IS YOUR MAN ABOUT TO DUMP YOU?
SPOTTING THE EXIT SIGNS
THE headline teaser on the glossy cover of her favourite magazine caused a roll of nausea through Amy Taylor’s stomach. It was the new December issue, out today, and the advice it contained was too late to be of any help. A pity the article hadn’t been written months ago. She might have recognised what had been going on with Steve, at least been somewhat prepared for the bombshell that had hit her over the weekend.
Though that was doubtful. She wouldn’t have applied the exit signs to her relationship with Steve. Although neither of them had pushed for marriage—free spirits should never shackle themselves, he had insisted—after five years together—a mini-marriage in anyone’s book—continuity had become a state of mind. She’d been hopelessly blind to what was really happening.
Free spirits! Amy gnashed her teeth over that remembered phrase. There was nothing free-spirited about rushing headlong into marriage with someone else! The blonde he’d bedded behind Amy’s back, was shackling Steve with an ease that was painfully insulting. With the result that Amy was certainly being left free! Though hardly free-spirited.
Here she was, comprehensively dumped, twenty-eight years old, single again, and suffering the worst case of Monday blues she could ever remember having. It was sheer masochism to pick up the new issue of the magazine with that article in it—a clear case of punishing herself—but maybe she needed to have all the signs spelled out so she’d know better next time. If there ever was a next time.
At her age, the market for unattached men was slim, especially men worth having. Amy brooded over that depressing fact as she paid the news vendor for the magazine and walked down Alfred Street to her workplace, the last office building facing the harbour on Milsons Point, a highly privileged piece of real estate which she was in no mood to appreciate this morning.
Ahead of her, summer sunshine had turned Sydney Harbour into a glittering expanse of blue, patterned harmoniously by boats and ferries carving white wakes across it. To her left, Bradfield Park offered the peaceful green of newly mown lawns, invitingly shadowed by the great Coat-hanger bridge that dominated the skyline, feeding the city with an endless stream of commuter traffic. Amy was totally oblivious to all of it. For her, there was only the dark gloom of her thoughts.
Dumped for a blonde, a smart, pregnant blonde. Nobody got pregnant by accident these days. Not at thirty-two. Amy was sure it had been a calculated gamble, the hook to pull Steve in and tie him up for better or for worse. And it had worked. The wedding date was already set. One month from today. New Year’s Eve. Happy New Year, Amy thought bitterly, seeing a long stretch of loneliness for herself.
Maybe at thirty-two, she’d feel desperate enough to snitch someone else’s man. After all, if he was willing, as Steve must have been…but how could you ever really trust a man who cheated on the woman he was living with? Amy wrinkled her nose. She’d be better off on her own.
But she didn’t feel better off. She felt sick, empty, lost in a world that had suddenly turned unfamiliar, hostile, her bearings torn away. Tears filled her eyes as she pushed open the door to her workplace and barged into the foyer, needing the safe mooring of her job to fight the flood of misery she could barely contain.
“Hi! Boss in?” she aimed at Kate Bradley, her vision too embarrassingly blurred to meet the receptionist’s eyes directly. Besides, Kate was a gorgeous blonde, a typical choice for Jake Carter’s front desk woman, and another reminder of pain for her right now.
“Not yet,” came the cheerful reply. “Something must have held him up.”
Jake was an early bird, invariably in his office ahead of Amy. She was intensely relieved to hear he was late this morning, giving her time to get herself together before those yellow wolf eyes of his noted anything amiss.
She certainly didn’t need the humiliation of having to explain why her mascara was running, which it probably was from her furious blinking. Moisture had to be clinging to her lashes. She pressed the elevator button, willing the doors to open instantly.
“Have a good weekend?” Kate asked, addressing Amy’s back, blithely unaware of any problem.
Amy half turned, not wishing to appear totally rude. “No. It was the pits,” she blurted out, giving vent to some of her pent-up emotion.
“Oh! Guess things can only get better,” Kate offered sympathetically.
“I wish,” Amy muttered.
The elevator doors obligingly opened. The ride up to the floor she shared with Jake was mercifully brief and she headed straight for the washroom to effect repairs. Once safely enclosed in privacy she tore tissues from the box on the vanity bench and began wiping away the smeared make-up around her eyes.
She couldn’t afford to look as though she was falling apart. As Jake Carter’s personal assistant, she had to stay on top of everything, as well as maintain the class image of the company. Wide Blue Yonder Pty Ltd. sold its services to the mega-rich who had no tolerance for bungling. Perfection was expected and perfection had to be delivered. Jake had drummed that into her from day one.
Two years she’d been working with him and she knew him through and through. Nothing escaped his notice and she needed cast-iron armour to stop him from getting under her skin. He was a brilliant salesman, a masterly entrepreneur, a stickler for detail, and a dyed-in-the-wool womaniser.
He