Page 94 of The Invitation

Don’t do it, Amelia.

Don’t do it.

Keep it classy.

“Fuck it.” I don’t owe Katherine a thing, and I certainly don’t owe Jude. I stop just shy of the Tube station and hammer out a message.

Katherine just paid a visit to my workplace and enlightened me about your little “arrangement.” Don’t contact me again.

I stamp my foot on a yell, feeling so fucking stupid. He hasn’t been in touch anyway, so Katherine’s had a wasted journey and squandered her breath warning me off. Her little fuckboy is still at her disposal. And suddenly I remember what Jude said to me.I don’t want you to think I’m nothing but a fuckboy.He said that. While the woman he fucks regularly was sitting at a nearby table with herhusband. All the lovely words Jude said, the playfulness, the amazing sex, the looks, the kisses, the intensity.

It was all a fucking joke.

And I’m the clown.

I hate him. I hate him for making me believe instant chemistry is a thing. I hate him for being relentless in his pursuit, for giving me endless orgasms, for being the best night of my fucking life. I hate him for momentarily making me wonder if he was the one I wasn’t waiting fororexpecting.

I hate him.

Chapter 23

I can’t let go of the anger. And to make it worse, I’ve heard nothing from him in response to my scathing message.

That I sent an hour ago.

He’s probably digesting it. Drafting a pathetic excuse. If he even cares. Maybe he’s gone to Katherine to make himself feel better.

Still obsessing.

Fuck.

Abbie and Charley sit silently with wide eyes as I spew my anger out on them over a bottle of wine, necking my drink in between my tirade. “How could I have been so stupid?” I cry, slapping a hand on my forehead. “What’s happening? That’s what he asked.” I look at the girls as I swig some more. “As he gazed into my eyes, his cock still inside me postclimax, he asked me, on a fucking whisper, I’ll add, ‘What’s happening?’ And me, stupid, idiotic, foolish me, lay there and wondered if I was falling in love with a man I’d known for a heartbeat.” I laugh. More wine. “Why the hell didn’t you stop me from going?”

Both of them blink as Lloyd walks into the kitchen after putting the kids in bed. He looks between all three of us. “What’s up?”

“Men are fucking wankers,” I bark, finishing the last of my wine and pouring more. “That’s what’s up.”

Poor Lloyd steps back, wary, out of the firing line, and Charley reaches for his arm and pats it lovingly. “Bad breakup.”

“Nick?” he asks, confused. “I thought that was done and dusted.”

I slump forward and hit my head on the marble, the alcohol starting to take effect, my head swirling a little. It feels good. I’ve not succumbed to the relief of total drunkenness since I walked out on Nick and me and the girls got so obliterated at Amazonico, we forgot to pay our bill, albeit obliterated for totally different reasons. With Nick, I was trying to drown my guilt. With Jude, I’m trying to drown my hurt. I’ve just granted myself the freedom to get totally shitfaced. I surrender the glass and take the bottle, swigging.

“Not Nick,” Charley says.

“Oh, the rich hotelier?”

“Bastard,” I grumble.

“I thought that was casual.”

I slam the bottle down, and poor Lloyd jumps.

“I think I’ll leave you girls to it.” He drops a kiss in Charley’s hair and retreats to the lounge to watch rugby.

I feel my throat start to close up. My lip begins to wobble.

“Oh shit,” Abbie breathes, hopping down off her stool and rounding the island, taking me in a hug.

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