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Did he want his money back? It made no sense.
Her phone rang. She instinctively rose then she heard Lissy take it. She’d forgotten Lissy was even there. It brought her back to reality with a thud.
“I’d like you to leave, Stu. And this time please don’t ever come back.”
“But—”
“I’ll deal with this,” Saskia said, flicking at the corner of the business card.
“So that’s it? You’re not calling the cops?”
“You really think I would have strapped you to a chair?”
He glanced at the plump love seat behind her, and of everything he’d told her that day it was the only thing that made her smile. Despite all his nasty words, he actually thought her strong enough to take care of herself. From that moment on she was certain she’d never forget it either.
“Go,” she said, pointing at the door, “before I change my mind.”
He nodded. Smarter than she’d ever given him credit for. Then, as he made to move, he said, “You’re different. It suits you.”
“While you’re exactly the same.”
He took it as the insult it was meant to be, then walked out through her door. And this time she couldn’t have been happier to see him go.
On wobbly legs Saskia moved to the lounge and sat. Ernest uncurled himself from the bed and came over to rest his chin on her knees. She rubbed his soft wiry ears. “I know, boy. I know. But this is better. Beyond better.”
A minute later Saskia felt Lissy sink down on the chair beside her.
“You okay?”
Saskia lifted her head to look into her friend’s big worried eyes. “I’m fine. We’re both fine—aren’t we, Ernie? We’re survivors. We’ll be just fine.”
“Men suck,” said Lissy.
“Some,” Saskia said, as she rubbed noses with Ernest before he padded off to the kitchen in search of crumbs. “Some stick up for you when you least expect it. Who was on the phone?”
“Nate.”
Nate.
“I said you’d call him back.”
Saskia let out a long, slow breath. One man situation sorted; a whole other one to endure. She’d thought her relationship with Stu was complicated, but now it seemed two-dimensional and black-and-white compared with the situation with Nate.
When Saskia made to stand Lissy pressed her back to the couch. “Leave it for a bit. Catch your breath. Have a glass of wine. Hell, have a bottle. Nate can wait.”
“You know what?” Saskia said, standing. “I’m done waiting.”
She felt as if she’d been waiting her whole life for men to make up their damn minds. A little pressure here, a nudge or two there, giving them the time, the place, the opportunity, the incentive, the dossier with its encouraging white spaces, the yellow legal pad covered in blatant questions so that they’d open up to her, let her in, love her. And none of it had worked.
She tossed a jacket over her maxi-dress, pulled on the closest pair of shoes at hand, stuck a scarf round her neck and a hat on her head and grabbed her bag.
It was time she did this face-to-face, woman to man, to stop tiptoeing and just have it out.
* * *
Saskia worked her way through the maze of Nate’s home, up three stairs, turn right, down seven, split levels and closed doors, thinking how hard the guy made it to get into his home, much less his life.
Finally she was out in the wide open living area, all blonde wood trim and gunmetal-grey paint. The ceiling was all vicious angles and the place smelled of chopped wood and leather and a spice she couldn’t name. No warm-blooded human being would ever choose to live there. And yet Nate did.
She saw him in the kitchen, tasting something he was cooking on the stove. It stopped her short. He cooked? How had she not known he cooked? And it smelled...amazing. It smelled like the best of Mamma Rita’s.
But she was not to be deterred by the fact the man could cook...
When Saskia threw her bag—containing the legal pad and dossiers for incontrovertible proof should she need it—on the slab of rock that constituted his kitchen bench, Nate looked up.
“Men suck!”
He stood taller, wiping a towel across his mouth. “Why, thank you.”
“Bamford dumped Lissy, you know.”
“I didn’t, in fact.”
“Yet you don’t seem shocked. Why? Lissy rocks. He was lucky to know her, much less...the rest!”
“She does. He was. But you have to admit they were an unlikely couple.”
Unlikely? No more unlikely than a hippy statistics maven and the King of Collins Street. At that she began to pace.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, tilting his chin at a bottle of red wine. “Can I take your hat? Scarf? Jacket?”
