Submitting to the Billionaire(6)

"I must be coming down with something. Whatever it is, I definitely don't want to give it to Dad."

"No, no, definitely not. Sit down and I'll make you a cup of tea."

I smile weakly at her. "No, I won't stay. I think I'll just go back and get back in bed."

"You shouldn't have come around. You should have just called."

"I only started to feel bad in the car." It's partly true. The true  enormity of the situation only started to hit home while I was driving  over.
         

     



 
I take my phone out and call Uber and arrange for Nan's transport to the  hospital. Then I get back into my car and drive to Hyde Park. I park in  a place I shouldn't, but quite frankly, I don't care if I get a ticket.

It is a dull, overcast day, and rain is forecast, but I go into the  park. Sitting down on an unoccupied bench, I google ‘gambling addiction'  on my cellphone. Over four million pages on the subject. I start  clicking on the links and find out the most important thing to remember  is not to lose faith if a loved one wants to overcome addiction.

That a support system is absolutely vital for the recovery process. It  is a difficult road to travel, but the way to make the process easier  and more successful is to recognize that it is actually an illness. A  mental illness. I learn that addictions can change the way the brain  functions. It skews perceived needs so that the addiction becomes the  top priority, and that is what leads to the compulsive, uncontrollable  behavior.

Apparently, there are millions of people who have a gambling addiction.  Some to a lesser degree, but for some it is bad enough to wreck  marriages and families.

I scroll down and read about other people's experiences. Wives who have  left their husbands. Wives who have stayed and supported them through  the hell. The main advice they all offer is to be a support system, but  not to become the enabler.

The most important aspect of support is communicating in an open and  honest way and creating boundaries, they say, by telling your loved one  what you are and aren't willing to do. Being consistent in your  expression of loving them and wanting to help. Replacing bad  environments with good ones and changing routines. Joining a support  group is highly recommended. Feelings of isolation can creep in so a  support group is vital.

I close my phone and stare at some kids playing in the distance. I think  of my yellow room with its painted daffodils. It was a stupid idea,  anyway. A baby's room should be blue or pink. I'll repaint it in a  month's time. Or maybe I'll wait until I know the sex of the baby. I  think of myself walking by the Bonpoint store in Soho, a French label  that makes gorgeously over-the-top clothes for children and babies. I  had to fight the temptation to go in. But once I gave in and pushed open  the door  …  oh, it was a treasure trove of wonderful things.

Nikolai.

The name flashes into my mind. Who is this man? Why does he want to hurt  Nigel so much that he would take his wife for a month? At the thought  of someone wanting to hurt Nigel a deep sense of protective instinct for  Nigel kicks in.

I remember the day he proposed. He hired the whole Café du Paris and  filled it with can-can dancers that he had flown in from Paris. One of  the dancers came and called me up to the stage. I didn't know what was  going on. Blood was pounding in my ears. Then the curtain of dancers  parted and I saw him get on one knee.

I thought I would die with happiness.

Yeah, it was showy, but I was young and that was the happiest day of my  life. Until my wedding day arrived, that is. Nothing will ever top that.  We were both so excited about the future. Not even my parents' long  faces could dim our happiness. How handsome he was standing in his blue  morning suit.

When he turned to look at me, I almost fainted with happiness.

I stood in that small, sunlit church and promised for better or worse.  Now Nigel is ill. An addiction is just as much a disease as cancer is.

I'll stand by Nigel as long as he wants to change. Other women have  stood by their husbands and won the battle against this disease. If this  Russian thinks he will destroy what I have with Nigel, he can think  again.

My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts.





Chapter Eight





Star





"Wanna do breakfast?" Rosa, my best friend, asks. I've know her since we  were in primary school, and she's always taken it upon herself to look  out for me. She doesn't sound quite awake yet.

"Yes," I say automatically.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"What makes you so sure something's up?" I ask.

"Let's call it tone."

"I'll tell you when I see you."

"But you're all right?"

