The Trophy Wife by Evie Baxter

Twelve

What the hell? Why was Bastian standing at my door? I commanded my wayward heart to stop its ridiculously rampant pitter patter as I stroked Isla’s head. My real life and my former life came crashing together. Something that I had avoided since before Isla was born.

“Isla, honey, this is Mr. Locke. He was involved in the business I went to London to take care of.” I didn’t lie to my daughter ever, but she certainly didn’t need to know the whole truth either. I watched as Bastian’s dark eyes narrowed on mine. He knew I was being circumspect due to my daughter’s presence, but he also wanted to declare us as more. I could see it written in his expression.

But we weren’t more. It was a one off. A chance encounter as I closed out the final chapter of my former life. I didn’t belong in the city. My life was here, safe in my village. The village I grew up in. The village where my parents still lived. Just a few miles from my brother Peter’s home.

Bastian belonged in London. He was a successful businessman. That much was obvious, but I had no idea what he actually did for a living. Our encounter had been caused by circumstance, him rescuing me from that rabid pack of reporters, and my stupid ankle being sprained. It still hurt, but I kept it wrapped for support during the day and off it as much as I could.

All these thoughts flitted through my brain as Bastian continued to stare at me and Isla tugged on my hand, demanding my attention.

“What is it, honey?” I looked down at her tousled head, the tidy plaits I had put in that morning already pulled asunder from her rolling about the floor with Archie, our cat.

“Mummy, you didn’t tell him my name. You didn’t say I am Isla. And you need to ask Mr. Locke inside and offer him a cup of tea. Granny says that’s the polite thing to do.”

Bastian looked down at my daughter and smiled, holding out his hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Isla,” he said. “And I would very much like to have a cup of tea with your mummy. Will you be having one too?”

Isla giggled as she shook his hand vigorously, entranced by this big man. “I don’t drink tea! I’m only four,” she squealed.

Bastian crouched down in front of her, so they were on eye level. Oh, this man was good. I bet he could charm any female from the age of one to one hundred. Except me. Well, he had charmed me, right out of my granny pants. But I didn’t want to be charmed any more. He had liked the city me, the one all done up in makeup and high heels. He was in for a shock if he thought that woman existed outside his imagination anymore.

He continued his charm offensive on Isla, ignoring me glowering down at him. “Do you think your mummy is going to let me in and offer me tea like you said she should?”

Isla ignored that question and asked one of her own. “Are you a friend of my mummy’s?”

“Yes,” he lied. “But I would like to be a closer friend to her. Maybe if she made me tea and I had a chat to her she would stop frowning at me.”

Stop using my child against me! That was fighting dirty.

“Come on, Mummy, let’s put the kettle on.” Isla dragged at my arm, pulling me away from the door. “Maybe Mr. Locke would like one of the cookies we made this morning,” she tagged on.

“That sounds lovely,” Bastian chimed in. “Lead the way, young lady.” Isla grinned up at him, thrilled at this chance to have a cookie right before lunch. She was a devious young soul.

“Isla, you get the cookie tin and I’ll put the kettle on. Take one cookie for yourself while I call Granny and see if you can have lunch with her today.”

Isla hurried to the pantry to get the tin, all the while groaning, “Mummmmeeeeeee! I want to stay and make friends with Mr. Locke.”

I ignored her plea, reaching for my phone. “Mummy needs to talk to Mr. Locke alone, honey. I’m sure he’s very busy and wants to get this meeting over with.” I glared at him, willing him to agree. He was impervious to my silent message, or aware but didn’t care.

“I’ve got all the time in the world. Maybe I will still be here when you come back from your granny’s, Isla.”

“He won’t,” I chimed in quickly.

“That’s rude, Mummy.” Wasn’t I pleased that all the careful lessons on proper behaviour that I had tried to instil in my daughter took root so well? Bloody perfect.

I had a brief, muffled call with my mum, asking her to come get Isla, saying I would tell her what it was all about afterwards. Minutes later she breezed in through the kitchen door, bright and cheery on this sunny morning in a linen tunic style dress.

