The Architect (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Saturday morning and no word from Heath. Taking my seat behind reception, I turn and scowl at Liz.

She looks me up and down. “What's the matter with you?”

“You know very well what the matter is.” I pause and wait for her to say something, but she looks at me blankly. “Red dress,” I add.

“Oh. So, how did it go?” she deflects.

“Are you serious? It went tits up.”

“How come?”

“Well, because someone sent a secret text from
my
phone.”

“Oh yeah, about that, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to go and have a nice time, and I thought you would see the text, but when you didn't look at your phone when you came back from talking to Dr. Wood, I just...” She stops and deals with a woman over the other side of the desk, then continues, “I just wanted you to go and have some fun, that's all. And anyway, how did it go tits up?”

“Because I went in black.”

“Well, I told you about a million times to wear a red dress.”

“Yes, I know, Liz, but I thought it might have meant something, so I opted for black. Then when I got there, my date was standing with a woman in a red dress, and she was all over him. He only approached her because
you
told him that I would be in red.” I pause for thought. “Anyway, I didn't like the club, and we had much more fun back at mine.” A smile lifts my lips.

“Oh, I bet you did.” She reaches out and grabs her mug. Cupping it with both hands and blowing onto her tea, she smiles. “See, it all worked out in the end.”

“Yeah, yeah, but it could have ended very badly,” I say, before giving her a blow-by-blow account of what happened in the club and telling her about George. Before I even finish pronouncing his surname, she cuts me off.

“Stay away from that guy, Ruth. I've heard some awful things about him.”

Shocked and intrigued, I ask, “What?”

“I wouldn't like to say, in case it isn't all true. But promise you will stay away from him.” She nods in hope that I will agree with her plea.

“I only met him last night, and I'm not going back, so I doubt I'll ever see him again.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I nod and agree to stay away.

She's quiet for the rest of the day, and I can't help but feel like I've pissed her off by mentioning George.

Checking my phone as I log off, I'm crushed to see no word from Heath still, but I shake it off and head out to the car park with Liz.

“I'm sorry about sending that text, Ruth. Really.”

“It's fine.” I put my hand out and rub her arm. “Honestly.”

She smiles reluctantly, before reminding me of her warning.

Telling her that she has nothing to worry about, I say goodbye and head to my car.

Turning the ignition on, my ears are met by Dinah Krall's
Temptation
, and I'm right back there, sitting in that bar with Heath at my side, tapping. My heart flutters, and I long for him again, for his touch, his words, his smell, his smile, or even just to see his car drive by.
It's time to admit it, Ruth, you're head over heels in love with this man.
I grab my phone and compose a text.

Heath, I'm not sure how to put this but, well...

I delete and start again.

Heath, I'm in love with you...

I delete again. Maybe it's best coming from a phone call. Texting just seems to lose all meaning sometimes, and he might read me wrong. At least if I was on the phone and he could hear my voice, he would hear how I truly felt. I search for his name and hover my thumb over the telephone symbol until my phone buzzes and I exit the screen to see a new email. Touching on the envelope icon, I open the mail from the unfamiliar address.

Ruth,

Where did you vanish to last night? I was disappointed that I didn't get to have my kinky way with you. I'd like to see you again. When will you next be visiting my club?

George.

P.S. If you're wondering how I got your email address, don't forget I own the club that you registered at ;)

Studying the words slowly, my frown becomes deeper and deeper with every word.
The cheek of the guy! This is an invasion of privacy, even if he does own the club. Thank God I didn't give my real number or address
.

I think better of replying and giving him a mouthful; instead I remember Liz's request and delete the message.

Putting Mr. Stalker to the back of my mind, I focus on Heath's number once more. After several minutes I finally pluck up the courage and press the phone icon. The phone rings and I strain my ear in hope that I will hear his well-spoken, deep voice. Yet at the same time I hope to hear nothing. His voice fills my head, and my heart thuds until I realise it's his voicemail, and he's asking me to leave a message.

The tone beeps before I have time to think, so I hang up. Putting my phone on the passenger seat, I start my engine and journey home, fantasising about Heath and this new dark and exciting side of sex he is slowly introducing me to.

Stepping into the sanctuary that I call home, I scoop up the post and plod along to the kitchen. Slamming the mail down onto my desert island in annoyance at the fact that Heath still hasn't contacted me, I recognise the handwriting on one of the letters.

Why would she be writing to me? Because it's Dad's anniversary tomorrow?
Sliding my nail along the glued edge of the envelope, I read;

Ruth,

I am writing to inform you of my marriage this August. I would like you and Sally to be here. After all, we were a family for years and it wouldn't feel the same without you here for my big day. Please RSVP so I can send you a formal invitation, or feel free to call in.

All the best,

Veronica.

My blood boils with hatred as I rip the paper in half. My eyes fill with tears at the remembrance of my dad and all the torture she put him through. All the pain she caused for us all with her demanding ways, her hatred towards me and Sally, and then the final nail in the coffin when she had an affair with one of my dad's friends.

I'm interrupted from my cursing as my mobile starts to ring, and I answer with a snuffled, “Hello?”

“Hello, gorgeous, how are you today?”

His voice is so calm and trustworthy. I burst into tears.

“Are you okay, darling?”

I wipe my eyes with a tea towel and sniff. “No, not really.”

“What's happened? Are you hurt?”

“It's a long story.”

“Well, I've got all the time in the world.”

Sitting down, I take a deep breath before saying, “It's the anniversary of my father's death tomorrow.”

His voice softens. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“That's not all. I've just received a wedding invitation to my stepmother's wedding this summer.”

