him – some ageing tycoon she’d met in Sardinia some years earlier.
Probably whilst she was with me, Greg had thought, remembering what she’d written to him in her goodbye note.
He’d first encountered Nina at the age of twenty at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Tall and slim, with hair the colour of rich coffee beans tumbling to her waist, the elegant nineteen-year-old standing before him had seemed so sophisticated, that when she’d agreed to go out for a drink with him, he’d almost punched the air and done a side-kick.
Within four years they were engaged and living together. Whilst Greg gradually charmed the bosses with his sales technique, Nina bagged herself a prime job in marketing. They were earning more money than most people their age could dream of, until Nina’s obsession with status had intervened.
Influenced by the city crowd, it peeved her that they couldn’t stretch to a townhouse like two of their friends owned and she started questioning Greg’s ambition.
Blinded by love, he assumed that once they were married and had kids, she’d settle down a bit, but the wedding plans seemed to be wedged in reverse. What was the rush? Nina would whine. They were only in their twenties.
When it hit Greg that, actually, Nina didn’t even like children, let alone want them, it was too late. Rather than lose her, though, he’d convinced himself that being a father wasn’t that important. As long as he had his Nina, he could live with it, couldn’t he?
Which he did.
Until one day, almost ten years after they’d first met, she’d dumped him, informing him via a Dear John style letter that she’d moved out and that he could keep the flat because she wouldn’t need any money. Greg had drunkenly stumbled through Christmas and New Year, then spent most of the following year shackled to his desk at Rutland Finance. Women had come and gone, invariably one night stands, until he’d met Rebecca at Butlins. He’d only gone there to duck out of attending his cousin’s wedding.
Next to Nina, she’d seemed almost saintly. Instead of fielding temper tantrums, Greg had been smothered in love. Uplifted by Rebecca’s support and compassion, especially before their relationship had fully blossomed, he’d seen her as the model wife. She was someone who’d back his enterprise and, unlike Nina, someone young enough for him to influence. He’d be the boss for sure this time, he’d thought.
No sweat.
Greg closed down the spreadsheet. Tomorrow would be the first time he’d have to socialise with Nina since they’d parted. Although obtaining the contracts for Rutland was his first priority, he was also fired up at the thought of diplomatically rubbing her nose in his accomplishments, so much so that he couldn’t concentrate properly. The way she’d flaunted her business card at him at that Bristol seminar grated on him even now, yet there it sat, languishing, in the glove compartment of his Lexus.
Still, however many reasons and reminders he fed himself to fully milk his moment of glory, Greg couldn’t deny that his overriding feeling regarding seeing Nina the following day was excitement.
‘Sod it,’ he said aloud, opening the pathetically stocked mini bar. ‘I need a whisky.’
Lager, not whisky, was what Nick Jordan had been drinking over three thousand miles away in Fuengirola. Copious amounts of it, too, hence him lying half-naked on his bed in a white-walled apartment, grumbling and groaning.
He eased himself into a sitting position and was about to let rip, when his best mate Deano popped his head round the door.
‘Oh, you’re up then?’
‘Why? What time is it?’ Nick rasped, grabbing his packet of Marlboros off the bedside table.
‘Half ten,’ said Deano, coming further into the room.
‘What? At
night
?’ Nick’s brain engaged before his legs did. ‘Why didn’t you wake me, man? I need to call Abi.’
‘Relax. You sent her a text, remember? Now shift your arse, or the
Probably whilst she was with me, Greg had thought, remembering what she’d written to him in her goodbye note.
He’d first encountered Nina at the age of twenty at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Tall and slim, with hair the colour of rich coffee beans tumbling to her waist, the elegant nineteen-year-old standing before him had seemed so sophisticated, that when she’d agreed to go out for a drink with him, he’d almost punched the air and done a side-kick.
Within four years they were engaged and living together. Whilst Greg gradually charmed the bosses with his sales technique, Nina bagged herself a prime job in marketing. They were earning more money than most people their age could dream of, until Nina’s obsession with status had intervened.
Influenced by the city crowd, it peeved her that they couldn’t stretch to a townhouse like two of their friends owned and she started questioning Greg’s ambition.
Blinded by love, he assumed that once they were married and had kids, she’d settle down a bit, but the wedding plans seemed to be wedged in reverse. What was the rush? Nina would whine. They were only in their twenties.
When it hit Greg that, actually, Nina didn’t even like children, let alone want them, it was too late. Rather than lose her, though, he’d convinced himself that being a father wasn’t that important. As long as he had his Nina, he could live with it, couldn’t he?
Which he did.
Until one day, almost ten years after they’d first met, she’d dumped him, informing him via a Dear John style letter that she’d moved out and that he could keep the flat because she wouldn’t need any money. Greg had drunkenly stumbled through Christmas and New Year, then spent most of the following year shackled to his desk at Rutland Finance. Women had come and gone, invariably one night stands, until he’d met Rebecca at Butlins. He’d only gone there to duck out of attending his cousin’s wedding.
Next to Nina, she’d seemed almost saintly. Instead of fielding temper tantrums, Greg had been smothered in love. Uplifted by Rebecca’s support and compassion, especially before their relationship had fully blossomed, he’d seen her as the model wife. She was someone who’d back his enterprise and, unlike Nina, someone young enough for him to influence. He’d be the boss for sure this time, he’d thought.
No sweat.
Greg closed down the spreadsheet. Tomorrow would be the first time he’d have to socialise with Nina since they’d parted. Although obtaining the contracts for Rutland was his first priority, he was also fired up at the thought of diplomatically rubbing her nose in his accomplishments, so much so that he couldn’t concentrate properly. The way she’d flaunted her business card at him at that Bristol seminar grated on him even now, yet there it sat, languishing, in the glove compartment of his Lexus.
Still, however many reasons and reminders he fed himself to fully milk his moment of glory, Greg couldn’t deny that his overriding feeling regarding seeing Nina the following day was excitement.
‘Sod it,’ he said aloud, opening the pathetically stocked mini bar. ‘I need a whisky.’
Lager, not whisky, was what Nick Jordan had been drinking over three thousand miles away in Fuengirola. Copious amounts of it, too, hence him lying half-naked on his bed in a white-walled apartment, grumbling and groaning.
He eased himself into a sitting position and was about to let rip, when his best mate Deano popped his head round the door.
‘Oh, you’re up then?’
‘Why? What time is it?’ Nick rasped, grabbing his packet of Marlboros off the bedside table.
‘Half ten,’ said Deano, coming further into the room.
‘What? At
night
?’ Nick’s brain engaged before his legs did. ‘Why didn’t you wake me, man? I need to call Abi.’
‘Relax. You sent her a text, remember? Now shift your arse, or the
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