Improper English (20 page)

But he did. His voice, that lovely voice that was all rounded vowels and richness that never failed to send shivers of delight down my spine, that voice that evoked a sense of intimacy ripe with promise, now scraped against me as if it were etching into stone. “Sweetheart, you know I…oh, Christ, what now? Terry, are you monitoring the radio? Isn’t that our suspect in the blue mini leaving the premises? Alix, I really must—”

Someone tapped on the door to the phone box. I turned around to stare, uncaring that the stranger would see the tears rolling down my cheeks. A harassed-looking woman with two kids hanging off her shopping bags made an impatient gesture. I nodded, but when I turned back to the phone, it was dead. Alex had hung up on me. Without even saying goodbye, he’d just hung up on
me. On the worst day of my life. I meant that little to him.

My forehead fell forward to rest on top of the phone again as I hung up the receiver. Standing up straight seemed like too much effort. “Goodbye,” I whispered, sure that this time I would die of my broken heart.

I didn’t die, of course—people don’t really die of such a thing. Although I know from experience that the pain of rejection is often so great it does seem possible. But I wasn’t pathetic enough to simply crumple up at a phone box outside the Tower of London. Instead, I fell back on a trusted standby, a tried and true safety net. I made a mental list as I plodded home.

Topping the list in the position of supreme importance was having a good long cry, at least a two-tissue-box sobfest. Following that, I was going to have a nice wallow in self-pity, and then a lengthy sulk. Only after I had worked the sulk out of my system would I turn my attention to making voodoo dolls of Alex and inflicting horrible tortures upon them. After that, of course, I would eat three pounds of chocolate, be sick for a week, and slowly return to the land of the living with yet another layer of scars on my poor embittered heart.

Only this time I wasn’t sure I was going to recover from the wounds.

“Bawling, pity party, sulking, horrible tortures, chocolate,” I ran over the list as I made my way home. Lists are important things to have in your life. Lists are good. They keep you organized even when you don’t want to be organized. Focusing on the list kept my mind busy, occupied in a nice, orderly fashion without allowing it to dwell on the horrible, gut-wrenching pain Alex’s betrayal
had caused…no! I wouldn’t think of that. The list! The list was important! I must remember the list! “Crying for hours and hours, huge wallow in self-pity, major sulking session, cruel, inhuman tortures that would render a mere mortal into a twisted, pain-riddled ball of flesh with absolutely no future but that involving endless torment, to be followed by a lifetime membership in Godiva’s Chockie of the Day club.”

Someone had propped the front door open to catch a draft in the house. I stumbled up the stairs, a fervent thanks trembling on my lips. I wasn’t up to struggling with the stroppy lock.

Ray thumped down the stairs toward me with a bag of garbage in her arms as I slowly made my way up to my floor.

“You look like hell,” she said, pausing as I lumbered upwards. “Freemar?”

“Crying jag, pity-a-thon, sulk city, tortures that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a love-fest, enough chocolate to drop a horse,” I told her.

“A few of your favorite things?” she called up after me as I continued onward. I shook my head at the concern rife in her voice. I appreciated it, but couldn’t face it at that moment. Even one remotely nice word and I would break down, dissolve into a big old puddle of misery. While I knew that was inevitable, I wanted to do it in private, not on the stairs where everyone would witness the pitiful remains of my life.

“Freemar?”

I ignored her and kept walking.

“Alix, are you all right? Something the matter?” Ray stomped back up the stairs after me and grabbed my arm. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

I frowned. “No, that comes after I eat enough chocolate to fill a bathtub. I can’t be sick now. I have a list and I have to stick to it.”

“A list?” Her forehead wrinkled in concern.

I nodded. The list took on all-encompassing importance in my poor heated brain. I had a list of tasks, therefore I must accomplish them. It was as simple as that.

“The order is of extreme importance,” I told her. “First things first, Ray. First I cry for eighteen hours straight, then I fall into self-pity and don’t emerge for a year or two, then I wreak vengeance upon Alex’s hideous mortal form via voodoo dolls, then I consume such quantities of chocolate as to cause diabetes in anyone who comes within a five-mile radius of me,
then
I get sick. You see the importance of the order of the list, don’t you?”

