Executive Affair (20 page)

‘You have it all wrong. I didn't want to call you at work and I didn't have your home number. I thought about you constantly all week. You must believe that.'

He sounded genuine.

She didn't answer him but he must have seen the uncertainty in her face and pressed home his advantage.

‘Please, let's have lunch together so we can talk with some privacy. Can I meet you in the carpark at midday?' he asked.

She nodded, feeling drained from the pressure of resisting him.

For once, lunchtime came around far too quickly. She dreaded being alone with him and wondered how on earth she had given in. It was unfair that he had caught her when she was rushed and flustered. If she had been prepared it would have been different.

He was waiting in his car, a convertible Saab, sleek and sophisticated, making her feel even more awkward and naïve.

‘Hi, there,' he greeted her warmly as she got in.

She mumbled a response, immediately focusing her eyes on the dash. She couldn't talk to him, her throat clogged with a mixture of anger, nervousness and sexual attraction.

After a few minutes of silence he put on some classical music. It sounded like Mendelssohn, soothing and simple, relaxing her a little. He drove through the Northern Beaches and she wondered where the hell he was taking her. He finally pulled up at Newport Beach and turned in his seat to face her.

‘I knew I would have to convince you to forgive me somehow so I brought along a picnic for the beach. I thought it would be nicer than going to a restaurant and if you start screaming and punching me, we won't get kicked out.'

‘A picnic? That was very thoughtful of you,' she said, finally looking at him. There was a powerful silence as they looked at each other. She broke the moment by getting out of the car.

He took the picnic basket and a rug from the trunk of the car and they walked across the sand to the water's edge. He spread out the rug and took her hand to help her sit.

‘See, a bottle of red, a bottle of white …' he said with a small grin as he held up two bottles of wine.

She smiled back at him, remembering the other Billy Joel song they had danced to in Hong Kong.

‘What would you like to start off with?' he asked.

‘White, please.'

She watched him pour the wine, trying to stay angry. He handed her a glass and changed position on the rug so he was facing her.

‘I meant what I said earlier … about not wanting to call you at work. I thought it would embarrass you.'

‘Did you also think it would embarrass me if you came around to see me on Monday when you got back?'

‘A crisis blew up with Cathair late on Friday – they were ready to pull out unless we changed one of the clauses. I spent most of the weekend and Monday on the phone to Donald Skates, trying to convince him to come to the party on something that was really only a minor change to the proposal. I even thought I might have to fly over to San Jose but we sorted it out in the end.'

She looked at him. ‘Please don't lie to me. You don't have to. We can easily go back to the way things were before Hong Kong.' She knew she couldn't but could hardly say that.

‘I'm not lying, Claire. I want us to be together. For what it's worth, I did come around to see you at six on Monday, but you were already gone.'

‘I went home early. I was angry with my boss so I had a ministrike.'

He laughed. ‘I must remember that my good behaviour is directly linked to your productivity.' He held her free hand loosely in his, his eyes all over her face.

‘Don't let me drink too much wine,' she said, leaning back on her elbows, squinting at the sun, ‘or I'll fall asleep at my desk.'

‘We don't have to go back. I told Samantha we were going to a tax seminar,' he said with an expression that reminded her of a naughty schoolboy.

‘What kind of tax? Fringe benefits tax, GST or income tax?' she asked, pretending to be businesslike.

‘I've no idea. Let's pick income tax.'

‘Income tax it is,' she agreed and they toasted a truce.

She lay in his arms for a long time. The warmth of his chest moving against her, the crashing waves and distant sounds of traffic lulled the hours away. The winter sun fell towards the horizon, leaving a chill in its wake.

‘Maybe we should go?' she suggested reluctantly.

He sat up and took something from his trouser pocket. It was a velvet box.

‘Let me give you this first. Happy Birthday!'

She blushed. ‘Robert, you really shouldn't have!'

‘Open it. I can return it if you don't like it.' He sounded anxious and watched her carefully as she opened the box.

It was a silver pendant, simple and beautiful.

‘Thank you … I love it,' she whispered, putting it around her neck and looking down to examine the effect as it glowed against her skin.

He fastened it for her, kissing the nape of her neck. She felt the familiar desire that flared up whenever he touched her. His lips moved down from her neck to her back and his hands moved at the same time to stroke her hair. It was dark now and the beach was almost deserted. He turned her slowly and she returned his kisses, locking her arms around his neck. It felt so good to be back in his arms, to be able to kiss him. His hands were stroking her inner thighs, her skirt riding up to accommodate him.

‘Not here,' she whispered.

‘I know. Come back to my place.'

They kissed fiercely and broke apart.

His house was a mixture of golden wooden floors, cream walls and splashes of colour from paintings, lamps and rugs. A huge wooden bed dominated the bedroom. There was a sensual smell in the room, a blend of polish and his aftershave. It was very tidy, with the exception of a pair of jeans thrown across the bed. They kissed and proceeded to finish what they had started on the beach.

She stroked his hair as they lay without moving or speaking. ‘I should be getting home.'

‘Why don't you stay the night? I could drive you home in the morning before work,' he suggested, his voice sleepy.

She hesitated for a second. The day had lulled her into a comfortable sense of lethargy and the thought of exerting herself to go home was not very appealing. And she didn't want to leave him.

‘Don't you mind?' she queried, unsure if he was just being polite or if he really wanted her to stay. She didn't want to intrude into his private life; instinct told her that he liked his space.

