CHAPTER 9

Saint sniffed as he roughly wiped away the lone tear that fell from his eye with his thumb. Long moments passed as he stared at the framed picture of his father on his desk. Saint Marc Roux - the man, who by example, had taught him everything he didn't want to be in life – a drunk, fickle husband and failed businessman.

Bringing his glass cup to the edge of his mouth, Saint sipped. He had a meeting in an hour and he'd already had three straight shots of vodka. For the last month being a functioning alcoholic had become the norm. Luckily for him his tolerance had always been high so he was okay as long as he ate on time and had his shots.

As he continued to stare at the picture of his father holding a lit cigarette between his two middle fingers, and a care-free laugh towards the camera, Saint's mind took him back to countless times when his father would return home depressed and with a bottle of dark rum because yet again he hadn't made enough money selling his sketches to tourists.

Though young, Saint still remembered the arguments – it always revolved around money. His mother would tell him to look for a proper job and his father would say he was an artist and the idea of working under anyone for his wages just to pay the bills was an act so against his nature.

Given the situation, his mother was always the breadwinner working as a receptionist at an insurance company whilst his father acted as a stay at home dad. And despite being an alcoholic, he was a great father but a great father never did equate to being a great husband or quantify to paying the rent or paying for new school shoes for him and his brother when the soles got worn and rain got into them and the children from school made fun of them.

Again, Saint needed to feel the alcoholic burn at the back of his throat as a migraine centred on his head.

For the next eighteen months his diary was completely engaged. The situation in India was gradually moving forward, his end of quarter reports for the last year had totally sky rocketed, more than he could have ever predicted.

A seven year old Saint, going to the church's food bank with his mother to get their food package for the month never dreamed of the position he was in today, though the longer he sat at his desk in his top floor office at his headquarters in the financial district of Paris, the more he wondered what it was all for.

Grabbing the bottle from his desk drawer, he poured himself some more vodka. The image of his wife throwing up in the toilet soon after finding him in the jacuzzi with the lawyer and architect he'd met at the NYE dinner he'd attended had stuck with him and no matter how much he drunk he couldn't quite erase it from his conscious.

In the weeks after his infidelity her attitude had been completely nonchalant which unnerved Saint. With his several business trips overseas and her back and forth to London, their main communication had been via phone and because it was easier to hide her emotions she always made their conversations very curt.

Naomi demanded he wore condoms when they sexed. Saint clenched his fist to stifle his anger because he knew that was her way of creating more distance between them. Now when they sexed it was like Bitch and the Beast. Many a times after they were intimate, she would lock herself in the bathroom and come out an hour after with bloodshot eyes clearly from crying.

Saint no longer knew what to do and when the crushing guilt he could no longer take, he drank.

He didn't understand Naomi. She was pious, loyal to her friends who he still hadn't met, but to him she was dismissive, blunt, almost emotionally unavailable to him, yet she was the complete opposite before they got married. His mind swirled and swirled trying to find reasons as to how they got into such a dark place, but found none. In bed, when they made love, was the the only time that she gave him the pleasure of seeing her let herself go.

There were so many textures to her personality, all so intricately detailed but yet so obscure. She confused him, she irritated him, she was borderline passive aggressive, yet he still wanted her but he couldn't go on allowing them to live this way- he had to know if she wanted him too – post coital.

With about ten minutes to go, before he had to make his way over to his meeting, Saint rose up from his desk chair, and walked to his private bathroom. For few moments he stood in front of the mirror to fix his tie but couldn't stare at the mirror for too long when he saw his father.

After freshening up, he walked back into his office, grabbing his leather satchel, ready to head to his meeting, but then picked up his phone to dial his wife because for the last two days she's had a bad cold and headache but it went straight to voicemail.

Naomi had her phone turned off the whole day. She didn't want her parents pestering her with calls to remind her how shitty of a daughter and in general, a human being she was. It was past ten at night and she'd basically spent more than half of her day underneath her covers. An earlier attempt to do an unfinished assignment failed, and for some time after that she drew some designs in her sketchbook but stopped when memories of her grandmother got too intense for her.