“Erm…”

I nodded at her again and started up the next flight of stairs. “First I cry…”

“Bert!” Ray bellowed.

“…then I descend into pity hell…”

“Bert, come out here!”

I rounded the landing nodding to myself as Ray stood with her hands on her hips, yelling through the open door of her flat. “Aren’t you out of the bath yet?”

I was sorry she was worried about me, but concern for others wasn’t on the list, so I couldn’t devote any energy to that now.

“It’s an emergency! Freemar is having man troubles!”

Later, after I had worked through everything on the list, then I would reassure her that I was OK.

“You’re better at this than I am. She’s blathering something about torturing Black!”

I ignored the voice drifting up from the floor below and let myself into my flat, then started rounding up items I would need for my first task. I plumped up the pillows on the daybed, looked in vain for tissue, and ended up corralling all the available rolls of toilet paper instead, lining them up on the table next to the bed. I looked around the room.

“Pillows for sobbing into, bed to fling myself upon, toilet paper for nose-blowing and eye-mopping…I think it’s all there. Excellent. The weeping and wailing can commence. Oh, hell, now what?” The phone rang just as someone pounded on the door. I put my hands on my hips and glared at both before grabbing the phone with one hand and opening the door with the other. Ray stood in the doorway, a box of tissues in hand. She held them out to me.

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk now. I have a list, and it’s important I stay on schedule,” I told whoever was on the phone. “If I slack off on the crying time, I’ll have to shortshift the self-pity and sulking.”

“I thought you might want to talk,” Ray said hesitantly, still offering the box of tissues.

“Alix Freemar? This is Maureen Tully. I’d like to talk to you about
Ravening Raptures
.”

“My book?” A dim ray of hope shot through the black storm clouds of misery. She wanted to talk about my manuscript? That was good, wasn’t it? That meant Daniel’s assessment of my writing talent was wrong! I put my mental list on hold, waved Ray into the flat, closed the door, and used my foot to snag the ladderback chair next to the table. “Oh, hello, Ms. Tully. Sure, I’d be happy to talk to you about my story. I take it you’ve had a chance to read—”

“I’m sending you a check for half of my editing fee.”

I blinked at Ray perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chaise. Was the story so good she didn’t do any editing on it? No, even I didn’t believe that! “You’re sending me a check? I don’t understand, why are you—”

“I’m invoking the refusal clause in the contract. I don’t feel the entire manuscript has held up to the promise of the initial chapters. As I’ve done some work on it, I’m only refunding you half of my editing fee.”

My knees weakened and gave way under me. I plopped down onto the ground with a hollow, “What?”

Ray jumped up to offer me the box of tissues. For lack of anything else to do, I took them.

“I’m sorry, Miss Freemar, but your story does not fit my needs at this time. I wish you the best of luck with it, however. I will return your manuscript with the check. Good day.”

She didn’t want my story? She thought it was lacking in promise? My stomach roiled as the putrid stench of yet more rejection hit me.

“Alix?”

I blinked to clear my eyes and stared wordlessly at a worried Ray, then handed her the phone receiver. She hung it up gently, frowned at it for a few seconds, then squatted next to me. She prodded me with the tissue box.

“Erm…I brought them for you to use. Bert’s better at this than I am, but she’s in the bath. She should be along presently, so it would be best if you could hold off the histrionics until she’s here.”

I stared at the box, then realized that my mouth was hanging open. I closed it, swallowed back a big lump, and handed the tissues back to her. “Thank you, but I
don’t need these. I have my toilet paper rolls all lined up and ready for use.”

She shot me a look of disbelief. I gave in and took one of her tissues and blew my nose.

“I take it that was not good news?”

I shook my head and mopped at my damp eyes. “No, it wasn’t good news. It was bad news. Exceptionally bad news. My agent has dumped me.”

“Dumped you?”

“Dumped me. As in, she doesn’t want me. As in, she thinks my story isn’t good.”

Ray grimaced as she patted my hand. I patted her arm in return. “It’s OK, I’m no stranger to rejection, especially not today, not on the single worst day of my whole, entire life. Daniel rejected me today, too.”

Ray glanced nervously at the door. “Daniel? Who’s Daniel?”