‘Not at all.' He yawned. ‘Man, I'm tired … I'm not used to hanging out with twenty-somethings.'

Claire fell asleep curled against him, feeling secure and happy. The phone rang in the early hours of the morning. Robert picked it up before it woke her fully.

‘Tom, it's the middle of the night.' Robert sounded resigned, as if phone calls at that hour were a regular occurrence. The bed clothes moved with him as he sat up. ‘It's okay. What was on your mind?'

Tom spoke for a few minutes and Robert listened intently.

‘You're saying I have to pay her spousal support?' Robert said finally, his voice alert and hard, slicing through the dark.

Another few minutes elapsed, with Tom doing all the talking. Claire nearly fell back to sleep, jumping when Robert spoke again.

‘That's absolutely ludicrous – we were only married for a year! Can't I file the divorce somewhere else to get out of it?'

Robert was angry. Claire was fully awake now but she didn't open her eyes.

‘Then you'd better start getting creative with my assets, Tom. There's no way she's getting her hands on half of what I've worked hard to accumulate over the last year …'

Claire turned on her side, hoping her movement would remind him she was there. The conversation tapered away to more normal sounding stuff before he hung up and they both went back to sleep.

When she finally woke, it was with a niggling unease and it took her a while to link it to the phone call. Obviously, the conversation was about his ex-wife. Tom must be the lawyer handling the divorce. She lay there, anxiously thinking over what she had heard, trying to tell herself that it was none of her business. Trying to tell herself that lots of relationships break up on bad terms and she shouldn't read too much into what Robert had said. She suddenly felt she knew very little about him.

‘Don't tell me Sleeping Beauty has still not risen?' He was carrying breakfast on a tray. He sat on the bed next to her and kissed her forehead before balancing the tray on her knees.

‘Look, banana muffins, your favourite.' He broke off some, holding it to her lips.

She turned her head away.

‘What's wrong?'

‘If I tell you, you'll only say it's nothing to do with me.'

‘Try me.' He offered the olive branch, made it easy to ask.

‘It's about the phone call … the one you got this morning.'

‘You're cross with me for waking you up?' he asked with raised eyebrows.

‘No, silly … it's just that you sounded so angry … and so …'

‘Mean? Tight with my money?' he prompted, taking her hand in his.

She couldn't find a diplomatic answer so she waited for him to explain.

‘I can understand how you would think that from what you heard me say to Tom.' He sighed, letting go of her hand to stand up.

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up.'

‘No, you should have … you have every right to know what a big mistake I made with my marriage, what a bad judge of character I am. I confused companionship for love, and didn't realise until the honeymoon that I'd married a drunk …'

‘That must have been awful,' Claire said, sympathetic as she watched him pace the room.

‘Yes, it was pretty bad. I rang her mother after the honeymoon. I had never even met the woman – Julia told me that she had no contact with her – anyway, I found out her number and rang her. I figured that if I wanted to find out about the real Julia, her mother was the obvious place to start.'

He sat down again, his weight on the bed unbalancing the tray of untouched food. She steadied it.

‘Her mother told me that Julia had had a nervous breakdown a few months before she met me. She had been married before – the divorce was the trigger for her breakdown. The doctors at the hospital suspected she had a drinking problem … This was all news to me … I felt like a fool …'

‘You're not a fool, Robert. Everyone makes mistakes, even vice-presidents,' she said, teasing him to lighten the moment.

‘I tried to give it a go, at least for a year, but she wouldn't admit to her problems and the affection we had at the start wasn't strong enough to see us through. I'm still not without sympathy for her, but I don't believe that after one lousy year of marriage she's entitled to half of everything I've worked for …That's a
rather blunt but honest account of what led to the conversation you overheard.'

‘Thanks for telling me.'

When Robert had said a few months back that he was going through a divorce, he'd given no hint of the disappointment and self-blaming and ugliness that was going on in the background. Claire could understand now why he had run away to Sydney, and why he sometimes seemed overcome with regret, and whilst there was still a lot she had to process from their conversation, her most immediate feeling was that she felt closer to him.

She had a leisurely breakfast while he showered and dressed for work. She was content to watch him complete his morning routine. There seemed no need to talk after their intense conversation about his marriage.

The car phone rang while they were in transit to her apartment. She handed him the earpiece.

‘Hello, there,' he gave a friendly greeting to the caller. ‘It's a beautiful morning here in Sydney – blue skies, sunshine – it's good to be alive.' He turned to give Claire a wink. ‘Yeah, I got your message. Cathair came to the table on our compromise. I thought they would. It was a good result in the end … Yes … I'll make sure that it's not made public … I'm glad I didn't need to fly back … Yeah, sure … Catch up with you soon.'

‘Was that Donald Skates?' Claire asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Yes,' Robert confirmed, taking off the earpiece.

‘You sounded as if you know him quite well,' she commented.

‘Yes, I do … We go a long way back, Donald and I.'

‘What's he like?'

‘Donald? He's a nice man, good to work with … but sometimes he drives me crazy.'

‘Why?' she asked, laughing.

‘Because he's so damned conservative … afraid of making mistakes … I keep telling him we can't learn unless we make mistakes.'

‘That's a good line. I'll say that to you the next time I muck up.'

Robert didn't laugh at her joke; his thoughts were still with Donald.

‘My patience with him has been stretched to new limits with this Cathair deal. He's paranoid about everything – what the press print, what they don't print … I'm sure the press aren't half as interested in us as he thinks.'