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I’m leaving. She’d already gone.
I’m sorry. Sure she was.
So far, so familiar. But then Amanda’s note took an even worse turn that his mother’s had.
Thank you.
For what? He scrunched it in his fist. The sex?
And then he felt it. The bitterness burning his throat and nose. He raced to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water to keep the nausea down.
Rage rose in its place. The glass shattered as he hurled it into the sink. Not enough, the smash wasn’t loud enough, the destruction not big enough to slake his ravenous anger.
He gripped the edge of the cold steel bench, staring at the shards of glass, counting to keep control, waiting like rock for the need to lash out in savage violence to pass.
She’d left him.
She’d carved her name deep into his heart with the blunt edge of a dirty spoon and left the wound to fester. Poison flooded his veins and raced through every inch of his body. He turned, breathing hard, looked around his apartment—at the expensive furniture, the priceless art and the exquisite comfort. None of it mattered. He might as well be living under a bridge for all the happiness things brought. He had no peace. No satisfaction. No hope.
And whose fault was it?
His own. His rage turned inwards—on his thick-headed cowardice. He should have talked to her, should have told her what he’d been too scared to admit even to himself.
This unbearable pain was the flip side of love and he deserved the agony, didn’t he? For she was the only woman he’d loved, the only woman he would ever love. And he’d been too terrified to tell her.
Now he’d lost her. And he knew she wasn’t coming back.
He walked through the lounge, hating every inch of it—the rug they’d rolled on, the windows she’d strolled in front of. His eyes lifted, to the painting she’d so admired. His stomach cramped again. All pleasure was gone from it. No way was he looking at it for a minute longer—he’d sell it, give it away, anything, but it had to be gone.
He reached up with wide arms and lifted the thing from the wall. With the heavy load he turned; he’d put it face down on the table for now. But as he lowered it he exerted that touch too much pressure. It slid from him, falling fast, the canvas catching the corner of the coffee table. The rip was so quick he hardly heard it—but there it was, torn right through the middle.
He looked down at the thing of beauty he had just destroyed.
He was condemned.
Chapter Sixteen
AMANDA quickly walked to the entrance of the gallery, having checked everything she needed was in her bag. It was her fourth night out this week. But being busy didn’t make it better.
She’d left the ad agency—Bronwyn had said she was sorry to lose her, but Amanda knew it was for the best. If they were doing yet more work for Jared, there was no way she could be involved and it freed up funds in the agency for them to employ someone more experienced.
She’d found another job on Exclusively Auckland—the monthly style and society magazine that was produced by the newspaper company. She’d gone for an advertising spot but somehow ended up as copywriter—covering arts and events. Those few communications papers she’d tossed in with her degree had come in handy, as had her photography hobby. But what had swung it all together were her social skills—while she wasn’t a toff, she could fake it, converse politely with any of them. Funny how her time at Eastern Bay School for Girls had turned out to be one of her greatest assets.
And so in the last four weeks she’d attended every society event there was—exhibition openings, first performances, fundraisers, fashion launches, rugby matches and band debuts. And at each she’d talked to the VIPs, snapped the shots and written up the highlights. During the day she wrote fluffy advertorials on local fashion designers, artists and café owners.
She ran a hand down her little black dress, smoothing it. It was the second airing it had had this week. She’d had to become increasingly inventive with her accessories and combinations—but tonight she’d gone with pure simplicity.
Lifting her hand to check her hair, she caught the scent of the expensive perfume she’d sprayed on as she’d walked through a department store on the way. She patted the smooth French roll, satisfied it was neat—and practical as well.
The gallery owner smiled at her as she walked in. Already she was becoming known as ‘Amanda from the magazine’. She moved into action; she had a mental list of the ‘big guns’ due to attend—the soap stars, the politicians, and the businessmen whose pictures would help sell the copy. They all wanted their fifteen minutes—all happy to pose for a head-and-shoulders shot that would make it into the ‘been seen’ section.
