Counterpoints: Book 2 Read online

  “No Hillary, It’s not because of that…” Isabella breathed out, relieved.

  “You must think I am a terrible person” Hillary sighed.

  “No, not at all. I think you are wonderful”

  “And I am, a terrible person” Hillary went on. “Anyway, Alfred and I are over. Done, finito! And I am a terrible person, because in the end I did it for me, not because it was the right thing to do from the beginning. I ended it because our secret relationship was killing me. See how horribly selfish I am?” Hillary said and Isabella stared at her manager, thinking she had taken the right decision in the end.

  Christopher’s manager Mr. Jenkins – Alfred- was a married man and despite what he had said to Hillary at the beginning, he was not divorced nor about to separate from his wife.

  That was why Hillary had wanted so badly to speak to Isabella about it, to say it out loud, finally. Hillary and Mr. Jenkins were over. Hillary wasn’t the other woman anymore.

  She thinks I am acting weird because I am still embarrassed about sneaking up on them.

  “I’m happy for you, if that’s what you wanted” Isabella hesitated.

  “It’s not what I wanted. I wish I could be that sort of person, you know, a good person. I didn’t want it to be over. I wanted to be with him” Hillary said, the words straight from her heart “but he’s married, he’s never going to divorce. His promises didn’t mean a thing. I left him because he was never going to me mine, ever”

  They were quiet for a few minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts, as the crowd began to disperse in the city streets.

  That was it. The pub was officially closing, the night was over. Hillary and Mr. Jenkins were over and so were Isabella and Christopher.

  She looked up at Hillary, who had just finished her beer, and thought how weird it was that they both had had a secret affair with someone, affair that had come to an end.

  This is the sort of woman that doesn’t cry over a man, Isabella said to herself.

  No tears, no sad face, no dark circles around her eyes. Hillary was standing up straight and starting over again.

  “Anyway, let’s talk about you. What happened with that guy you met here?” Hillary asked out of the blue and Isabella’s heart leaped.

  “Oh, It didn’t last” she shrugged, like it meant nothing, like it didn’t rip her heart out just mentioning him.

  Isabella bit her lip and looked down at her fingers. They were shaking.

  “I’m sorry about that darling”

  “It’s okay” she might as well have chocked on the words.

  Isabella smiled, trying to make amends, trying not to give away her emotions.

  Hillary mumbled something under her breath, while putting out her cigarette. Then she stomped to an empty wooden table, holding their empty beer glasses.

  She put them down and went back to her friend, with a determined look on her face, the tight black jacket she was wearing zipped all the way up.

  “Let’s go. You are coming with me” and she took Isabella’s hand.

  “Where?” Isabella searched her face, a wicked smile spreading on Hillary’s dark red lips as they started walking down the street.

  “We, my darling, are going to meet a few friends of mine, in this cool bar in Soho”

  Spotted Christopher Taylor alone in Soho, said the tabloid.

  “Oh, I don’t know if I’m up for it. I’m still a little…” Isabella stuttered.

  Her mood had been so up and down lately. She didn’t know if she wanted company, if she was up for it. If she was willing to risk being face to face with Christopher.

  Or worse, Christopher and Giselle together.

  “I’ll give you two good reasons why you should come with me” Hillary said.

  Once they had walked up to the corner of the main street, Hillary stuck her hand out, trying to hail a cab.

  “First you haven’t properly been introduced to the London nightlife and, as Londoner, I think I have a responsibility to do so” she winked and Isabella couldn’t hold back a smile.

  Hillary Manlow, London’s nightlife ambassador, in tight leggings and stiletto heels, she thought.

  “And second, I refuse to let the ghost of two men ruin our first night out together in London. Come on, let’s go clubbing” Hillary glanced at Isabella and gave her the warmest smile she could offer. “There is no such thing that a good club and some new friends can’t heal”

  Isabella let her boss walk her through the night.

  After all, how could she have said no to Hillary? How could she have said no to a woman with a broken heart like her?

  Isabella grinned and waved at Hillary and her friends, as the cab pulled out of the parking and started to move up Trafalgar square.

  “Goodnight, darling” Hillary shouted from the sidewalk and Isabella turned to wave again, at her amazing boss and her fantastic gang.

  Then, she leaned back on the car seat and closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a few deep breaths and adjusting to the sudden silence- her ears were still a little weird from the loud music in the club.

  It had been a fabulous night. They had had a blast.

  Two whole hours of laughing, dancing, drinking and loving the small talk with Hillary and her friends, Isabella’s mind softly wrapped in a haze of nothingness.

  Hillary had been right, she had do admit it. A night out with her and her girl friends was exactly what Isabella had needed all along.

  When she opened her eyes again, she realized they had stopped at a traffic light, somewhere on Oxford Street.

  There were so many people around, despite being almost sunrise.

  It was that time of the day – so early in the morning- where people going to work walked side by side with those trying to get home, after a crazy night around town.