“Come on, Isla,” she said scooping her granddaughter up into her arms, “Let’s go and terrorise your grandfather. He’s gardening and we can see how many worms we can find.” My mother was still in her fifties, and fit as a fiddle as demonstrated by the way she handled Isla’s robust form. I saw her giving Bastian the once over, but she didn’t even ask for an introduction, just put Isla down and took her by the hand as they walked out the door.

“Bye, Mr. Locke,” Isla waved to our visitor. “I hope you’re still here when I come home.”

The little, albeit unknowing, traitor.

I turned to Bastian as they disappeared around the corner of the house, my arms crossed defensively over my chest. “What do you want?” I demanded.

“To see you, Victoria. You upped and left my bed before I could make arrangements to see you again.”

I scowled at him. “That was intentional. Why didn’t you take the hint?” I said rudely.

He was undeterred. “Because I think you like me more than you’re letting on. How’s the ankle, by the way?” He glanced down at the offending foot, seeing the elastic bandage wrapped around it. “Still sore? Does it need x-raying?”

As if he was in charge of me, he led me over to the kitchen table and pulled out one of the chunky pine chairs, indicating for me to sit before he pulled out another and lifted my foot upon it. I stared at him dumbfounded. How was this man able to walk into my house and take over like this?

“I’m fine!” I snapped.

Ignoring my temper, he started opening cupboards. “Where’s your mugs and your tea?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” I went to get up.

This he chose not to ignore. “Sit down!” he barked at me. “I’m perfectly capable of making tea, if you’ll just tell me where things are.”

We had a glowering contest, which I suppose Bastian won because I caved. “Mugs are in the third cupboard over. Tea is in the blue cannister on the counter. Milk in the fridge,” I finished facetiously. He gave me a small eye roll but skipped replying as he went about pouring hot water from the kettle over the tea bags he dropped into each mug. He found a teaspoon without my aid and scooped out the teabags when they had steeped long enough.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked me, as he took the carton of milk from the fridge.

“Just milk,” I replied, gracelessly.

He placed a mug on the table before me, swivelling back to the counter and returning with his tea and the tin of chocolate chip cookies that Isla had left open on the countertop. Reaching in, he took one. “Did you make these?” he asked companionably. Like I wasn’t contemplating stabbing him or some similarly violent action.

“Isla and I did. After breakfast.” I took one too, because for the first time in longer than I could remember, my appetite was back. Even with this infuriating man sitting opposite me.

“Okay,” Bastian said, looking at me, “let’s get this started.”

“There’s nothing to start,” I said petulantly, because he was making me feel particularly obstreperous and infantile. I was finally getting to him because he heaved a sigh. I gave myself a little mental fist bump of jubilation. I liked poking this bear.

“Victoria…” he started but I interrupted.

“Tori. My name is Tori. It was Robert who insisted I go by Victoria. I don’t want to be called that. Ever again.”

“Right,” he took a deep breath, “Tori, I didn’t come here to annoy you. I came because I like you. I certainly don’t regret what happened between us. Maybe I am going about this in an arse backwards way, but I would really like to see more of you.” He clasped his mug between his two big hands, keeping his eyes on mine so I could see his sincerity.

“That would be a little difficult considering you now know where my life exists. This is me, Bastian.” I swiped my arm out to encompass my house, my life and, most importantly, my child in the one action. “I’m not available for a casual fling in London.”

His face darkened at my words. “Who said that was what I wanted?”

“Um, the one night stand in London gave me lots of clues.”

“Tori, be reasonable. We both acted on the attraction we had to each other. So it was a little precipitous of us to sleep with each other right away. That does not mean there can’t be more between us. It doesn’t make it a one night stand.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, then enunciated carefully. “That was a one night stand. End of.”

“That,” he rose to his feet as his voice rose too, “was not a fucking one-night stand!” he ended on a low roar.

I couldn’t help it, instinct and muscle memory kicked in. I cowered, raising my arms in defence, curling in on myself as I lurched back from Bastian. His face froze, looking at me in horror.