The Trophy Wife by Evie Baxter
Five
Victoria looked positively waif like, perched on the sofa in my suite, ankle still being iced. A support bandage the doctor had left to use once the icing was done dangled from her finger as she stared at it with an unfocused expression. There was a fragility to her that wasn’t usually present with her ice queen demeanour. I felt a territorial need to protect her, and feed her. Christ, the woman needed a few good meals in her. Surely, she wasn’t that skinny from choice.
Grabbing the room service menu from a side table I turned back to her. “What would you like to eat?”
“Huh?” was her erudite response. She looked a little lost and confused, and I watched her grapple to return to her usual composure.
“Food, Victoria. It’s dinner time and I witnessed your lack of breakfast this morning. I am inclined to think you didn’t consume much more for lunch either. You need feeding,” I informed her bluntly.
“I can have some food delivered to my room. I’ll stop imposing on you now.” She shifted forward in the seat, making a move to get up and I leapt forward, pressing her back down.
“No, stay there. You’re in no shape to be traipsing back to your room right now. Please, let me take care of you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she snapped, waving my hands away irritably.
I decided to forego telling her that it was more than apparent that she wasn’t taking care of herself nearly as well as she thought if she was falling off ridiculously high spiked heels, and failing to feed herself properly, but I held my tongue. My Gran had been one who loved a good old proverb and one of her favourites was that you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Not that I was calling Victoria a fly, but you know what I mean. Best not to exasperate her temper any more than I already had.
“Absolutely,” I told her. “It’s obvious that you’re a functioning adult. But you’ve been injured and today has not been a typical day. Let me order us some food and I’ll help you back to your room after.”
She gave me a graceless and rather juvenile shrug. It reminded me that she was far younger than her severe clothing, make up and demeanour would indicate. By my calculations she was about twenty-eight years old. Seven years younger than I was. Without her usual cold, impenetrable mask in place, she looked much closer to her actual age than she had in the boardroom.
Taking her shrug as acquiescence, I ordered us a selection of appetizers and desserts, an easy meal to nibble on from the comfort of the sitting area. While we waited for the food to arrive, Victoria asked me to assist her to the facilities, which I did. Whilst she was busy, I went into the bedroom of the suite, changing out of my suit into less formal clothes.