in quality control on Thursday and Friday. Ali had gotten the first call from a disgruntled customer Thursday morning. It had taken her the better part of the morning to figure out what had gone wrong. Friday had been a series of meetings with lots of yelling. As Ali hadn’t been part of the mistake, she’d only had to listen, but the problem had sucked up any chance of leaving work early to get ready for the move.
She’d stayed up late Friday, organizing as much as she could. When she’d texted Daniel, he’d told her not to worry—the guys who were helping would finish the packing. All she’d needed to do was sort her belongings into two piles: the things she was storing in Daniel’s garage and the items she would want with her, conceivably for the next year.
She had gotten to bed shortly after midnight. Saturday morning she was up early to double-check her decisions and try to be awake enough to be both perky and collaborative as she finished packing up her bedroom. On a usual day neither feeling was especially hard to muster but for some reason and despite two cups of coffee, Ali couldn’t helping feeling a little...sad.
She supposed the reasons were obvious. She was leaving her apartment after living there for three years. Although moving had always been the plan, it was supposed to be because she was marrying Glen and taking the next step in their relationship. Instead she found herself forced out of her home and into a living situation that was admittedly lovely but not of her choosing. Okay, sure, technically she’d chosen to move in with Daniel, but only because she couldn’t afford a decent place of her own. She accepted the relationship with Glen was over, she just wished there weren’t daily reminders of how sucky things had gotten.