  Her eyes followed a young couple walking hand in hand to the bus stop, as they exchanged inviting glances. The guy leaned forward to whisper something in the girl’s ear and then pulled her in for a kiss. The girl giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, just as Isabella turned the other way.

  Her lips set in a straight line, while her eyes scanned the surroundings for something else to focus on, something else to look at. It was all useless. It was too late, anyway. That scene had been enough for Isabella to remember.

  She sat in the back seat, her body moving sideways as the car took turns, thinking of the first time she had gone clubbing with the guys from MB. The first time she and Christopher had kissed, after flirting all evening over dinner.

  It had felt so good, kissing Christopher in the dark that time. His warm lips on hers, the thrill of getting caught, the sexual drive, his hands in her hair, their bodies so close in that small corridor.

  Isabella pressed a hand over her eyes, as if she could block those memories, those images from haunting her again.

  Why couldn’t she keep a promise, a single promise to herself? Hadn’t she said she would cry only once, only one time for Christopher?

  Stop, just stop it!

  She looked into the rearview mirror- the mascara half down her face- and met the eyes of the driver. He gave her a sad look.

  Pity from a stranger, that I can accept.

  She pressed her hand harder on her eyes, but it was done. It was too late, anyway. The tears had silently started to move down her cheeks.

  In the back of the cab, Isabella let the sadness take over. She cried, disappointed and desperate to feel better.

  I am never drinking when I am sad again, ever, she promised herself.

  It was definitely that, the alcohol that was making her so irrational, so emotional.

  Hadn’t someone said to her once that things were real only when visible to others? Then why did it all feel so real to Isabella, why was she hurting so much for a relationship that never even existed to others, in the real world?

  When the cab stopped on Queensway, right in front of the pub under Isabella’s house, she paid the driver and mumbled something under he
r breath, whilst stumbling to get out in her heals.

  I can do it, I am nearly there! Isabella told herself, her hands stretched out a little, eager to reach the door.

  As she struggled with the keys at the entrance of the building, Isabella noticed the cab hadn’t moved from the side of the street.

  Her eyes squinted in its direction, until the window rolled down.

  “I’ll wait for you to get in, miss” the man shouted from inside.

  If this isn’t pity from a stranger…

  Isabella thanked him and did her best to get in as quickly as possible.

  She ran up the stairs, losing her balance a few times, and pushed her door open.

  Isabella stood at the entrance for a second, her back to the now closed door and examined the surroundings attentively.

  The light was still off, everything seemed exactly like it was. Quiet. She was alone, again.

  Slowly, Isabella sank to the floor.

  She was tired, tired of thinking. She wanted to crawl into bed and stay there.

  She had no meetings for tomorrow, nothing for the next four days. Maybe she could sleep for four days.

  It’s the alcohol, I am not thinking straight. I am okay, I was okay only ten minutes ago, before I got into that cab, before I cried and embarrassed myself in front of a stranger.

  With her back against the cold wooden door, Isabella finally realized something.

  If anything, she was tired of crying. She was finally done with it.

  Maybe that was what she had needed all along, maybe that’s what her body had been trying to tell her over the past few days. To let it out and be done with it. Physically, mentally, emotionally. And possibly before seeing Christopher again in Toronto.

  Her hand moved slowly around her ankles, as she slid off the boots – her feet in pain.

  This is uncomfortable, Isabella shifted on the floor. Time to move.

  She helped herself up and placed both hands on the kitchen table, hoping it would be enough to keep the room from spinning. She couldn’t stand straight.

  I am going to have such a terrible hangover tomorrow, Isabella thought as she slowly walked to the bathroom door, enjoying the softness of the carpet under her feet.

  The buzzer sounded then and Isabella jumped, a little startled.

  She stood still, until the buzzer rang a second time and Isabella moved slowly in the darkness of her flat.

  The room was silent again a moment later, but her mind was running wild, her heart thumping hard in her chest.

  Who could it have been at that time of night? It was so late, it was nearly sunrise.

  Instead of picking up the receiver, she peeked outside the window of her studio, not daring to touch the small, white curtain that hung over it.

  Christopher, her eyes grew wide as they registered him. standing on the sidewalk, right there at her front door, hands in his pockets.

  He looked sideways and then up at her window, but Isabella took a step back, making sure she was out of his sight.

  What does he want? What am I going to do?

  She looked around the dark room, as if the answer was there, right there in front of her, but her mind just couldn’t focus on anything.

  Her body wanted to reach out for the receiver, but her head, her head wouldn’t allow it.

  Don’t pick up, don’t. Lights are out, he’s going to leave soon, Isabella leaned forward again, just in time to watch Christopher cross the street and jump back into his car, head down and his face glum.

  He turned the key and the only sound in the street was the roar of his engine, as the car sped down Queensway street.

  Isabella kept her eyes on the car, until it disappeared when it crossed a large intersection.

  He was here, her heart wouldn’t stop pounding in her chest.

  And I let him leave, Isabella ran a hand through her hair, as she felt her eyes go watery again.

