Clara Ampleforth loves what her life must look like from the outside. She loves the lingerie company she should already be in control of. She loves the engagement ring that sits on her finger, from a man who treats her like another piece of furnitur...
It took Clara roughly five minutes to decide that there was nowhere she'd less like to be than London, and roughly another ten minutes to book a flight to Geneva.
Her work phone hadn't gone off once after she left the office, despite the glare she'd given it the whole way. The taxi had rattled its way through the streets of South West London, the towers of Battersea Power Station never far from her shoulders as they inched through the traffic. Clara's leg bobbed away as she picked at her manicure, shredding red gel nail varnish in the back of the car like a sick sort of Christmas confetti. When the taxi finally pulled up at the mews house, her diamond ring even had flecks of red on it as she handed over a few notes to pay for the short journey.
Once she'd let herself in, Clara simply stood in the front door and let out all the air in her lungs, her head leaning back like it was going to fall off if she leaned any further back. Her mews house was cold, enough for her toes to curl slightly as they stepped out of her black stilettos and onto the slate floor. She flicked on the lights, and illuminated the kitchen - her coffee cup still sat on the marble worktop from where she'd left it this morning, red lipstick mark almost flaking off. She walked through the kitchen, barely a look at the dying roses sat on her coffee table, and padding up the staircase to her bedroom.
Her room was her escape - an unchanged fact since she was a child. Sometimes, it crossed her mind that an engaged woman probably should share at least a house with their fiancé; and almost definitely should share a bed with him. But there would be plenty of time for that, she rationalised. Clara and Henry had bought a house on The Boltons shortly after The Times had published their engagement announcement eighteen months ago, and work on it had been nearly nonstop. Once they were back from their honeymoon, they would be moving into their matrimonial home and her little mews house would collect dust, most likely. Well, that or Henry would use it to sleep with whatever girl he brought home from the office.
No-one's relationship was perfect. No-one had that fairytale look in their eye when they discussed love. No-one had any fucking place questioning if Henry loved her: not even her own subconscious.
Clara's room was cold, like the rest of her home and she pulled her suitcase from its place under her bed. She could wait here, and wait for the inevitable rejection message from her mother - or she could wait in the First Class Lounge at Heathrow, glass of champagne half empty. She'd had to turn down the girly skiing holiday for the board meeting, but showing up at Val d'Isere now with a face like a slapped arse would hardly do much for her flourishing career that the other girls barely took seriously as it was. No, she needed to go elsewhere. On her own.
Courcheval was the next best place to ski, and dead at this time of year - at least from the people she was worried about. Everyone would be off to the hotter climates following the New Year, and there wouldn't be a sniff of society at the slopes. Lovely. She could have a drink, ski to her heart's content - maybe get a dinner or two paid for. Play Henry's game. It was all fair, as long as she went home to her own bed at the end of these things. Which she would. As modern as she was, she'd only slept with Henry - and even then she'd been let down.
Ticket booked (on the Maxwell Company Card, cheers Mum), bag packed, taxi waiting - it was only once she had locked up the house and was weaving her way back through the darkening house that she checked her phone to see a text message.
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