The Subtle Art of Love and War 3

Chapter 8: You Married The Devil

I missed my fucking flight!

What the bloody-fucking hell, my head hurts like a motherfucker!

Technically, I didn't miss my flight. The jet's still here waiting for me, innit? But we were supposed to leave six fucking hours ago. It's three in the afternoon and I'd be lucky if my pilot can get us scheduled to depart in an hour. I'm looking at arriving in Paris before nightfall, not nearly what I had planned for when I told Jo I'd be joining her for our day. Thus, I am also looking at possibly arriving to a very pissed off wife.

I woke up with a massive headache and to my phone vibrating like crazy. When I grabbed it and saw the time, I panicked, jumped and tripped on the floor and now I have a throbbing and bloodied gash on my forehead and driving like a madman towards Heathrow. I had six missed calls from Josephine and that's it; when I tried to call her whilst pulling a pair of trousers on back at the garage, I was immediately redirected to her voicemail. Guess she isn't having any of my bullshit today.

"We depart at five, Mr. Tiffin," one of my cabin crews informs me the moment I step up to the jet.

"Brilliant," I sarcastically remark as I plop onto the nearest seat and take out my phone, opening the messaging app.

To Josephine: Baby, I'm sorry. I'll be there before dinner.

Minutes pass and still there's nothing.

I toss the phone on the table in front of me and ask for a bottle of water and first aid kit whilst I wait for the plane to take off.

*****

The hotel is pretty much done by the looks of it as I step through the front entrance. The floors, walls and bannisters are all polished and shiny. Potted plants, couches, chairs and lounges are strategically placed throughout the main lobby. The concierge, back office and front desk are already equipped with intercoms and computers. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the lobby but as of the moment, it isn't lit. Actually, there is minimal lighting around.

Penelope, Jo's London hotel branch manager, lets me in and shows me up to the penthouse using a key card for the lift. This will be exclusively for mine and Jo's use. She hands me the card and I thank her before she bids me goodnight and locks up after herself.

The lift opens up directly to the penthouse's foyer and down the short hall is the living, kitchen and dining areas which is basically one huge open space to the left and to the right are two bedrooms and the en-suite in the middle. The smell of cooked dinner comes from the oven and two dinner sets are on the dining table with fresh flowers in the middle but other than that, there's nothing. I don't see Jo anywhere.

The quiet stillness amplifies the thumping of my heart against my chest and the pulse in my neck. I'm a grown ass man who's actually scared of my wife's wrath at the moment. "Jo? Baby, I'm here," I call out after scanning the place.

"In the bathroom," I hear her muffled voice coming from my right.

I drop my bag on a chair and walk to the bathroom door where I now hear a soft melody is playing. Twisting the knob, I push the door to reveal a spa-like bathroom in white, black and green-white subway tiles, black ceiling and black tiled floor, matte black shower and faucets, and indoor potted plants on a shelf and at one corner.

Jo is in the bathtub, her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head and the wide glass window beside her showcases a magnificent sparkling view of the Eiffel Tower. Some delicate tendrils are pasted to the sides of her face and the column of her neck. On the floor is an ice bucket with a champagne bottle chilling inside it and two tall flutes that are both half filled with bubblies.