You couldn’t explain something like that. When Marion had asked her the same thing, she’d just said she hated clutter. Of course, it went deeper than that. Much, much deeper.
‘I haven’t long had the apartment renovated,’ she said. ‘The decorating’s not finished yet.’
‘Ah. That explains it, then. I thought maybe the boyfriend had taken some things with him when he left.’
Vivienne rather liked the disdain with which Jack said ‘the boyfriend’ rather than Daryl’s name.
‘Daryl didn’t own anything,’ she bit out. ‘Only his clothes.’ And she’d bought most of them. His salary as a mobile phone salesman didn’t extend to trendy designer wear. God, but she’d been a fool where that man was concerned. Quite unconsciously her right hand went to the fourth finger on her left hand, where her engagement ring had resided until a month ago.
She’d bought that, too, Daryl having promised faithfully that he would pay her back.
But he never had.
Currently, it was languishing in the top drawer of her bedside table, a visual testament to her stupidity.
Vivienne realised suddenly that Courtney Ellison must have paid for the rock she’d been proudly displaying in those photographs published in the gossip section of last Sunday’s paper. No way could Daryl have afforded a diamond that size, not unless it was a fake one. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise her if it was a fake diamond. A fake diamond to go with his fake persona.
The coffee arrived at that point, in a silver pot, along with a jug of cream and a plate full of after-dinner mints. The waiter poured the coffee then left them to do the rest. Vivienne added cream and two cubes of sugar to hers. Jack left his black.
‘He didn’t leave you because of you, Vivienne,’ he said abruptly after taking a sip of his coffee. ‘It was because of the fortune he stands to inherit as Courtney’s husband.’
Vivienne gritted her teeth before looking up. ‘Maybe.’
Marion had said the same thing, and of course the logical part of Vivienne agreed with her. But she still couldn’t get it out of her head that somehow she was at fault as well. Perhaps Daryl had got sick of her obsession with tidiness, not to mention her sexual inhibitions. She wasn’t keen on oral sex, or adventurous positions where she felt exposed and vulnerable. Even being on top bothered her. Daryl had always said that he didn’t need her to do any of that stuff if she didn’t want to; that making love to her was enough for him.
‘No sane man would leave a nice girl like you for a woman like Courtney Ellison,’ Jack said. ‘Not unless the carrot was gold-plated.’
Vivienne might have been flattered, if the thought hadn’t struck her that if Daryl was such a cold-blooded fortune hunter then he’d probably pursued her because of her money. She might not be in Courtney Ellison’s financial league but she wasn’t poor either. She owned her own apartment and car, and still had a substantial bank balance. On top of that, as one of Sydney’s most successful young designers, she earned a six-figure salary.
The conclusion that Daryl had never loved her, that their relationship had been nothing but a con from the start, was even more shattering than his leaving her.
When Jack saw Vivienne’s face go ashen, he decided a quick change of subject was called for.
‘Before I forget,’ he said as he plonked his coffee cup back onto its saucer. ‘The chap I’ve organised to come look at your bathroom door will be at your place the same time as me—seven. Not that he can fix it on the spot. When I told him the door would need replacing, not repairing, he said he’d have to take measurements to make sure he got the right door.’
Vivienne made a scoffing sound. ‘And you trust a tradesman to arrive on time? When I had my apartment renovated I soon discovered that tradies have a totally different time schedule to the rest of the world.’
‘Then you should have called in my company to do the work,’ Jack said. ‘Trust me when I tell you the carpenter I’ve booked will be at your door bang on seven. He knows that if he’s late I won’t be hiring him again.’
‘I’ll have to see it to believe it.’
‘Then you will. I’ll be on time, too. Just make sure you’re up and ready.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ came her rueful reply. ‘I’m nothing if not punctual.’
Jack frowned at the underlying depression in her words, anger quickly joining his concern. That bastard had done a real number on Vivienne’s self-esteem. If he ever came across him again, he’d flatten him, and to hell with the consequences!
‘You sound tired,’ he said. ‘Come on; drink up your coffee and I’ll take you home. I can see you’re in need of some serious sleep.’
Vivienne opened her mouth to tell him that he wasn’t her boss—yet—so he could stop with the orders. But then she realised that he was only trying to be kind. He just didn’t know any other way but bossy and controlling. So she drank her coffee and let him drive her home. Once there, she declined his offer to walk her to the door, but he just ignored her and did it anyway. Vivienne decided not to argue. She was beyond arguing.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Jack asked as she went about slowly inserting her key into the lock.
She sighed as she turned and glanced up at him. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said somewhat wearily. ‘Thanks for the very nice lunch, Jack. I did thank you for the flowers before, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’m not quite all there at the moment.’
‘I can see that. But you’ll be better tomorrow. And even better the day after that.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘I know so. All you have to do is do what Dr Jack tells you. Till tomorrow morning, then,’ he said, giving Vivienne no warning before his head bent to deliver a goodbye peck.
It was just a platonic kiss but, when his lips made contact with hers, Vivienne’s heart stopped beating altogether. Thank God he spun away immediately and strode off without a backward glance. Because if he’d looked down into her face after lifting his head he would have seen something not so platonic in her eyes.
‘Crazy,’ she said with another sigh. ‘I’m definitely going crazy.’
‘I’M A BLOODY idiot,’ Jack muttered to himself as he jumped into his car, slammed it into gear and accelerated away.
He knew he should go back to the office. There was always work to be done. Instead, he drove back down to Balmoral Beach where he turned off his mobile phone then sat in his car for a ridiculously long time, thinking. Then, when he couldn’t stand trying to work things out in his head a moment longer, he did something even more futile: he drove to his mother’s house.
She was home, of course. His mother was always home nowadays, recently having added agoraphobia to her long list of anxiety disorders. The only time she’d been out of the house during the past year was on Mother’s Day, and for her birthday back in February. Jack had tried to get her to go to Vanuatu with him in March but to no avail.
‘Jack!’ she exclaimed when she opened the front door, looking surprisingly well, he noted. And very nicely dressed. Sometimes, when he came to visit, he found her still in her dressing gown in the middle of the day. ‘It’s not like you to visit on a weekday,’ she added. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘Nope,’ he lied. No point in telling his mother about his personal problems. It would only upset her. ‘I was in the area for work and decided to pop in and see you.’
‘How