Everything

XXXIII

I awoke to a bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rolled over in bed into the arms of my man, only to land with a solid thump on the floor when he wasn't there.

I winced, rubbing the top of my head.

"Meow."

That was Cookie, who was curled up in the cat cave I'd bought him which was positioned near our bed. He gave me a curious what-the-hell-are-you-doing-on-the-floor look that told me immediately that I was probably going a bit mad. Stretching, much like Cookie did in the sunshine, I pulled myself to my feet, looking over at the alarm clock.

The time flashed in bright red: 6:00am. I frowned. As far as I knew, Spencer didn't have a breakfast meeting this morning, and he'd been skipping his early jog recently, to spend more time in bed with me, his exercise-averse girlfriend.

Of course, there was the fact that for the last few days he'd been...out of sorts. More distant, distracted, physically present but mentally...in the clouds. I'd put it down to work. Spencer was always working. Pouring over the latest news story, researching the latest source. In fact, he'd installed a large whiteboard wall in his office which was now rammed full of his annotations, sketches and ideas. He had a brain that worked at ten-thousand miles a minute, and it was common knowledge, especially within journalistic circles, that he carried around at least three separate notebooks at all times, ready to speedily jot down his new schemes. It was a given that he'd be busy. The news cycle was getting faster by the minute, and I didn't have the energy to even get started on the mayhem that was the political circuit.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, and began chastising myself for my stupidity.

For goodness sake, Adriana, he's probably the best international journalist of our age, cut the man a break if he doesn't always have the time to cuddle with you in the evening with a glass of wine and a soft blanket. You're acting like a child.

If Spencer wanted to get a head start on the day, then I could hardly blame him, could I? He'd probably be in the kitchen, The Global spread out on the kitchen island whilst he sipped tea from his favourite porcelain mug.

But as I approached the door, I could hear his voice, deep and rough from sleep. It made me pause in the entryway, just out of his sight.

"Yes. Exactly. I'll need the... packages delivered at 7pm. Precise. This thing needs to run like an operation if it's going to be anything near what I've pictured."

He was on the phone. Dealing with business no doubt.

"No, I can't. No—no, that's not what I—look, listen to me. I'll be free this evening, once I've finished work. Early. I'll have my PA carve out some time. We can talk about this properly then. No, I'm not going to tell her. That's out of the question...Of course, I'll tell her at some point! What do you think this is?" he hissed, "Look. Please just do what I asked you for now, okay? We'll talk this through later."

Tell me? Tell me, what? And what was Spencer doing this evening?

"Okay. Alright." He replied, after a gap, "Thank you. Okay, I'll speak to you then. Goodbye."

I heard Spencer's phone being placed down onto the marble work surface with a clatter, and heard his deep sigh.

What the hell was going on?

Composing myself, I waited a few minutes before entering the room.

Sure enough, there Spencer was, sitting at the breakfast counter, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, finely pressed white shirt undone at the collar and his fitted black trousers, sipping from his favourite mug whilst the pages of The Global were spread before him.