The Ex 8: In Which She Reads Between the Lines

“I was starting to worry that you'd been burned at the stake by the locals.”

Alain's familiar voice was laced with familiar concern and my shoulders hunched up before I finished locking up my store and turned to face him.

“We witches are harder to kill than you think,” I said dryly, shoving the bunch of keys into my handbag.

Alain smiled at my sarcastic tone. “Do you witches say yes to humble townsfolk who ask you out to find out where you get your tans?”

“Not today. I've got a heap of crap to do,” I said tersely.

His brow creased. “Did I do something wrong, chérie?”

“Look, don't you have some wine to taste? I've got to get home.” I pushed past him and made for my car, almost ripping the door out.

“If you think I'm hitting on you –”

“I don't think you're hitting on me,” I snarled, whirling around and startling him. “I think you're just genuinely being nice and I don't deserve that, okay? I'm such a bitch. I hurt the people I care about and even the people I don't. So stop being so damn nice!”

My gaze wandered to the couple that was uncomfortably trying to get past us. Colin, who'd let his hair grow out, was hand in hand with Vicky. In matching 'I'm with Stupid' pullovers, it didn't take a genius to grasp the fact that my best friend's sister was shagging my ex.

“Hi, you gorgeous pair,” I said cheerfully, and Vicky's pale skin turned a deep crimson.

“Francesca, Alain – hello,” she mumbled, unable to meet my eye.

“It's okay,” I said soothingly. “You're welcome to Colin. I'm pleased that you're visibly making him happy.”

Colin arched a brow. “Oh, you are?”

I sighed heavily. “I'm sorry I disappointed you, Colin. I never meant to hurt you.”

To my surprise, he simply shrugged. “I suppose I was too hasty in my decision.” His eyes travelled to Vicky. “But with her, everything's perfect.”

Alain's eyes flickered over me, obviously trying to gauge my reaction to that.

“Well, that's just...lovely. See you all later.” I got into my car and watched them skip along, still hand in hand.

Schoolteachers, I thought witheringly.

Alain leaned into my open window. “That was amazing,” he said in astonishment. “Why doesn't Cheaters have ex-couples like you two?”

“Shut it,” I muttered.

He laughed. “Have a good evening, then, chérie. My offer of coffee still stands. Whenever.” And he left.

*~*~

Yaya was waiting for me when I got home. Legs propped up on my couch with EastEnders on the telly, she looked like an apparition. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. Yep – she was still there, a half-empty wine glass in hand.

“Why do you buy the cheap stuff?” she commented when I shuffled into the room, a bewildered expression on my face. She scrunched her face up in disgust. “Tastes like drain water.”

“Yaya,” I said after a while, “what are you doing here, in England? And how...how did you get in?”
“Petro is a man of many talents,” she replied flippantly, just as Petro himself scuffled into the living room, a sheepish grin on his face. “Besides, I'm due a vacation myself. Believe it or not, I do occasionally crave the dreariness of this country.”

“Kalispera, Francesca,” Petro said, standing sentry at the door. “I'm sorry about this violation of your privacy but your locks are really not the best.”

“Nonsense, Petro, darling.” Yaya waved a hand at him. “We're all family. Aren't we, Francesca?”

I pursed my lips. “You know I love you, Yaya, but...to what do I owe this unexpected surprise?”

“You know, I never thought you'd turn out to be as hard-headed as my grandson,” she grumbled, setting her empty glass on my coffee table. “Instead of kissing and making up, you go at each other like two dogs in a cage! Imagine my surprise when I find that you made him angry and then just ran off like that, Francesca.”

“Made him angry?” I snorted. “He antagonises himself. The man is a walking argument.”

Yaya's eyes narrowed. “And you, my dear, are exactly like him. Sit down.”

I immediately sat on the couch beside her. The fact that it was my house meant nothing. When Yaya Kouriakis commanded anyone to sit down, they found the nearest seat. Or simply sank to the ground.

“I'm going to tell you a story and you're going to listen with those lovely ears God gave you,” she went on. “If you so much as whimper out a protest, Petro will cut a finger off.” She laughed. “Your face, Francesca! Do you really think I'd make him do that? I'm not uncultured.”

