“When you went away a couple of weeks ago by yourself, didn’t you feel lonely?”
“Lonely?” Tracy raised an eyebrow. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” Jeff moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her. “Maybe you missed me.”
“It was only one night, darling.”
“I missed you.” He ran a hand down her bare back before slipping it beneath the elastic of her Elle Macpherson panties. “I still miss you, Tracy.”
“What do you mean?” Tracy laughed, wriggling away from his hand. “You have me. I’m right here.”
Are you? thought Jeff.
Tracy turned out the light.
Whereas before, work had been a welcome respite from the emotional tension at home, now Jeff felt almost as ill at ease with Rebecca as he did with Tracy. He’d promised not to shoot the messenger. And yet on some, unconscious level, he realized he was angry with the beautiful young intern. Rebecca was wrong about Tracy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet she’d sown a seed of doubt in Jeff’s heart that refused to die. Well meaning or not, in one fell swoop Rebecca had shattered his equilibrium, leaving him feeling awkward and out of place at the British Museum as well as at Eaton Square.
One rainy morning, Jeff arrived at their joint office dripping wet—he’d forgotten his umbrella and couldn’t face going back home to retrieve it—to find Rebecca packing up her things.
“What’s going on?”
Stuffing the last of her books into a cardboard box, Rebecca handed him a stiff white envelope. She forced herself to smile.
“No hard feelings, boss. I’ve had an incredible time working with you. But we both know we can’t go on like this.”
“Go on like what?” said Jeff. Irrationally, he found he felt even angrier than usual. “You’re resigning?”
“I’m leaving,” said Rebecca. “I believe it’s only called resigning if you get paid.”
“Because of me?” For the first time, Jeff felt a stab of guilt.
“I think you’re amazing,” said Rebecca. To Jeff’s astonishment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, just once, on the lips. The kiss wasn’t long but it was heartfelt. Jeff was embarrassed by how instantly aroused it made him.
“Look . . .” he began.
Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t. Please.” She handed him an unmarked disk. “Watch this, after I’m gone. If you ever want to talk, you have my numbers.”
Jeff took the disk and the letter, staring at them both dumbly. It was a lot to take in at nine o’clock in the morning. Before he’d recovered enough to say anything, Rebecca was gone.
Depressed and exhausted suddenly, he sank down into his chair. Outside, the rain was still beating down relentlessly. The splatter of droplets on the tiny single window above his desk sounded like a hail of bullets.
What’s happened to my life? Jeff thought miserably. I feel like I’m under attack.
Switching on his computer, he slipped the disk inside.
Within ten minutes, he’d watched the footage five times. Then he read Rebecca’s letter.
He stood up, his feet unsteady beneath him, and opened the office door. He started walking down the corridor. After a few seconds he broke into a jog, then a run. The elevators took forever, so he bounded down the south stairs, two at a time.
“Did you see Rebecca Mortimer?”
The girl at the front desk looked startled.
“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Is everything all right? You look—”
“Rebecca!” Jeff panted. “Did you see her leave the building?”
“Yes. She was saying good-bye to some of the staff in the café, but she just left. I think she was heading toward the tube on . . .”