I sit up. I need to talk to him. I can get over The Manor, I think. But I know, for absolutely sure, I’ll never get over Jesse. This is an easy decision really. Seeing him so fraught and desperate must at least mean he’s hurting, surely? He wouldn’t behave like that if I didn’t mean something to him, would he? So many questions…

I look at Sam. A small smile spreads across his cheeky face. ‘My work here is done.’ he mimics Jesse’s words as he gets up on a little wince. ‘That evil cow, she’ll be moaning when I can’t perform.’

I smile on the inside. This bombshell, obviously, hasn’t affected Kate in the same way it has me. I throw on the nearest clothes I can find – which happen to be ripped jeans and a Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt – and grab my car keys. Tears flood my eyes and guilt punches a great hole in the stomach. I’ve made a monumental fuck up. He was the one who wanted the cards on the table. He was going to tell me about The Manor, but was there something else he wanted to tell me? I hope so, because I’m on my way to find out. Sarah’s warning about building dreams on Jesse comes crashing back into my mind as I race down to my car. Maybe, she’s right, but I can’t live not knowing.

Chapter 38

I drive to Lusso in a stupid fashion, overtaking, banging my car horn impatiently and running a few red lights. When I pull up at the docks, I see Jesse’s car parked on an angle, spanning two of his allocated spaces. I abandon my Mini on the road, let myself in the pedestrian gate – thanking all that’s holy I remember the code – and rush into the foyer, finding Clive at the concierge desk. He’s looking more cheerful than usual.

‘Ava! I’ve finally got the hang of all this ruddy equipment.’ he declares delightedly.

I brace myself on the high, marble counter to catch my breath. ‘Great, Clive. I told you it would come.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. I’m just going up to Jesse.’

The phone on the desk starts ringing, and Clive holds his finger up in a signal for me to excuse him for a second. ‘Mr Holland? Yes Sir, of course, Sir.’ He hangs up, scribbling a few notes on his pad. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘That’s okay. I’ll make my way up.’

‘Ah, Ava, Mr Ward hasn’t notified me of your visit.’ He scans his screen.

I gape at him. Is he having me on? He’s seen Jesse carry me in and out of this place on numerous occasions. What’s he playing at? I smile sweetly. ‘How are you finding the job, Clive?’

He immediately becomes willing and animated. ‘Well, I’m basically a personal assistant to thirteen filthy rich residents, but I love it. You should hear some of the requests I get. Yesterday, Mr Daniels asked me to organise a chopper ride over the city for his daughter and three friends and…’ He leans over the counter, lowering his voice. ‘Mr Gomez up on fifth, he has a different woman every day of the week. And Mr Holland seems to have a thing for the Thai birds. But keep that to yourself. It’s all confidential.’ He winks, and I wonder what Jesse has had him do or arrange. Organise for his smashed car window to be fixed would be a start.

‘Wow, it sounds very interesting. I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Clive.’ I broaden my smile at him. ‘Do you mind if I head up?’

‘I need to call first, Ava.’

‘Call then!’ I huff impatiently, standing and shifting irritably, while Clive rings up to the penthouse.

He hangs up and dials again. ‘I’m sure I saw him pass through.’ he mutters on a frown. ‘Maybe, I didn’t.’

‘His car’s outside, he must be here,’ I push frantically. ‘Try again.’ I point to the telephone. Clive presses a few buttons again as I look on.

He hangs up again, shaking his head. ‘No, he’s definitely not there. And he hasn’t put a DND on his system, so he’s not asleep or busy. He must have gone out.’

I frown. ‘DND?’

‘Do not disturb.’

‘Oh. Clive, I know he’s home. Please, can I go up?’ I plead. I can’t believe he’s being so difficult.

He leans over his desk, narrows his eyes on me and looks to either side, checking the coast is clear. ‘I can get in serious trouble for not following protocol, but as it’s you, Ava,’ He winks. ‘Go on.’ He thumbs over his shoulder and straightens his green hat.

‘Thanks, Clive.’

I jump in the elevator, punch in the code and pray he hasn’t got around to re-programming it in the short time I’ve been gone. I let out a relieved breath of air when the doors close and I start my journey to the penthouse. He’s got to answer the door yet – I don’t have a key.

My stomach does a few three sixties as the elevator door slides open and I’m faced with the double doors into Jesse’s apartment. I frown to myself. The door’s open and there’s music – very loud music.

I walk to the door, gently pushing it open, my ears instantly bombarded from every direction by an extremely powerful and poignant, but equally sad track. I recognise it instantly – Angel. The words hit me like a thunderbolt, immediately putting me on guard. Right now, it sounds so loud and depressing, not soft and ardent like it was when we made love. I need to find a remote control so I can turn it down, or off. It’s so affecting. And with it coming from all of the integrated speakers, there’s no escaping it. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe the system has malfunctioned because he couldn’t possibly sustain this noise level for long. But the door was wide open. I clamp my hands over my ears as I glance around the huge space trying to locate a remote control. Running into the kitchen, I spot one on the island and quickly find the volume button to turn the music down – a lot.

Once I’ve taken care of the noise levels, I go in search of him, making my way through the open plan area. As I reach the stairs, I kick something and watch as it clatters across the floor. I pick up the glass bottle and place it on the console unit at the bottom of the stairs before taking them two at a time.

I go straight to the master suite, but he’s not in there. I proceed to frantically search every other room on the floor. He’s in none of them. Where is he? I get half way down the stairs, stopping abruptly when my eyes land on the empty bottle that I scooped up.

It’s vodka. Well, it was. It’s been drained dry.

A wave of uneasiness rolls over me as a million thoughts invade my head. I’ve never seen Jesse drink – not ever. Every time alcohol has been on offer, he’s refused, ordering water instead. It never occurred to me to wonder why. Have I ever seen him drink? No, I don’t think I have. Now, looking at the empty bottle of vodka placed carefully on the table and thinking about how carelessly it was tossed on the floor, something isn’t right.

‘Oh, please no.’ I whisper to myself.

His insistence on me not drinking on Friday comes rushing back into my mind like a tidal wave. Our little altercation in The Blue Bar, when he tried to force feed me some water, suddenly doesn’t seem so unusual or unreasonable.

I hear a crash, my eyes snapping from the empty bottle of vodka to the outside terrace. The huge glass doors are open. I sprint the rest of the way down the stairs, across the living space, skidding to a halt at the doors when I see Jesse struggling to get himself up from one of the sun loungers. Have I had my eyes closed for the past few weeks? I’ve missed so much.