The Girlfriend (The Boss) (17 page)

The rest of the appointment kind of rushed past me in a blur of medical terms and growing dread. Dr. Grant warned us that patients who didn’t respond well to chemotherapy, who experienced “blast crisis,” had a very low survival rate. I didn’t know what blast crisis was. I didn’t know what level of cancer Neil had. All the numbers and figures confused me, and they all sounded like worst-case scenarios. Neil grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and I didn’t know if he was bolstering my courage or his.

Shit. This was real. All of it. Neil could die. Obviously, I’d thought of it before, but it had seemed such an outlandish possibility. “Neil could die” had been framed in an abstract way in my mind; anyone could die, theoretically. But the way Dr. Grant spoke, stern and without humor, made Neil’s mortality more immediate. I didn’t like it, and yet I appreciated it so much more than I would ever express to him. The cold, impersonal way he talked of Neil’s chances made them easier to confront.

Neil didn’t ask many questions. I had a feeling that, control freak that he was, he’d already pored over every website and medical journal available. But that wouldn’t make him feel any better. Neil wouldn’t be happy unless there was some magical switch to turn off his cancer, and then only if he got to flip it himself.

Near the end of the appointment, he said, his mouth audibly dry, “You’ve certainly given me much to consider.”

Dr. Grant looked briefly over at me. “I need to be clear about this type of treatment. The high dose chemotherapy is very likely to destroy your fertility. If the two of you were thinking of starting a family, you’ll want to explore some alternative options.”

Neil’s eyebrows rose. “Alternative options?”

“Some patients choose to bank their sperm, for example,” Dr. Grant said. “If that’s of interest to the two of you—”
 

“I’m not sure we can answer that today,” Neil said, glancing uncomfortably at me.

Yes, we can
, I thought, looking him straight in the eye, so he would know what I was thinking.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, doctor. My daughter Emma will remain in touch regarding arrangements at the house, if you’re still comfortable with me receiving the bulk of my treatment there?”

“Whatever we can do in the home, I’d like to. Patients seem to respond better than in a hospital environment, but hospitalization can’t be avoided entirely.”
 

“I understand.” Neil looked a great deal more anxious than he had when we’d first arrived for the appointment. Dr. Grant stood to show us to an exam room, where a nurse drew Neil’s blood. Dr. Grant would call us with the results.
 

We didn’t talk on the way out. Neil was super tense, and he kept swallowing and alternately clearing his throat.

And it wasn’t until we were in the car that I realized what was going on.

“Neil... are you crying?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.

He was resting his elbow on the car door, and resting his mouth against his fist. His knuckles were white. “No.”

Okay, he was totally crying. “It’s okay if you are. You just got some pretty fucked up news.”

“It isn’t news. I always knew that eventually, this would happen. I would stop responding to the drugs, or...” he shook his head. There was a tear track on his cheek, but his voice didn’t betray any sign of emotion. He could have been ordering dinner. “I’m just not looking forward to this.”

“No one looks forward to chemotherapy.” I reached over and put my hand on his knee. He didn’t take it.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. When he did, his voice wavered. “Right now, all I’m seeing is a very long, very painful tunnel, and there’s no light at the other side.”

“No,” I said firmly. “No, you can’t think like that—”

“I bloody well can!” He shouted, and I jumped back in surprise. He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with tears. I knew he was ashamed of himself; he didn’t like being out of control.
 

He took a breath and calmed some. “I’ve been dealing with this for a lot longer than just today. I’m out of patience, and I feel like I’m out of time.”

“You’re not. Look, this is really dangerous. But you said yourself that your wealth gives you advantages other people don’t have.” He didn’t want to be comforted, but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. “You’re allowed to be afraid. And you’re allowed to cry about this. But you have to remember that when you’re talking about cancer studies and numbers and percentages, they’re talking about people in the real world.”

“And I’m not living in the real world?” he asked testily.

“I may have worded that wrong.”

He nodded. “I am certain that you did. My wealth does not exempt me from death, Sophie. I’ve only got this one world, and it is incredibly fucking real to me. If this is a problem for you, then I suggest we work out a different arrangement than the one we have.”

