how I’d cope, seeing him without wanting, longing.… No, I wasn’t going down that road, especially not with him standing there looking as if he might actually be hurt and he might actually care. Lewis didn’t do caring. ‘At least we’re spared making some story up for the press,’ I said, and I managed to keep my lady-of-the-manor voice. ‘It will be all over the papers tomorrow.’
‘So that’s it,’ he said.
There
was
hurt in his eyes.
Pride
, I told myself. ‘That’s it,’ I said.
‘You’re not even prepared to—to negotiate?’
‘On what?’ I sounded bitter now, but you see, I was only just beginning to realise what I was wilfully destroying. I was so tempted just to back down, but if I did—no. Every day what I felt would get stronger and stronger. What I felt now was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to what I could feel if I let myself, and there was absolutely no way that I was going to let myself, because how can you possibly love a man who refuses to love you back? So it’s best to strangle what you’re feeling at birth. Of course, I didn’t realise you couldn’t do that.
‘Negotiate on what?’ I demanded again, because he hadn’t said a thing. ‘What is there to negotiate, Lewis?’ I glared at him, God help me, hoping that maybe there was something after all. If he’d just give me a sign that he cared a little bit for me, and then I realised what I was thinking, and I got so mad at myself, and still he didn’t say a thing, only he kept looking at me, so hurt, though why I had no idea, and that made me even more angry. ‘Nothing,’ I said to him. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t even know why you think there could be. We’re the same, you and I. We’re both too damn scared to let anyone in, and we’d rather be lonely than hurt, and that’s what they call the bottom line. The thing is, Lewis, I know why I’m the way I am. I wonder, though, what’s your excuse?’
Chapter Six
Lewis
Screwed-up. Poppy was screwed-up. I was screwed-up. We were both screwed-up. I was so mad, that was all I could think about for the rest of the day. I wished I drank strong liquor. Instead, I went into my office and locked the door and stayed there until everyone else had left the lot. Boy, was I mad. Too mad to even begin to untangle the mess of who had said what and what it all meant. It was all wrapped up in a great big solid knot of accusations and half-truths and downright lies.
My instincts were to go to the contracts, because work was what mattered, wasn’t it? Forget what can’t be fixed, just work with what you have. When something was broken—but when something was broken, it was usually because I’d broken it. Never, not since the war, had I let anyone or anything get in the way of my determination to get to the top, to do things my way. And never, ever had I allowed myself to feel as though the world was tilting, tipping, going into a black hole and taking me with it.
See, there’s a reason I never think of the war—and that’s the reason. But suddenly I couldn’t help thinking, and I truly wished I drank then. I don’t mean recreationally. I mean like Fitzgerald does. Didn’t I tell you I understood him? It was Poppy’s fault.
What’s your excuse?
I sat at my big mahogany desk looking out blankly over my big carpeted office and blaming her for bringing it all back.
It was easy not to think of it here. It wasn’t like England. In England I’d bet there was no avoiding it. Too many men fought. It’s too small a place. Here it’s easy to forget. So few of us, such a big country for us to get lost in. It was Europe’s war, not ours. We came in at the end and won it for them, and now we were happy to let them get on with it.
But I was there, too. Poppy doesn’t know that. Hardly anyone does. I pretend I don’t know it myself. Mostly, I believe it. It all came back that night as I sat in my office. Not in dreams, the way it did for years after,
‘So that’s it,’ he said.
There
was
hurt in his eyes.
Pride
, I told myself. ‘That’s it,’ I said.
‘You’re not even prepared to—to negotiate?’
‘On what?’ I sounded bitter now, but you see, I was only just beginning to realise what I was wilfully destroying. I was so tempted just to back down, but if I did—no. Every day what I felt would get stronger and stronger. What I felt now was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to what I could feel if I let myself, and there was absolutely no way that I was going to let myself, because how can you possibly love a man who refuses to love you back? So it’s best to strangle what you’re feeling at birth. Of course, I didn’t realise you couldn’t do that.
‘Negotiate on what?’ I demanded again, because he hadn’t said a thing. ‘What is there to negotiate, Lewis?’ I glared at him, God help me, hoping that maybe there was something after all. If he’d just give me a sign that he cared a little bit for me, and then I realised what I was thinking, and I got so mad at myself, and still he didn’t say a thing, only he kept looking at me, so hurt, though why I had no idea, and that made me even more angry. ‘Nothing,’ I said to him. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t even know why you think there could be. We’re the same, you and I. We’re both too damn scared to let anyone in, and we’d rather be lonely than hurt, and that’s what they call the bottom line. The thing is, Lewis, I know why I’m the way I am. I wonder, though, what’s your excuse?’
Chapter Six
Lewis
Screwed-up. Poppy was screwed-up. I was screwed-up. We were both screwed-up. I was so mad, that was all I could think about for the rest of the day. I wished I drank strong liquor. Instead, I went into my office and locked the door and stayed there until everyone else had left the lot. Boy, was I mad. Too mad to even begin to untangle the mess of who had said what and what it all meant. It was all wrapped up in a great big solid knot of accusations and half-truths and downright lies.
My instincts were to go to the contracts, because work was what mattered, wasn’t it? Forget what can’t be fixed, just work with what you have. When something was broken—but when something was broken, it was usually because I’d broken it. Never, not since the war, had I let anyone or anything get in the way of my determination to get to the top, to do things my way. And never, ever had I allowed myself to feel as though the world was tilting, tipping, going into a black hole and taking me with it.
See, there’s a reason I never think of the war—and that’s the reason. But suddenly I couldn’t help thinking, and I truly wished I drank then. I don’t mean recreationally. I mean like Fitzgerald does. Didn’t I tell you I understood him? It was Poppy’s fault.
What’s your excuse?
I sat at my big mahogany desk looking out blankly over my big carpeted office and blaming her for bringing it all back.
It was easy not to think of it here. It wasn’t like England. In England I’d bet there was no avoiding it. Too many men fought. It’s too small a place. Here it’s easy to forget. So few of us, such a big country for us to get lost in. It was Europe’s war, not ours. We came in at the end and won it for them, and now we were happy to let them get on with it.
But I was there, too. Poppy doesn’t know that. Hardly anyone does. I pretend I don’t know it myself. Mostly, I believe it. It all came back that night as I sat in my office. Not in dreams, the way it did for years after,
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