  No! she wiped them with the back of her hand and tried to ignore all the crazy things that were going through her head, even the idea to reach for her phone and call him.

  It’s better this way, she told herself over and over again.

  But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he was back. Christopher was back inside her head, his presence so tangible and destabilizing ever the same.

  Even if he had driven away, he was still in that room with her, in her thoughts.

  He’ll be back, she acknowledged.

  Toronto was still a few days away, enough time for Christopher to try and reach out for her again.

  As Isabella began to panic, she did the only reasonable thing she could think of in that moment. Anything that would stop her from making that phone call.

  If true that mobile phones should be confiscated when drunk- to avoid embarrassing texts or phone calls- somebody should also prevent a person, who has had one too many cocktails, from using credit cards.

  Isabella sat at her laptop and changed her ticket to Italy. She was getting on the first flight available, first thing tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty five.

  Twenty six.

  Twenty seven.

  Christopher counted every push up in his head.

  He focused on his training, finding some peace –even if only temporarily- in his work out. It served as a good distraction.

  The sweat began to roll down his forehead, but he ignored it. He stayed focused, not a single thing on his mind but the feeling of his muscles tightening under his skin.

  His phone made a sound and Christopher sat up straight, immediately.

  He grabbed a small towel, he always kept in the gym, and wiped the sweat off his face, while his other hand reached for his cell.

  It’s not her.

  His jaw tensed. It wasn’t Isabella calling.

  Why would she after what she had told him a few nights ago? They were done, period.

  Deep down he knew Isabella was right.

  It was better that way, to cut all communications immediately. Isabella was a smart girl and smart girls knew better than to keep seeing someone like him, someone who had betrayed their trust.

  She doesn’t deserve to get hurt.

  Even though it all made sense in his head, the other night Christopher had done something completely different. And something very unusual for him.

  He had gone out – for the second night in a row- to do what he knew best, have fun and keep his mind as clear as possible.

  At some point, Christopher and his friends had found themselves dancing in a club in the west end, in the company of three good looking girls in their mid-twenties.

  Over the loud music a tall brunette – he just couldn’t remember her name the following day- had whispered tempting words in his ear.

  She smelled of sweet vanilla and easy sex, in her short, see-through dress, her arms permanently wrapped around his neck.

  This will help me not think, he had thought there and then.

  While dancing, she had licked his neck and then whispered “Let’s go to the bathroom”

  As if her words had touched an open wound, Christopher had stopped dancing, his chest as cold as ice. He stood there unmoving, while the music went on playing as loud as before, while everyone kept jumping and swaying on the dance floor.

  The bathroom corridor.

  Isabella.

  The steamy kiss.

  Memories of Valencia had resurfaced instantly and had forced their way in his head with a certain strength, shaking him to the core.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  He had taken the girl’s hands off his neck and told her he was going to get a drink.

  Instead, Christopher had walked away from the dance floor and gone directly to the cloakroom.

  “Where are you going, mate?” one of his friends had asked, seeing Christopher slip on his jacket.

  He needed to leave. There was something he had to do immediately.

  The ride to Isabella’s house took only seven minutes from the clu
b.

  He had parked his black car opposite her front door and had rang for her two times.

  There was something he needed to tell her and it couldn’t wait.

  Nothing. The windows had been dark, no light inside. Nobody was home, his attempt to try to explain what had happened in Cannes with Giselle had failed.

  Try and explain what exactly? That I am a fucking idiot. And how exactly do I do that, explain when I never do, I never had to.

  Christopher had never had to justify his actions, the motivations behind his decisions. His relationships had been straightforward from the beginning – unexclusive.

  He looked up at the mirror in front of him, on his private gym wall and his eyes went to the small scar on his upper lip.

  For the fraction of a second, Christopher thought he could feel Isabella’s fingertips brush against it, the spot so sensitive it tickled.

  The scar had never really bothered him that much, he had actually been proud of it growing up. He had used it to brag about with his friends, to show off what a fighter he was.

  And Isabella seemed to love it, to love the way it spread when he smiled, that imperfection making him so real to her.

  How can an imperfection make a person look so perfect? She had whispered to him while he had been sleeping. Christopher had been lying there in bed with her- his eyes closed but still awake- in silence, not exactly sure of what to say.

  She had thought of him as perfect. He wasn’t.

  I am an asshole.

  He looked at his phone again and saw it was a text message from Cindy, this girl he had met a while ago, somewhere in London- he couldn’t recall the club or the night in particular.

  She was in town for the week, she wanted to know if he was free to go out and have some fun.

  Some fun being sleeping together, like every time she comes down from Leeds.

  Christopher held on to his phone, wondering for a moment if that wasn’t exactly what he needed now.

  Maybe he needed a night out with a beautiful woman- someone he was familiar with- to make him not care, to make him not think about anything. Maybe he would stop thinking of Isabella.

  The hell with it, he put the phone back on the bench and crossed the room.