THE trouble with angry words, Georgie thought, as he stormed from her office, was that you didn’t get to rehearse them.
She wanted to run after him, to reframe her words, to explain better—that she wasn’t talking about sex, wasn’t declaring herself as the world’s best lover. Well, she was, but only to him.
And it wasn’t just about sex. It was the conversations, the thoughts shared that he could surely never repeat so easily with another.
But she would not run after him, she was stronger than that.
Fragile indeed!
How dared he?
So she took to her oils and inhaled melissa, then hurled the bottle against the wall when she smelt Balsmin, just as Sophia had, because now it would always take her back to the desert.
Always.
How could Sophia stand there and tell her she was happy when her son and her grandson lay buried in the desert, when she had heard Ibrahim tell his father how she had wept at the birth of Hassan’s son.
Sophia had lied and Georgie didn’t blame her a bit for it.
Maybe she should go and talk to her, but honestly this time. Perhaps it might help to hear her true pain, to confirm how it felt to be half a wife, to seal the decision she had made.