Page 62 of Bastard
“With other women,” Sabine clarifies.
Her question affects me more than I should allow it to. How to explain Hayden and my complicated relationship? How we’re divorced but working together? How we’re pretending to be married? How this is all an act? “Yes,” is all I say.
“Ever catch him with someone else?”
I twirl my wedding band around my finger.
Real wedding band. Fake marriage. Yet the thought angers me. There were others. But I’ve no right to be upset. He ended us. Period.
And I did sign divorce papers.
Still ...
“If I catch him with another woman, I’m pretty certain how I’d react.”
“How?”
“I’d confront him, then launch myself at him, slap his face, and tell him to fuck off.” Sí, that sounds like me. If Hayden did such a thing. If our marriage was real.
Sabine stares at me thoughtfully. “What about repercussions?”
“It’d be worth it.”
“But that’s where we’re different. Your husband is madly in love with you. And Barrington ... well ...”
My eyes widen.
“You don’t see it, do you? Your husband is crazy in love with you.”
Because it’s an act. Executed by a cunningly manipulative man. So why is my heart racing? Why am I tempted to ask her what exactly she sees?
Sabine sighs. “We better return before mine grows impatient.”
“Thank you for the tour,” I murmur. “I can’t wait to show Lorenzo your home.”
But, as we retrace our steps, I can’t help but feel the familiar longing from years gone by return.
20
“Cork is no longer as green as other parts of Ireland,” Hayden replies to my question with a shrug, after I’ve confronted him about Mrs. Ogdenhayer’s death. We’re outside the ballroom and dressed for the evening. He looks like sin in an expensive tailor-made suit. Or maybe it’s the sins he’s committed that have me captivated.
“No longer green, but red like my dress. Isn’t that right?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“That is correct.” He takes hold of my hand and squeezes it in warning. “But know this now. Even if you change your mind about me, I’m not letting you go.”
I squeeze his hand hard. “That’s Lorenzo talking, right?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“What now?”
“We meet our fellow guests. If separated, we’ll meet up on the back terrace where we can view Table Mountain and discuss things in private. And much later, you’ll show me around the mansion.”
“Okay.” I turn to enter the ballroom.
“Wait. I need to tell you something.”
“Yes?” I reply, half-paying attention and half-focused on the guests inside.
