Page 9 of Release Me
I hesitate. Anthony would hate it. Anthony hates anything that gives me joy. But he’s in Paris for a few days. He told me it’s for work, but I know he’s away with his PA. I’m not stupid. As long as he doesn’t flaunt his floozy in my face, I can’t bring myself to care.
‘Come on,’ Ivy teases, as though sensing my resistance. ‘Cocktails. Tapas. Girl talk. No speeches required. Scarlett and Avery are coming.’
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. ‘Alright. Drinks it is. Which bar?’
‘Elixir. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.’ She hangs up before I can protest.
Elixir.
Relief trickles through me at the name. One of Dublin’s chicest wine bars, known for its enviable wine cellar—and not one of Rian’s places. I should be grateful. The last thing I need is him setting my soul on fire while I’m trying to chill out.
And yet… I can’t deny there’s a flicker of disappointment burning inside too.
Pathetic.
I shake my head at myself as I gather my things. He’s Anthony’s best friend. Off limits. Even if he weren’t, he’s five years younger than me and Dublin’s most notorious playboy. I’ve watched him leave more nightclubs than I can count with a different woman on his arm—blonde, brunette, redhead, take your pick. And every single time, it’s cut way deeper than any of Anthony’s betrayals.
Which is a thought I refuse to analyse.
I step out of the Remington offices just after six, the October chill biting at my bare legs as I tug my coat tighter around me. Dublin traffic is a snarl of brake lights and honking horns, rush-hour chaos wrapping the city in a restless hum. Patrick already has the Audi idling at the kerb, the rear door open and waiting.
‘Home, Mrs De Courcy?’ he asks as I slide into the back seat. The leather is cool against the back of my thighs. My slim fitting black Victoria Beckham dress pulls tight as I settle in. It’s elegant, chic, not exactly clubbing attire, but good enough for a Friday night in one of the city’s fanciest wine bars.
‘No. And it’s Rebekka, please.’ I smooth my dress over my thighs and flick my gaze up to meet his in the rear-view mirror. ‘Take me to Elixir.’
There’s a beat of silence. His eyes hold mine, questioning, though he doesn’t dare voice it. He might be my driver, but at the end of the day, he works for Anthony.
I arch a brow, daring him to challenge me.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says at last, indicating, then pulling out into the traffic.
When did going out for a drink start to feel like rebellion?Does he arch his eyebrows at Anthony when he goes to dinner with another woman?
Like I said—it’s a man’s world.
If I didn’t need a drink before, I do now.
Patrick noses the Audi into a space outside Elixir, the glowing script sign reflected in the perpetual drizzle on the pavement. He kills the engine and moves to open my door.
‘Shall I escort you inside, Mrs De Courcy?’
It takes all my energy not to roll my eyes. Instead, I muster a small smile as I step out. ‘No need. Between Avery, Scarlett, and Ivy, there’ll be more Beckett security drifting around than the Secret Service.’
His mouth twitches, but he nods and returns to the car.
I tug my coat tighter and step inside. The hot air hits me, along with the scent of a million different perfumes. Elixir hums with energy. The low thrum of bass-heavy lounge music vibrates beneath my Manolo Blahnik heels as I cross the polished parquet floor. Crystal chandeliers throw dim light over sleek marble tables, each one dotted with flickering, expensive looking candles. The clink of glass against glass punctuates the murmur of laughter and conversation. I scan the room and spot them immediately.
Scarlett’s silver eyes catch mine first, her glossy ebony hair gleaming as she leans forward in the plush booth. Beside her, Avery tosses her blonde hair over one shoulder, then waves at me. Ivy, glowing and golden, raises her glass in greeting, her smile as warm as her voice had been on the phone.
Relief eases through me as I weave my way through the crowded bar. These women are the closest thing to family I’ve found here. My in-laws are welcoming but not overly warm. Anthony is their golden boy. I get the impression they think it’s somehow my fault he can’t keep it in his pants. They’re aware of his affairs, and like me, they turn a blind eye. If Marianne asks me one more time if I’vethought about having a baby, I might actually explode, though.
How the hell can I have a baby?
Apart from the fact you need to have sex to make one—something which Anthony and I don’t do anymore—I already have a baby to mind—her son. His mood swings are worse than a toddler.
But while I stumbled into the wrong family, at least I stumbled into the right friendships.
Avery shuffles along the velvet banquette to make room, the sequins on her top glittering in the low light. ‘Finally,’ she teases, blue eyes sparkling. ‘I was about to drink your cocktail for you. Can’t beat a Dirty Martini.’
