Page 33 of Catch a Kiwi
I considered. “Nah. Not seeing it. How’m I meant to ask, then? Also, sorry, but Iamthe boss of most things. Can’t help it. It’s how I’m wired.”
“I wouldn’t go around bragging about it,” she shot straight back. “You could say, ‘I saw you’d gone bankrupt. I’m sorry. That must have been hard.’ And drawn me out with your sympathy.”
“I could,” I said. “If I were somebody else.”
She sighed. “Boy, it’s a good thing I’m not fragile. Here you go, then. The mortgages on the houses were in my name, too, and we had joint accounts. I thought that was Felipe being kind. Maybe it even was. But?—"
“But it meant you couldn’t pay the debt. That you’d never be able to pay it.”
“And, see, how easy was that to figure out? But it turned out that it didn’t matter, because I was liable for my husband’s debts anyway. That’s the law. It was all I could do to pay the attorneys. The mortgage for the Manchester house was over seven million pounds, and the house didn’t even sell for that much. It had to happen fast, and there aren’t too many people jumping to buy a ten-million-pound house in Manchester in March, in the pouring rain, especially not one decorated like that.”
“Decorated like what?”
Her gray eyes actually sparkled when she smiled.. I hadn’t known that was possible. “Look it up and you’ll see. Maybe wear your sunglasses. There was a disco ball in the ballroom. Get it? Ballroom? Never mind; I could’ve said no, and I didn’t. It didn’t feel like my house, and I wasn’t paying for it, so I figured—not up to me. And ended up in a white-and-silver house with way too many shiny surfaces. It was like living in the palace of the Snow Queen. I didn’t enjoy going bankrupt, but I’m not sorry about losing that house. I’ll bet Felipe ends up with another white-and-silver place once he’s out, too. It could only be four years or so, so who knows? He may even be playing again. And paying most of what he makes to cover the fines he still owes, of course. Maybe it’ll have to be a white-and-silver condo. Did I mention the house was eleven hundred square meters? Twelve thousand square feet. Every room in the place was enormous and every ceiling was extra-high, like it had been built for giants. Doesn’t that sound cozy? Decorating tip: don’t get white carpeting. Even if youdon’thave a flood, you’ll be sorry. Or your wife will be.”
“Another point in my disfavor, then,” I said. “Flash house.”
“Ha. You must know your house is in excellent taste. Very natural. Very organic.”
“So he does have offshore money, I’m guessing, if you think he can pay back those judgments.”
“You’re asking the wrong person.” She said it cheerfully, but I was guessing she couldn’t really be taking it that lightly, or why was she hiding here? “What else could it be?”
“Trying not to ask it,” I said.
“Oh, boy. Ask what? Whether he was being blackmailed? Betting wildly on his own matches? Owed money to terrifying killers? I have no idea.”
“Why’d you marry him?” I asked.
She didn’t answer in the way I’d expected. She laughed. How did you rock this woman? “What, you don’t think a hugely unequal marriage on less than three months’ acquaintance is a great bet? You haven’t married anybody, I guess. You’re too smart for that.”
“You didn’t look me up.” I wasn’t sure if I was glad or insulted.The woman doesn’t want you, mate. She doesn’t care.Maybe that was what intrigued me so much. The thrill of the challenge. The chase. That wasn’t exactly a sterling testament to my character, but there you were. Women didn’t normally tell me no.
“Nope,” she said. “But it’s only fair that you tell me, now that you’ve dug through my shameful past.” She said the “shameful” part lightly. Maybe so, and maybe not. That trial couldn’t have been fun, and that video with the teammates’ wives would’ve hurt. Was there a woman alive who could have resisted looking at what was being said about her?
“Been married twice,” I said. “Divorced twice, too.”
“Ah,” she said. “Let’s hear why. I have a guess. I want to know if it’s right.”
I wasn’t going to like the answer, but I asked anyway. “What’s the guess?’
She grinned. That wasn’t a word you expected to use about a woman that beautiful, but she acted and seemed truly oblivious of her looks—grins, hair elastic, and all. “That they were very good-looking. Great dressers, confident, poised, polished, possibly good at flattery, and very, very good in bed. That you married them, discovered too late that, whoops! you actually had nothing to talk about, and started ignoring them. And they filed for divorce.”
“Maybe.”
“Ha. No ‘maybe’ about it.”
“So we’re both better off,” I said.
“Well, depending on your alimony situation,” she said, and I laughed again. I couldn’t see how she’d bounced back this quickly from the day before, and I suspected there was some brittleness there, but she’d never show it.
Pride, that was what she had, and not the kind that was really vanity. The kind that said, “I own my mistakes, and I won’t be cowed.”
I was too competitive, I’d been told, though I’d never seen what was wrong with that. How did you get anywhere if you weren’t driven to be the best? That was probably why I wanted her, though. Wanted to prove I was a better man than Felipe Moyano.
Which was stupid. She was beautiful, yeh, but I’d had beautiful women before. And like her, I’d learned something from my marriages.
“So,” I said, to remind myself of that, “you married him after three months.”