"Yes."

"Sure?" she insists.

"Sure."

"Lucianos?"

"Okay."

"Can you get there in twenty minutes?"

"I can get there in ten," I tell her.

"See you in ten, then."

As I park the car it starts pouring down with rain so I hold my bag over  my head and run into the café. As I stand inside the doorway brushing  my hands down my light jacket, I spot Rosa. You cannot miss her.         

     



 

She is stick-thin with flaming red hair cut into a smooth bob. She is  wearing scarlet lipstick and what looks like a lace trimmed camisole  over a long-sleeved, fitting, dove-gray T-shirt. Must be the latest  fashion, or what everybody will be wearing come autumn. Rosa works for a  fashion magazine. She is one of those people who actually sits around a  long glass table with a bunch of her colleagues and decides what will  be the new look for the next season. A bangle glints on her arm. I walk  up to her table.

"I like your top," I say as I reach her.

"I threw a T-shirt under my nightie so it wouldn't look like I just  rolled out of some random dude's bed," she says as she stands and throws  her skinny arms around me.

"Did you?" I ask.

"I should be so lucky," she says close to my ear.

The familiar spicy-rose notes of her Serge Luten's perfume fills my  nostrils, and I don't want to let go of her thin body. Just being in her  warm, scented embrace makes me want to bawl my eyes out. This morning  I've had all my dreams crushed. I could stay in her arms a lot longer,  but she pulls away, and eyes me warily.

"Out with it. What's eating you?"

With a sigh, I sink into the chair opposite hers. She reclines back, arms folded.

I hesitate.

"Spill the beans, Star," she prompts with her usual no-nonsense attitude.

"It's Nigel," I blurt out.

"He's cheating on you, isn't he?" she snaps, leaning forward, her face livid.

"No. No it's not that."

She narrows her eyes, and looks ready to do battle on my behalf. "What's the crooked asshole done then?"

This is going to be harder than I thought. I fidget with the buckle on my bag. "He's in big trouble, Rosa."

A waitress comes to take our orders, but Rosa waves her away impatiently. "What kind of big trouble?"

I take a deep breath. "He's lost a lot of money."

"How much?" she asks curiously.

I clear my throat. "Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds."

She frowns. "That's nothing. Don't brokers routinely lose millions?"

"It's not his clients' money, Rosa. This is personal. He took a loan and he can't pay it back."

Her eyes bulge. "Christ," she swears. "You mean he didn't lose it at work. He actually owes it to someone?"

I nod miserably.

"Who the fuck would lend almost half-a-million to that useless husband of yours?"

"There's no need to be rude about him," I mumble.

She looks at me incredulously. "You're still defending that piece of shit?"

I know I shouldn't, but it's become a habit. Whenever Rosa and my family  insult him I instantly rush to his defense. Until this morning, I could  do it without sounding like a fool. I look down at the table.

"Who does he owe the money to?" she asks again.

"I didn't catch his last name. Nikolai something  … "

"Nikolai? That's a Russian name."

I nod.

"So clueless Nigel owes some Russian guy four-hundred-and-fifty thousand  pounds. Couldn't have happened to a more worthless man," she says  heartlessly.

"It's not funny, Rosa. Nigel is really scared."

She looks at me without any compassion in her eyes. "Good. He should be. People get killed for much less."

As soon as Rosa mentions being killed, the seriousness of the situation  sets like a lump of concrete in my chest. I've been so angry, shocked,  and hurt that I didn't fully comprehend the situation: Nigel could have  been killed last night. Goosebumps crawl over my body. I stare at Rosa  with wide eyes.

"Why does Nigel owe the Russian?"

I clear my throat. "He lost the money gambling at his club."

Her eyes widen. "Nigel's a gambler?"

I nod.

She shakes her head in wonder. "He's like one of those vicious vegans  who will shake their fist at you and call you a murderer for eating an  egg, and then get up in the middle of the night to secretly feast on  veal chops."