Okay. I deserved that.

When we got back to the house, he went straight to his den and shut the door. Since he hadn’t spoken to me since the car, I was pretty sure that meant he wanted time alone.

I went to the living room on the second floor and turned on the television, flipping through channels without finding anything familiar to watch. I ended up laying on the couch, dozing off, and flipping through channels. If we had been in New York, I could have walked somewhere. Maybe gotten a coffee and cooled down. But here, I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t even have the right currency yet.

I felt trapped and lonely, and shitty over what I had said. After two hours of that, I decided I had to at least try to talk to Neil.

I started hearing the music about halfway up the stairs. The Smiths. Well, at least it wasn’t
depressing
.

I knocked on the door, and raised my voice to be heard above the music. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” he called, but he didn’t sound too thrilled.

Squaring my shoulders, I pushed the door open. “So... I think this is the part where I apologize for being such an asshole.”

Neil was slumped down on the leather sofa, a glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle of something amber on the floor beside his foot. “Asshole wouldn’t have been the word I used, but if that’s what you’re comfortable with, I won’t argue.”

“Gee, thanks.” I didn’t know if he was supposed to be drinking or not, but I let it go for now. I hovered inside the door. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole about your money. I need to be more mindful about the fact that our experiences are different. And that you’re going through something I don’t understand. I couldn’t possibly understand it. I know that every time I say something about your cancer, I’m dismissive. It’s not because I don’t care about you. I just don’t want to face the truth.”

“That I might die?” he asked, pointedly fixing me with his gaze.

“Yes.” It was blunt, but there it was. “I am doing my patented Sophie Scaife avoidance technique, wherein I ignore anything unpleasant in the hopes it will just go away.”

“I seem to recall this technique blowing up in your face just a few weeks ago.” There was an undercurrent of scolding in his tone that I very much deserved.

“I’ll learn. Eventually. I promise.”

He patted the sofa beside him. It’s one of those pieces of furniture that looks like it’s too modern to be comfortable, but it was actually quite nice. The wide, square cushions were surprisingly squishy, which made it a little difficult to not topple over and lean against him. I kept my feet flat on the floor for stability.

“I know that you’re not used to my lifestyle,” he began, his deep voice low. “And I know it might seem like I have access to some magical font of medicine that the rest of you puny mortals do not.”

I was glad he could at least have a little bit of a sense of humor about it.

“But I’m scared, Sophie. Money does not guarantee immortality. My father was proof of that. He died in his fifties. In three months, I’ll be forty-nine. And for the past four years, I’ve been living with a ticking clock.”

“Is that why everything has been moving so fast between us?” I couldn’t help but think about his admission in New York, that he’d proposed to Elizabeth out of a need to control his life.

“No,” he said immediately, then followed it with, “all right, it could be. But I don’t feel like I’m making a mistake with you. I did, with Elizabeth. I married her, even though I was still unrealistically in love with a woman I was never going to see again.”

“But you did see me again.” I reached for his hand, and he squeezed mine gratefully.

“I did. And now we’re together. And I feel like the clock has sped up, when I don’t want it to.” He shook his head. “It’s selfish of me, but I want you to feel the same way. I want to know that you’re not okay with our time together being potentially cut short.”

A painful sob welled in my chest, and I opened my mouth, unable to say a word. I took a sharp breath and swallowed. “Neil... I am so terrified of losing you, I moved to a foreign country with you. I abandoned my old life, I put my career on the back burner... I don’t want to hold that over your head for the rest of forever, but I don’t know what else I should do to prove to you that I care about you.”

He lifted his gaze from our entwined fingers, to look into my eyes. “Tell me. That’s all. When I say I’m afraid, don’t ask me not to be. Tell me that you are, as well. That’s all the reassurance I need.”

I hugged him, hard.

“It isn’t that I’m not scared. I am. I thought I was doing you a favor by downplaying it.” I leaned back, and he reached up to smooth my hair from my forehead. “I never meant to hurt you, or make you feel like I didn’t care. But I need to be able to deny this a little bit, too. I haven’t had four years to process it all.”