“Alex’s friend. He’s a writer. He looked over my story and told me it was crap, utter crap.”

She patted me again.

“Utter and complete crap without any redeeming value whatsoever.”

“I’m sure it isn’t
that
bad. Bert was quite taken with it. I thought it sounded very colorful.”

I shook my head. “No, he’s right, it is crap. I see that now.” Another painful lump arose in my throat. I swallowed it back and plucked two more tissues from Ray’s box. “But that’s not the worst of this hideous day.”

Ray nodded sympathetically. “Black.”

“Exactly. He dumped me, too.”

Her eyes widened. “Doesn’t sound like Black to me.”

“Well, it is. He’s an insensitive, selfish, self-consumed, workaholic boob who doesn’t care about anyone unless
they happen to fulfill a purpose for him. He’s so caught up in himself, he can’t bother with anyone else.” Tears welled up at the thought of what a selfish beast he was, and how much his lack of concern about me hurt. How could I have been so wrong about him? How could I have been so blind to the fact that he was no different from any other man? Why couldn’t he be perfect?

She frowned. “You’re upset with him. Emotional. You’re not thinking rationally. Black isn’t like that.”

“He can’t even take the time to support me when I’m having an emotional crisis!” I grabbed more tissues and mopped at my streaming eyes. “I called and told him what happened with Daniel, and all he did was tell me he was in some stupid car going on some stupid job and that I should just go home and he would call me later.”

She watched me blow my nose again, her eyes warm with concern. “His job is important. You know that.”

“I know it’s important, but I want to be
more
important to him than catching some dirty old man! If the shoes were on the other feet, I would drop everything to comfort him! The truth is…” My voice caught on a breathy sob. I pushed my way up the wall and locked my knees until they stopped shaking. “The truth is, he just doesn’t care enough about me. Not really. I was wrong when I thought he might love…” My throat closed on the word. I snatched the box of tissues and opened the door. “I’m sorry, Ray, but I can’t talk to you now. I am determined to see to the items on my list, and I can’t indulge in sobbing and wailing and rending my clothing in front of you.”

I closed the door on her protest and started toward the bed, drying my tears en route. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly, and that meant a full-fledged
hissy fit rather than the silent, hot tears that had been etching their way down my face. I threw myself down on the bed and waited for the bawling to commence. It didn’t happen. Instead I lay on my back and stared up at the interesting network of cracks in the plaster ceiling, my eyes hot but suddenly dry. I found that if I squinted, the cracks morphed themselves into the shape of a heart with a dagger plunged into its depths.

A knock at the door disturbed my contemplation of the murdered heart.

“Alix, Ray said you’re having a bit of a blue day.” Bert’s look of sympathy wrapped around me like a warm coat. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m just here sobbing my eyes out. It’s the first item on my list.”

“Is it?” She hesitated, sneaking little glances around the flat. She sniffed delicately. “You’re not…er…doing anything rash, are you?”

“Rash?” I leaned one hip against the door and considered the question. I wasn’t being rash, I was being orderly and productive. I had been dealt three horrendous blows, each blow capable of crumpling me singly; together they had enough destructive power to level a midsized city. And yet, despite all that, I had gathered my wits and come up with a list of productive tasks that would push me well into the recovery zone.

Or so I hoped.

“No, I’m not doing anything rash. I’m just taking care of item number one of my list. Crying.”

“I see.” Bert pursed her lips and glanced over her shoulder. Ray was hovering in the shadow of the stairs. I waved a hand at her. She waved back. “May I come in?” Bert asked.

I shook my head and propped my arm out against the door frame at an obstructive angle. “Thanks, but not right now, Bert. I’ve got all this crying to do, you see, and it’s always embarrassing to be swollen-eyed and snarfy-nosed around people.”

“But…” Bert shifted to the side and cast another glance over my shoulder. I swore I heard her sniff again. “But you’re not crying now.”

I blinked at her. “Yes, I am.”

She bit her lip, then laid a gentle hand on my arm. “No, Alix, you’re not. Your eyes are dry. Bloodshot, but dry.”

I blinked again. Trust my body to turn against me along with everyone else. Now that I wanted to sport a few tears, where were they? “I’m…uh…I’m crying on the inside.”