aftermath of personal tragedies? Maggie blinked, the thought comforting her suddenly. He was used to dealing with situations where people were in shock, their loved ones ripped from them in more horrific ways than this. So why, now that Vivien was under her roof, was she struggling to feel any sort of pity for this woman from her husband’s past?
‘Gilmartin,’ Maggie yawned as she spoke the word. ‘We saw one of his productions, d’you remember?’
A slight groan from his side of the bed was her husband’s only reply. Was that a
no
? Or a
be
quiet
and
let
me
sleep
sort of response? She rolled over, tucking the duvet around her body, trying to remember. It had been one of their few excursions to London’s West End, a play about a crime of some sort. That was why they had gone. But as she drifted off into sleep, Maggie realised that she couldn’t recall a single thing about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
C OUNTDOWN TO THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES , the headline proclaimed. The blonde woman smiled as she read the article in the
Gazette
, recognising words and phrases that she had given the journalist only days before. They were all being sickenly positive about every aspect of the whole stramash.
Gayle Finnegan frowned and her fingers crumpled the edge of the paper she was still holding. Where on earth had that cynical thought appeared from? She uncrossed her legs, the memory of last night’s rough sex a twinge of discomfort under the blue satin thong. Cam had rubbished her involvement in the Glasgow Commonwealth Games from the very beginning of their relationship, always seeking something negative to say about her colleagues, the government ministers (especially the government ministers) who had overseen the massive organisational operation and even the athletes themselves. When she had met and spoken to Sir Chris Hoy, Gayle had been full of enthusiasm. But Cam’s putdown had withered all the joy that she had taken in meeting the great man himself at the velodrome that was named after him.
Why did she stay with him, then? What was it about Cameron Bloody Gregson that made her return to the flat night after night, in hope more than expectation?
Stramash
was Cam’s word for the Games, wasn’t it? He demeaned the whole business as though it were something amusing, something for the masses who couldn’t help themselves. Gayle’s sigh was accompanied by the realisation that she had to finish this toxic relationship once and for all. Her own judgement was beginning to be affected by Cam’s poisonous remarks and, she told herself, sitting up straight in her chair, this job was far more important to her than an affair that had overrun its course. She had her own place, a nice single-roomed flat in the Merchant City, a five-minute walk from Albion Street, headquarters of the Games, and tonight she would head home there, leaving Cameron to wonder if she was coming back or not.
The morning sun shone through the windows next to the young woman’s desk, illuminating the figure of a cyclist that looked like an engraving on the glass door. Artist-designed, the figures depicting each of the sports were in fact simply stuck on to the glass. Once it was all over, the massive space over three floors and wrapped around this part of the old building would be taken apart and packed away, leaving the bright offices to be occupied by their next tenants. Everything had been thought of, Gayle had told Cam one evening early in their relationship, when he had still pretended to listen to her: the athletes’ village would provide over six hundred homes for the city’s East End, where the regeneration programme had been enthusiastically waved in front of its citizens. As one of the more senior members of the public relations team, Gayle would have no difficulty moving on from this job either; having Glasgow 2014 on her CV was like winning the lottery.
The coffee she had brought in from Berits & Brown was cold now but she sipped it anyway. The
‘Gilmartin,’ Maggie yawned as she spoke the word. ‘We saw one of his productions, d’you remember?’
A slight groan from his side of the bed was her husband’s only reply. Was that a
no
? Or a
be
quiet
and
let
me
sleep
sort of response? She rolled over, tucking the duvet around her body, trying to remember. It had been one of their few excursions to London’s West End, a play about a crime of some sort. That was why they had gone. But as she drifted off into sleep, Maggie realised that she couldn’t recall a single thing about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
C OUNTDOWN TO THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES , the headline proclaimed. The blonde woman smiled as she read the article in the
Gazette
, recognising words and phrases that she had given the journalist only days before. They were all being sickenly positive about every aspect of the whole stramash.
Gayle Finnegan frowned and her fingers crumpled the edge of the paper she was still holding. Where on earth had that cynical thought appeared from? She uncrossed her legs, the memory of last night’s rough sex a twinge of discomfort under the blue satin thong. Cam had rubbished her involvement in the Glasgow Commonwealth Games from the very beginning of their relationship, always seeking something negative to say about her colleagues, the government ministers (especially the government ministers) who had overseen the massive organisational operation and even the athletes themselves. When she had met and spoken to Sir Chris Hoy, Gayle had been full of enthusiasm. But Cam’s putdown had withered all the joy that she had taken in meeting the great man himself at the velodrome that was named after him.
Why did she stay with him, then? What was it about Cameron Bloody Gregson that made her return to the flat night after night, in hope more than expectation?
Stramash
was Cam’s word for the Games, wasn’t it? He demeaned the whole business as though it were something amusing, something for the masses who couldn’t help themselves. Gayle’s sigh was accompanied by the realisation that she had to finish this toxic relationship once and for all. Her own judgement was beginning to be affected by Cam’s poisonous remarks and, she told herself, sitting up straight in her chair, this job was far more important to her than an affair that had overrun its course. She had her own place, a nice single-roomed flat in the Merchant City, a five-minute walk from Albion Street, headquarters of the Games, and tonight she would head home there, leaving Cameron to wonder if she was coming back or not.
The morning sun shone through the windows next to the young woman’s desk, illuminating the figure of a cyclist that looked like an engraving on the glass door. Artist-designed, the figures depicting each of the sports were in fact simply stuck on to the glass. Once it was all over, the massive space over three floors and wrapped around this part of the old building would be taken apart and packed away, leaving the bright offices to be occupied by their next tenants. Everything had been thought of, Gayle had told Cam one evening early in their relationship, when he had still pretended to listen to her: the athletes’ village would provide over six hundred homes for the city’s East End, where the regeneration programme had been enthusiastically waved in front of its citizens. As one of the more senior members of the public relations team, Gayle would have no difficulty moving on from this job either; having Glasgow 2014 on her CV was like winning the lottery.
The coffee she had brought in from Berits & Brown was cold now but she sipped it anyway. The
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