Moments later, we are taken through the busy restaurant by a tall man dressed in black with clipped sandy-brown hair. He seats us at a table for two, and with great flair he tucks in my chair and ceremoniously drapes a white linen napkin across my lap. I fiddle with the corner of it and concentrate on my breathing rather than what Fuckface just said to the waiter. Why am I nervous?

The waiter hands a slim black menu to the pretentious arsehole seated across from me. “Can I get you something to drink?” the tall man asks Fuckface.

“Yes, the 2010 Jermann Were Dreams chardonnay,” he replies after perusing the list.

“Excellent choice, sir. And for you, madam?”

“Some ice water, please,” I say. The waiter nods and retreats.

“You’ve dressed for the occasion,” Fuckface says, and flaunts the dimple that used to do things to me. Now? I’m imagining taking a steak knife to it.

“I came from work,” I inform him, matter-of-fact.

“Really? Where are you working?”

Do I need him to know where I spend my days? Fuck it. I’m proud of my job. I don’t give a shit what he thinks. “Walker & Wilde Recruitment.”

“Great company. Heard nothing but good things. You’d make a lovely impression in reception.”

“Actually, I’m a consultant.” I leave off the junior part of my title, because I know it’s only for the short-term, and Julie has confirmed as such.

The waiter fills our water glasses and places a silver jug on the table, ice cubes tinkling inside. He returns a moment later and pours Fuckface a wine, and then hovers the bottle over my glass. I wave my hand over the rim of it, stopping him.

“None for me.”

Fuckface leans across the table, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “I just got the waiter to crack a two hundred dollar bottle of wine. Surely you’re not just drinking water.”

You can’t woo me, fucker.

“There’s no need to be extravagant, and besides, I’m not drinking at the moment.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to.” I put my head down and take a good look at the menu. I’d like to think that I have a refined palette, but I can’t even understand what half the shit on the menu is. I’d be more impressed right now if someone placed a fucking medium rare T-bone with pepper sauce and a mountain of vegetables in front of me. Now Rocco is on my mind.

“Bit too much eye makeup, don’t you think?”

What the fuck did he just say? Does he want one of these four pretty forks laid out in front of me wedged into his thigh or the meaty part of his shoulder?

“No. I don’t think so, actually. I like it like this.”

“Huh,” he says, and diverts his scrutinizing gaze to the menu instead. Arsehole.

The waiter returns with his plastic pen poised on his electronic notepad.

“What can I get for you, madam?”

“I’ll just have the stuffed calamari.”

“An excellent choice, madam.”

“That’s all you want?” Fuckface barks.

No. I want you out of my life for good. That’s all I want.

I grant him a fake-as-fuck smile and then direct the waiter with my hand to take Fuckface’s order. “Yes. I had a late breakfast.”

I pay no attention to what he mumbles to the waiter, instead, taking in the ambience of the restaurant. I’ll have to come back here another time … in better company. The waiter moves on to the next table.

Fuckface takes a large swill of wine and makes an ‘ah’ noise, I presume in appreciation. “Primo drop, sweet pea. One of Italy’s finest. I think you should try it.”

How about no, you controlling piece of shit? Was he always like this, or can I only see it now that I’m out from under his spell and have spent time in the real world?

“Again, no thank you.”

He shrugs and pulls a face, as if to say ‘your loss’.

“I guess you’re wondering where everything is at,” he says, after another mouthful of wine. “The bank is happy. All paid.”

I nod once, gritting my teeth. It’s the only thing I can think of doing to stop me from pulling my hair out, or his, in this classy establishment.

“I’m all moved into the family home, and have organised a painter to give it a freshen up. I have a designer tentatively booked in to come by next week, so I think it’d be good if you came along and made some choices from my selection—carpets, curtains, furnishings and all that. After all, I want you to be comfortable.”

“Right,” I whisper in astonishment. I can add deluded to the list of Fuckface’s characteristics.

“I’m setting up a home office so I’ll be around more for you and our family.”

I clear my throat and swallow down hard. Now he’s gone one step further than bat-shit crazy.

“Sound good, sweet pea?”

Each second in his presence is getting my hackles up, but I can’t lose it now. I’m here to make a scene.

With his right hand, he reaches inside his left-breast suit pocket and pulls out a pen and one of his business cards. My hands clam up in a ball in my lap as he puts the ridiculously expensive-looking fountain ink pen to the back of the card. In the same cursive scrawl that cursed me all those years ago, he writes down a name. Clara who?

The pen goes back in his pocket, and he slides a business card towards me with a hopeful smile. “Clara Banks is the best interior decorator in Sydney. Why don’t you give her a call, and you can work out what time suits you both next week?”

Adrenaline zaps its way through my bloodstream as I place my hand over the card and push it to the side of the table.

In perfect timing, the waiter places a dish in front of each of us. My meal looks simply too delicious to not even taste. With care, I slice through the soft tube, exposing the rich tomato filling. I savour the intense flavour with the zing of chilli as I chew.

“He was right. An excellent choice,” I mutter around a mouthful of the seafood. Of course I can’t resist another bite, because it’s too good. With the stark white napkin, I dab at my lips and then place it on top of my bread plate. I stand up from the table, and loop my satchel across my body.

Now I get to have some fun.

“I’m moving on,” I inform him, with a great sense of satisfaction.

“You’re moving on?” he growls. “What on earth do you mean? We are meant to be together.”

“There is no we, Fuckface.”

I take great pleasure in pouring the ice-cold water from the jug over his head and into his lap.

He gasps and shakes his head from side to side, the water flinging from him in all directions. His grunts draw eyes from every corner of the restaurant, including the familiar suits who greeted him earlier. Watch this, boys.

With my fork I stab what’s left of the calamari and fling it at his suit. The tube bounces onto his chest. Red sauce splatters in the centre of his crisp white shirt. It kind of looks like a gunshot wound.

As I walk away, I flip him the bird. As much as I want to continue to admire that look of disgust on his face, I don’t turn back.

This fucked-up chapter in my life is over.

There’s only one thing left I have to do, and it’s gonna be tough as shit.

It’s time to call the agency and say yes.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

SOPHIE

Friday

“Give the girl a brazilian,” I say forcefully, guiding Vicky to the beautician. I spill a few drops of my champagne on my floral kimono robe as she turns and bumps into me, trying to escape the claws of Anna, one of our dedicated therapists for the afternoon.

“Um, I’m not sure,” Vicky says. Her crystal blue eyes flit around to the women in the room. It’s as if she’s sending out an SOS with the batting of her lashes.

“You want a pretty pussy, don’t you?” I say, challenging her with raised eyebrows.