Convenience

Part 113

David considered pushing Beatrice to explain. His eyes narrowed in speculation as he trained his gaze on Beatrice. But one glance at the mutinous set of her lips and David knew that no more information would be forthcoming. And she was in bits. He knew that, he could see it in her eyes.

There was silence for several long seconds. Then Beatrice got to her feet. He looked startled. She was really leaving. He was already reeling from her previous statements. She was really leaving? He swallowed the lump in his throat and got to his feet.

"You can call me." Beatrice said without any inflection in her voice. She extended her arm. He narrowed his gaze but he shook her hand. She looked utterly untouchable, even if her voice sounded friendly. "Thank you for dinner." Beatrice smiled but misery and despondency flooded her eyes. Beatrice squared her shoulders, ran her tongue over her lips before looking him in the eye and said, "It was different!"

David stopped rehashing what had just transpired, because he couldn't figure it out. What the hell was that about? Obviously, he had done something! Again. But no point harping on about it, let alone spending time to figure it out. He narrowed his gaze and huffed in indignation and irritation, "You can call me, too." He was rapidly reaching the end of his patience.

Beatrice said without thinking, "Let me know when you have made your decision." She stifled the urge to burst into tears. No point keeping this door open. Unhappiness swamped her heart. She could hear her heartbreak, and she hoped that David hadn't heard it. Beatrice bobbed her head. "Or better still, call my lawyer." The wall went up and David couldn't read her. She glanced at her watch. Nearly midnight. Like Cinderella, running away from the ball. She said, "Goodnight." Turned and marched toward the door.

He stood there. Baffled. She had been holding her ground. But she was practically running.

Her words and actions replayed over and over in his head. What had just happened? He pinched his bridge of his nose. He huffed, added silently, "Now what?" His heart plummeted as she disappeared out of the room. Should he run after her? He wiped a hand down the front of his face and stayed there.

He rubbed the back of his neck, as if the tension that had crept into those tendons could be improved through a simple action. But he felt like a beached whale.

There was thunder and lightning in Auckland, on Saturday morning, like his mood. He hadn't slept well last night. She kept appearing in his dreams. He was tossing and turning for most of the night. A niggling thought in the back of his mind: Something was not quite right.

He closed his eyes and told his inner self to calm down. She was in Auckland. She will call. Probably.

So he started to work on some papers in his study, only to find that work eluded him. No concentration. He threw the papers down on the desk in utter disgust. He paced the room and tried to figure out why exactly he was so completely out of sorts. The fact she'd walked out? Again. Like five years ago. Or the fact that he knew he was in love with her. Somewhat glum he muttered to himself: Call her, speak to her, sort this out before this situation kills him. He stopped pacing. He dragged a hand out of his trouser pocket and ran it round the back of his neck. Now what? He thought.

His phone went constantly on Saturday, and every single time he expected it to be her.

Every time.

But six o'clock had come and gone, with not a word from her. Stubborn, he thought. A few minutes later, David figured Beatrice needed a touch more time to cool off. And he still needed a new plan. Probably better to leave her today, he was back to grumbling quietly. She was still at the hotel for the weekend. Feeling inordinately better, as he realized they would be seeing each other tomorrow. He picked up the papers and started to read them. He muttered to himself: If she thought they were done, she had better think again! He wanted to grind his teeth.

He had told her over and over that he wanted their relationship. He pursed his lips, counted to ten, banked his exasperation. Of course she knew that. He wanted to remain married to her. Her. His wife. He had told her. Over and over. He pulled himself up. She was worried about not having kids. But surely she would know there were lots of options: They could talk about kids. Lot of options. He was still mulling over their options. He was determined to explain his attitude about having kids. Of course they needed to talk.

But surely, she knew he had already made his decision; he wanted her. She knew that. Surely.