So much for thinking she didn’t want him. Didn’t need him. She felt as if she’d suddenly lost a vital organ. She shouldn’t have shut the door on him. She should have taken what she thought he might have been offering: the chance to resume their relationship and get back to the hot sex.
So why hadn’t she? Why had no-strings-attached sex suddenly seemed so meaningless? When had it become not enough?
Over the course of the weekend Phoebe drove herself slowly mental with self-analysis and self recrimination. Tormenting herself with those annoying ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s.
By Sunday evening she was in such a state that she had no idea why or how she ended up standing on the doorstep of her parents’ house. All she knew was that she was climbing the walls of her own place and she had nowhere else to go.
Her mother opened the door, her father standing just behind her, and for a second they both stared at her in surprise. ‘Phoebe?’ said her mother, recovering first and peering at her closely. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ Phoebe said, then promptly burst into tears.
Unable to stop the torrent that streamed down her cheeks and the racking sobs that shook her body, Phoebe let herself be pulled into the house and ushered into the kitchen. In the midst of her misery, she felt her mother gently push her down into a chair and wait while she bawled her eyes out.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said with a watery smile once she’d cried herself out and could actually find her voice. ‘Where did Dad go?’
‘His study. Tears aren’t really his thing.’
‘Nor yours.’ She pulled a string of tissues out of the box her mother had thrust in front of her.
Her mother frowned. ‘Well, no. But I’ve never seen you cry. Not even when you fell out of that tree. I was worried.’
Worried? Phoebe hiccupped and blew her nose. Her eyes stung and her throat was raw. ‘I don’t really know why I’m here,’ she said hoarsely.
Her mother sat down on the opposite side of the kitchen table. ‘Phoebe, I know I’m not the most…demonstrative…of mothers, but if you tell me what’s wrong, I might be able to help.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘Is it work?’
‘No. Work’s fine.’
‘Is it a man?’
‘Yes. No.’ She wailed in frustration and dropped her head on the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know.’
‘The man in the magazine?’
Her head shot up. ‘Don’t tell me you saw that as well?’
‘Your sister told me I might like to see a copy. Especially since I’d introduced you to him at our party.’
Phoebe groaned and buried her face in her hands. ‘I met him before that. I work with his sister.’
‘Is she in venture capital too?’
She glanced up and couldn’t help smiling at the hope in her mother’s voice. ‘I’m afraid she designs handbags.’
‘Oh well, never mind. Is any of the article true?’
‘Some. Mum, what do I do? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m a wreck and I’m worried it’s going to affect my work.’
‘I can’t pretend to understand PR, and you know it’s not what we’d have chosen for you, but we brought you up to have belief in yourself. That whatever course of action you take, you have the confidence that it’s the right one because you’ve given it thought. Weighed up the pros and cons.’
How could she weigh up any pros or cons when she didn’t have a clue about anything?
‘I’m very proud of everything you’ve achieved, you know.’
‘Really?’ she sniffed.