Sipping at his drink, he concentrated on watching Barcelona demolish Celta Viga. There were some good goals to enjoy and ordinarily he would have been cheering his home team on. Football. His guilty pleasure.
Tonight, though, he was distracted. Something in his trouser pocket was digging into the top of his thigh. He should pick it out.
Instead, he waited for the adverts to finish, swallowed his drink and poured himself another.
The damn thing still dug into him.
With a grimace, he shoved his hand into the pocket and fished the small square box out. Without looking at it, he stuck it on the bar and shoved it away from him. He heard it slide across the marble.
Another game had started. He had no idea which teams were playing.
His eyes kept flitting to the box, still in its wrapping paper. It had landed right at the edge of the bar, part of it overhanging.
When he next picked up his glass his hand had gone clammy. All his skin had dampened, as if he’d caught a fever of the flesh his brain hadn’t registered. Just as he thought it, his forehead began to burn and pound and his stomach contracted.
I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.
But he hadn’t eaten. Charley had wanted to leave before they’d really started on their first course.
Charley...
He was off the stool and reaching for the box before he could stop himself. Feeling as if his heart could burst through his ribcage, he ripped the wrapping paper off and popped the lid open.
For a moment he couldn’t see for the film that had formed over his eyes. He blinked it away and stared at the contents of the box. The longer he stared, the greater the nausea formed inside him until he could bear it no more and, using all his strength, threw the box at the optics behind the bar, hitting the vodka, the power behind the throw enough to smash the bottle.
He laughed as the smell of alcohol immediately filled the space, was still laughing when he swallowed his Gin de Mahón in one and threw the empty glass at the bottle of single malt whisky. Only the glass smashed.
The laughter died as quickly as it had formed as he surveyed the shattered glass around him.
He couldn’t make her happy.
All his attempts to protect her had backfired. He’d suffocated her.
All Charley saw when she reflected on their marriage was unobtainable levels of perfection she didn’t believe she could reach. Just as he’d always known he would never be able to reach the levels of perfection his own father had demanded of him.
He clutched at his hair so tightly small strands were locked between his fingers when he pulled them away.
Had he really become his father?
All he’d wanted was to please her and make her happy but all he’d done was drive her away just as his own father had driven him away.
The happy ending he’d envisaged for them and had dared hope could be a reality had been cut out from beneath him.
He couldn’t make her happy. She didn’t want for ever with him.
Holding onto the bar to steady himself, he breathed deeply.
It would pass, he told himself. It had passed last time, it would pass again.
But the pain...
It was intolerable.
The shattered glass was nothing compared to the shattered mess that was his heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHARLEY FLOPPED ONTO her sofa and buried her face in her hands.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt so exhausted. It wasn’t even as if she’d had a particularly busy day. She’d worked at Poco Rio but it hadn’t been strenuous, not like some days there could be. She’d then had dinner at her mum’s house as her grandma’s hip was much improved. They’d had a microwave meal for two, just like the old days.
She should be happy. She had a roof above her head, food in her belly, her mum back on her doorstep and the new centre was progressing nicely, the fundraising cruise was days away...
Oh, but she was going to have to see Raul.
She’d debated not attending, but when she’d told Ava she thought she should stay away Ava had clearly ratted her out to the boss because she’d received a terse email from Raul saying that if she didn’t attend he would call the whole thing off.
The email had ended with a postscript: Charley, this is a result of your hard work. Enjoy it, please—you’ve earned it.
His words had played in her mind since she’d received them.
He’d addressed her as Charley.
He’d also called her that from his car.
Oh, but she missed him, a pain like nothing she’d experienced before, not even when their marriage had fallen apart the first time.
She’d spent over two months practically glued to his side. In that time they’d spent only two nights apart, when he’d travelled to Brazil. Right before she’d left him a second time...