The constant travelling was really taking a toll on her. Her body was achy and her nose frothy with snot and she'd gained quite a bit of weight over the last few months with her very unbalanced schedule. Thankfully because of the heavy snow, her flight back to London had been cancelled until further notice so she had more time to relax.

She watched her favourite show on her phone as she bit into a pink coloured macaroon. Because she was craving sugar, she'd forced herself out the house to go to the nearest cafe. Find anything sweet in the house was a joke. Her husband had a very bland diet; brioche with black coffee for breakfast, salmon and salad, and then something starchy for dinner and if his taste buds were feeling adventurous he'd have some doner kebab. Point is that, he was very mindful of his diet but ever since they'd gotten married he always stocked up on her junk, until the last few weeks...since everything.

She didn't want to think that far, she didn't want to think that deep, but her heart was too hurt and her mind had against her will taken her there.

With her mouth she'd told her husband to break her heart and defile their marriage bed, so the only person she could truly be mad at was herself, herself and only herself.

Slow tears seeped out of her eyes dropping onto her pillow because even though she was full of resentment towards him, she was still prone to him. Her eyes became blurry with tears and her chest was heavy and weak, before she knew it her body caved in to sleep exhausted from the month of crying.

The sound of the bedroom door being opened jolted Naomi out of her sleep. Saint walked in.

“What time is it?” she asked her voice groggy.

“Ten past two.”

“In the afternoon?! Shit, I've missed my flight.”

Saint let out a short snort watching amused as his wife quickly jumped off the bed, nearly knocking the cup on the lamp stand over. “No, it's ten past two in the morning and you told me that your flight has been cancelled.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm okay. Thanks,” she replied feeling anything but okay.

Now that she was more awake her nerves and emotions were also awake, but like she'd been doing for the last three and a half weeks, she didn't let them show and instead climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over herself tightly.

He was tired of the cold war.

Quickly changing, into some night boxers, he slipped into bed beside her. Her back was to him and he lied on his back. He tried to sleep but he couldn't, though his day had been mentally taxing, his mind still raced with things he needed to get done. His thoughts went back to his father, to her on his bed softly breathing and then back to his father, until he couldn't just take it any more.

“Why can't you admit it hurt you?” Saint asked looking at the ceiling, feeling it the right time to bite the bullet.

“Because that'd be me admitting giving a fuck about you.”

“But you do.”

“But I don't.”

“Do you want a divorce?”

Naomi didn't respond.

“You're thinking about the money right?”

Saint lets out a bitter laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Do you want a divorce?” Naomi asks, swiftly avoiding his answer, but with her heart thrumming in anticipation of his answer.

“No I don't.”

Clearly shocked, she turns her head to face him. “You don't?”

“No I don't. I'm in love with you,” Saint says twisting his neck to look at his wife's shocked eyes, brim with tears.

In a move so quick, Naomi sits up on the bed looking down at Saint's eyes, ignoring the tears slipping out of her eyes, she pointed an accusing finger to his face. “How dare out of your mouth you say that you're in love with me. You cheated on me!”

“Let's not forget the part you played in that.”

“Oh please, don't even try to feed me that bullshit pie.”

“Did you or did you not tell me to go and hire myself a prostitute?” Saint asked unabashedly the hurt and anger evident on his face.

For brief moments Naomi was rendered speechless and she couldn't help but notice his glazed eyes and the smell of alcohol in his breath. “So if I told you to jump off a cliff would you do that?”

“Anyone's that's been long enough with you probably would.”

“Maybe you should then.”

“Oh, so you can be in possession of all my assets as my legally married wife?”

“You know what, go fuck yourself Saint- Luc. There's more to life than money.”

“And who better to speak on that subject other than my wonderful bride who married me because she loves me. Pour plus riche et plus pauvre.”

Yanking the covers away from herself, Naomi swung her legs out of the bed. “You know what, I'm not doing this.”

Before she could stop it, she burst into tears in front of her husband.