“Well, never mind about her. What are you doing tomorrow? Will you be alone?”

My voice harshens. “Never mind about her? She's the reason my dad is dead!”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I think before I speak another word, and decide to open up and tell him all. “She had an affair with some rich guy that my dad knew, and well, my dad found out and he...” Tears build in my eyes again. “He hung himself.”

The air fills with my sniffles and blubbering for a few seconds before he responds with, “I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything. It's just good to finally say it out loud to someone.”

“Can I give you some advice?” he asks, cautiously.

“Of course.”

“Go and see your stepmother, if only to tell her what you really think of her.”

“Why?”

He breathes out. “Because it will make you feel better, and maybe help to put some sort of closure on it.”

Is he speaking from experience? Or is he just throwing ideas out there to make me feel better? Either way, I don't have the energy to question him about it now.

“I have thought about it before. About going to see her and telling her how I feel. Maybe you're right, maybe I should.”

“Maybe.”

Car horns beeping from his end of the telephone and people chatting prompt me to ask where he is.

“Oh yes, that's the reason I called. I'm on my way up to Scotland. Something has gone wrong with some plans, so I've had to start making my way up there to sort it out with them face to face.”

My heart sinks. “Oh.”

“I was ringing to tell you, and to ask if you would like to come up and spend the week with me. I was going to call sooner and have you travel with me, but I figured you would need to pack half of your wardrobe, so I decided to give you the luxury of time and preparation.”

Without hesitation, I reply, “I'd love to.” Then reality kicks in. “But I've got work.”

“Don't you have any holiday you can take?”

“I do, but they won't accept it before Monday.”

He pleads, “Then call in sick. I need you with me.”

My feelings lift again as they always do when he's around. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Okay, darling. I've got to get back on the road now, so I'll ring you when I get there. And listen, tomorrow I am here whenever you need to talk, okay?”

I smile. “Okay, thank you.”

“Goodbye, gorgeous.”

“Goodbye, Heath.”

A beep signals the end of our call, and I sit and stare at my phone, wishing he was here to throw his muscly arms around me and hold me close until tomorrow was over. But he's not, so a drink at my favourite bar will have to do for tonight.

I wait for a reasonable drinking hour and order a taxi to take me to ‘Long John's'.

***

At the bar with brandy in hand, I sit and listen to the mellow noises of the saxophone while practising my script for tomorrow when I knock on Veronica's door and give her what for. Going to see her is the best thing to do. I can't live with this woman forever eating away at me; she needs to hear it, and be put in her place once and for all.

I get another email from George while I'm sitting here minding my own business, imagining that I'm giving her a good old slap. This time telling me how he can't get me and my beauty out of his head, and he wants to meet me again, soon.

Is he serious?
We spoke for all of three minutes. Ignoring his words once again, I down my drink, order another, and carry on acting out the scene with my stepmother in my head.

A couple of hours, and half a dozen drinks later, I'm still debating what to say to her, and waiting for Heath to call. Not being able to resist temptation any more, I dial his number.

He answers almost immediately. “Hello, beautiful.”

Half-sloshed, I reply, “Why didn't you call me?”

“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice an octave higher.

“No, just merry.” I pause before inquiring again, “So, why didn't you call me?”

“As soon as I got here I was collared by an old friend. I was going to ring the second I was sorted, but I haven't had a moment to myself yet. I'm sorry, darling.”

Friend? What friend?
My jealous emotions race through my mind.
A woman? A colleague?
With confidence brought on by alcohol consumption, I come right out and ask, “Who's this friend, then?”

He's silent.

“Oh my God, you're married, aren't you?”

“No,” he replies, sounding amused. “It's just a woman I became acquainted with the last time I stayed up here.”

“Acquainted.” I laugh bitterly. “And how exactly is it that you two are ‘acquainted'?”

His voice turns stern. “Stop it, Ruth.”

“No.” I lean on the bar. “Do tell.”

He huffs. “We went out a few times the last time I was here and we-”

I cut him off angrily. “Shag her on the first night too, did you?”

“Ruth!” he snaps. “I'm not prepared to talk about these sorts of things when you're pissed.”

“I told you I'm not! And how am I meant to feel about-” I stop midsentence as I hear a woman's voice calling him.

“Look, Ruth, I've got to go. Please trust me, there is nothing going on between us. It's just business.”

“Yeah, what kind of business?” I say sarcastically, before hanging up on him.

Leaning on the counter, seething, becoming angrier with every second that he doesn't text or attempt to call me, I decide in my jealous rage to email George back.

George,

I find it an invasion of privacy that you have done such a thing as to steal my email address. However, I will let you off this time. And as for you missing me and my beauty, tell me more.

Ruth.

By the time I've ordered another brandy and taken my first sip, he has responded with;

Ruth,

I can't say I am sorry for invading your privacy. It had to be done. But I am sorry I haven't invaded it further. And as for your beauty... Maybe we could meet and I could tell you of these things face to face. How does tomorrow night sound?

George.

With my jealousy still bubbling away at me, I reply with;

Tomorrow night sounds good. Where and what time?

His reply is a request to pick me up at eight and take me to an Italian restaurant in the heart of London.

Shooting the rest of the Cognac down my throat, I stupidly email him with my true address and tell him I can't wait, before ordering a taxi and heading home to sleep off the alcohol.

On the whirling drive back my mobile rings.
Oh, look who's finally decided to call and say sorry.

I let the phone ring a while before greeting him with, “Yes?”

“Why did you hang up on me?” he growls.