Page 48 of Don't Let Him In

Amanda’s sister, Bella, comes through. Five thousand pounds. “No need to pay me back,” she’d apparently said to Amanda, which I can tell upset Amanda more than Bella asking her to return it would have.

Amanda didn’t have to tell me that it was £5,000. She could have said it was a thousand and kept the rest for herself. But, as I say, this woman, this ridiculous, broken, sad-eyed woman who put her life on hold after I disappeared, was in many ways my blueprint for managing women, for learning how to navigate and bypass their natural defenses (so much easier than they want you to think it is). I learned a lot about how to balance it all out so that it always swings back in my favor. I pushed this woman and I pushed her, and still she wanted to be with me rather than without me.

Tara was a different undertaking, I know that now. I never really worked out how to breach her defenses, or at least, every time I got close that daughter of hers would tug her back the other way, and Tara didn’t love me enough to resist it.

What I have with Martha has already transcended anything I’ve ever experienced before. I’ve used the money that Amanda so generously poured into my bank account to book Martha and me three nights in a boutique hotel in the Cotswolds. Her ex is very kindly looking after their children and her dog. I’m going to drive in the Tesla, ofcourse, and I have booked us in for a six-course tasting menu at the hotel restaurant (£129 a head, not including wine). This trip coincides with my “hospital treatment” and the brilliant thing about the hospital treatment narrative is that it means I cannot possibly have my phone on. Of course not.

Amanda sees me off on Friday morning. She touches my chest with her hand and says, “I hope it goes OK. Just call if you need anything. And here.” She hands me a Tupperware box. Inside the box is what looks like a homemade sandwich, a banana, and a bag of crisps. “For the train.”

I smile and draw her to me for an embrace. “You are so thoughtful,” I say. “You are literally just the best.” I kiss her on the forehead and then I head down the road toward the spot a ten-minute walk from here where my Tesla has been parked at a charging port all this time.

I collect Martha from St. Pancras station. She’s standing outside the terminal in a soft blue overcoat, jeans, and boots, a pair of oversized sunglasses tucked into her curls and a smart weekend bag looped over the crook of her arm. She breaks into a dazzling smile when she sees me and almost runs toward the curb. She looks beyond adorable, and I cannot believe my luck.

“Oh my goodness,” she says, leaning in to kiss me hard and urgently on the lips, “I have missed you so much. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this. It’s literally all that’s kept me going the past week.”

She’s aglow. I love it. I love the energy that spills from her. It’s golden and it’s contagious and it immediately lifts me up and out of the gloomy place in which I’ve been dwelling since Tara kicked me out.

We listen to music as we drive. The sun shines and Martha’s hand sits on my leg. She says, “So, how’ve you been?”

“Busy,” I say, throwing her a warm smile. “I’ve been busy. I’ve got a new job. Director of client liaison for a hospitality training company.”

This is a real job. I did really apply for it. I didn’t get an interview, but the description was tantalizing:

We are looking for a dynamic and charismatic people person with a plethora of experience working in the hospitality sector, to lead a team of twenty-five hardworking professionals traveling all four corners of the UK to recruit, oversee, train, and advise some of the most exciting new hotels, restaurants, and bars in the business. Hours are flexible, with a lot of working from home and last-minute traveling. This position would suit someone without too many domestic commitments, who has a can-do attitude and can be both a leader and a friend. Car required. Salary £88,000 p/a plus benefits and annual bonus.

It was perfect. Absolutely the dream job, in every respect. But the holes in my CV are always going to be a problem when it comes to conventional work.

“Wow!” says Martha now. “That sounds incredible. When do you start?”

“Next week,” I reply. “Monday. So I am going to make the most of every minute of the next few days.”

“I’m really happy for you, Al, truly. That’s brilliant. But God, how the hell are we ever going to see each other now, between your fancy new job and my shop? It’s going to be crazy!”

The question is asked lightly, but it absolutely gives me my perfect opening. I sigh heavily. “I have been worrying about that too. It almost made me turn down the offer.”

She cocks her head at me. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” I answer softly. “Seriously.”

She squeezes my leg and smiles. “Sounds like you’re getting serious, Mr. Grey.”

“Well,” I say frankly, “I am. Aren’t you?”

She doesn’t reply, but I can tell by the way she smiles as she turns to look out of the window that I’ve just made her heart sing.

Later that evening, we sit side by side in the cocktail lounge at our beautiful hotel. Martha is wearing a black sweater with short puffed sleeves and a pair of fitted black trousers. Her hair is in a topknot, and she has on big golden drop earrings and red lipstick, and she looks, in the soft light of the boudoir-style table lamps, like a Hollywood starlet. I glance around and see immediately that we are by far the chicest, most beautiful couple in the place. Martha has ordered a Dark and Stormy and I have ordered a Negroni and I’m not looking at the prices. Not tonight. Not at all. This is all paying for itself, ultimately. It’s all for the greater good, to get me out of Amanda’s sad, poky South London flat and into Martha’s glossy-magazine Kentish cottage.

“So,” I say, after we’ve made a toast to each other, “how are we going to navigate around our working hours now that I’ve got a proper job? It is mainly working from home, but a lot of it will be on the road, nights away, quite often short notice. And listen, we could make it work, I know we could, but it would be a compromised existence. And I was thinking…” I glance at Martha, just to make sure I’m not jumping the gun, but I can tell by the way she’s staring at me so hopefully with her huge blue eyes that she’s willing me to say it. “We could try a bit of… living together? Hmm?”

“You mean at mine?”

“Well, I guess it would have to be? Because of the boys. Because of the shop.”

She nods and looks thoughtful. “Yes,” she says, tempering her response. “Yes. It would have to be. And I guess… I mean, the boysknow you now. They seem OK around you. And there are two basins in my en suite.” She tips her head toward me and smiles. “And actually, I do kind of hate it when I’m not with you, if that doesn’t sound pathetically codependent and needy.” I see a soft pink flush flood her cheeks and I take her hand and smile.

“Er, yes, actually that sounds horrific, and I am about to run for the hills because the last thing in the whole world I want is for a beautiful, loving, brilliant woman to tell me that she misses me when I’m not around.”

Gratifyingly she laughs and I get a lurch in the pit of my belly as I sense the deal about to close, the door to the next room of my life starting to swing open.

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