“I know.” He pulled me into his arms again and squeezed me tight. “Things will be better once we’re settled in here, and we can establish some kind of normal.”

I stroked his back through his shirt. “Do you want to skip Paris? Dr. Grant didn’t sound thrilled about the delay. It’s not going to hurt my feelings if we leave Paris for another time.”

“No.” He pulled slightly away, his expression one of total puzzlement. “Sophie, no. Paris is as much for me as it is for you. I want to do something truly romantic for you, so you can have a happy memory, in case...”

“In case you die?” There. I acknowledged it. “You don’t know for sure that you’re going to die from this, or that we’re not going to have any happiness between then and now, if it does happen.”

He looked like he didn’t know what to say to that, probably because he knew it was true. He stalled a moment, lifting my hand to his lips and murmuring, “I want to go to Paris with you because I want to forget what’s going on here. Maybe I want to take comfort in denial, as well. Just for a few days, I want to be Neil and Sophie meeting in that suite at the W for sweaty, forbidden, boss-on-secretary sex.”

“Excuse me, ‘assistant,’” I reminded him.

He pushed me back on the cushions, his teeth finding my earlobe. He sucked it between his lips, then released it and whispered, “You have no idea what I have planned for you.”

I sat up a little, so I could breathe. “You’re set on going?”

“We are going.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “If I’m facing possible death, I think I deserve one last hurrah.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Okay. I know I’m not supposed to argue with you when you talk about dying. And yes, you could die, Neil. But I could get hit by a bus and die tomorrow. Either we need to live every single day together like it’s our last, or we need to be comfortable with the fact that some times are just sucky times.”

“Which reminds me,” he said, pulling me up with him. “When you cross the street, remember to look to the right first.”

“I’m serious.” I was going to stand firm on this point. “I’m not going to listen to a bunch of ‘last’ this and ‘final’ that. Not until you’re actually dying. And no more Morrissey. He’s going to make you depressed.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Neil said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ve never had to have lunch with the man.”

CHAPTER TEN

We flew into Paris the next night, on the private jet. It wasn’t a long enough flight to do anything truly naughty, but we did decide on our terms for the weekend. Nothing was off the table, except electricity and anything that would leave a permanent mark. Our safe words would be the same, and if at any time I wanted to call off my total submission, I could. But I was so ready to belong to him, so desperate to be fucked by him again that I doubted I would be willing to call off anything at all.

I think we both needed to escape into fantasy, even if that meant pushing limits further than we had before. Maybe what we were doing was mentally unhealthy. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone describe denial as an A+ coping strategy. But if we weren’t focused on our issues, we weren’t arguing, and I suspected arguing might become a regular occurrence as we navigated this cancer thing. It was one thing to be afraid he might die; it was another to be afraid that our relationship wouldn’t survive.

I was a day from my two week prohibition being up, but I’d decided that enough was enough. I wasn’t having cramps, I wasn’t bleeding, I didn’t feel like I’d had an abortion at all. I felt like me again, and my libido was back with a vengeance, ready to make up for the time I’d lost.

The holiday would definitely be interesting.

We flew into Charles De Gaulle airport and landed at about six p.m. After a perfunctory customs check, we left the plane for a car, a Rolls-Royce Phantom with a driver but no partition, so we had to behave ourselves. That just meant that I could pay attention to the beauty of the city, still dressed for Christmas, once we got off the massive freeway and into Paris proper.

A light snow was falling as we drove down the Champs-Élysées, making the pavement wet so the headlights and taillights on every car were magnified into two point stars. The trees that lined the street were decorated in hypnotic gold and silver lights, and the Arc de Triomphe rose up before us, illuminated in sprays of gold.

I had been to Paris once before, for fashion week, but as Gabriella’s assistant, I’d spent most of my time staring down at my phone, putting out fires. I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to see the sights, something I’d expressed to Neil before we’d left. I’d planned a lunch with Holli, but other than that, our schedule was open and Neil had promised we would do whatever I wanted.