I swallowed. “No.”

“Good. Now listen.” She clasped her dainty hands before her. “A businessman goes to South Africa to check on a coal mine he's interested in buying. In addition to this, he visits the orphanage he established in honour of his late parents.” Yaya tilted her head to one side. “While there, he feels a little funny and thinks nothing of it. Perhaps he's just working too hard, or perhaps he's caught the flu. But his good friend and aide persuades him to head to one of the best hospitals in the country. He thinks it's just fatigue and a little loss of appetite – but it turns out to be a tumour.”

I bit back any outburst, holding my breath.

“When he returns home and goes to his doctor, he confirms that it is indeed cancer and that he needs to operate as soon as possible to prevent it from spreading.” Yaya coughed into her handkerchief, a soft, hacking sound. “But he's a newlywed. His wife is so young and fragile and he doesn't want to scare her. So he doesn't get the operation to remove the cancer. Instead, he pretends that everything's normal for the sake of the one he loves so much.”

The world narrowed down to the image Yaya was painting and my vision became blurry. Petro wordlessly handed me an unopened pack of Kleenex.

“And then his wife accuses him of the ultimate betrayal. Hurt and enraged, he gives her the divorce she thinks she so justly deserves. And afterwards, when he knows he's far enough away from her, he checks in to a hospital.” Yaya paused, watching me carefully. “You must understand that Christos didn't tell me, either. I suppose he thought he was protecting me as well, particularly because he stayed away from me for months. Petro, give her the letter.”

“What letter?” I croaked out, nearly choking on the ball of guilt wedged tight in my throat.

Petro placed an envelope into my hands and I ripped it open, seeing my name on the front.

“When was this written?” I looked up at Yaya, wanting to know so desperately it felt like my life depended on her answer.

“Two years ago.”

Frankie, What is the best way to tell you this? You and I both know that I'm a failure when it comes to conveying any written form of emotion but every second we spend together, I feel the overwhelming guilt that is eating away at me for not telling you the truth. Is it selfish for me to think that ignorance is bliss? How many times have I rewritten this letter and felt like a fool? By now, you'll probably have noticed that my PA, Liliana, and I have rescheduled or cancelled almost all of my meetings and trips because, quite frankly, I don't have the energy right now.

As I read through this again, I realise that it sounds far too impersonal, as if you're not my wife, but a business associate. Frankie, you should understand that I'm sick. But I never wanted you to know that, let alone find out in a letter. What use would you have for an ailing patient as a husband? None. I'm your pillar of strength; your shoulder to cry on; your husband. Would I be all these things if I were in hospital on chemo? No.

I might not be able to keep this charade going for much longer. Pretty soon, you'll start to notice that I'm not eating much; that I'm not travelling as much. Pretty soon, you'll start to notice that I'm not Konstantin. I can only hope that my love for you will keep you with me. I can only hope that you'll forgive me for not telling you sooner. – Konstantin

The tears evaporated when I felt the ache give way to a surge of anger. “Where is she?”

Yaya instantly understood, and a slow smile spread across her face. “As luck would have it, she's in London. I have an address. Petro will go with you. He can be very...intimidating when he wants to be.”

I jumped to my feet, my face set in determination. “I don't care if I have to drive all night or take the stupid train. Whether it happens today or tomorrow, I'm going to have someone's extensions in my hands.”

“Will that change anything, Francesca?” Petro wanted to know, ever the reasonable one.

“No,” I said bitterly, “but I have nothing to lose. Konstantin will never forgive me and I can never ask that of him. I will never forgive myself. And Liliana? I want to kill her.”

Crying could come later. For now, the anger was less painful to hold on to.

***

a/n: I dedicate this chapter to any woman, man or child who's ever fought cancer and survived. Or not. My mother survived and inspired everyone around her by openly talking about it and encouraging people to get tested. In contrast, Konstantin saw it as a weakness that he had to hide to protect himself and everyone he loved. So please don't feel sorry for him. I hope you enjoyed this chapter =) xo

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