The Divorce Club by Jayde Scott

No
ambulance, please."
    "Are you sure?" Jamie wraps his arm around my
waist and leads me to my seat. I nod and he turns to the gathered
crowd. "She's fine. Thank you, everyone."
    "What happened? You just dropped to the
floor," Sam says. "Are you trying to skip out of the bill?"
    Heat scorches my cheeks. I've never felt more
like the freak in a carnival show. Why, all I need is the spotlight
over my head and I'm ready to go. Now's the time to tell them about
my stalker, but I falter because I'm embarrassed. They wouldn't
understand. "Must be the heat." I rub a hand over my forehead. "Or
tiredness. I didn't sleep very well last night." This is becoming
my standard excuse. I can only hope I'll be able to sort out my
issues before people start digging deeper. Judging from how fast my
mental health is deteriorating, they might soon.
    "If you say so." Jamie doesn't seem
convinced. "Listen, I'm taking you home."
    "What?" Sam yells. "But I'm not finished with
my pizza." She had such a lovely time, it wouldn't be fair on her
to end the evening in such an abrupt manner.
    "Can we just eat, please?" I don't mean to
snap at him, but my nerves are on edge and tears are slowly welling
up in my eyes. Now that the club's set up and my life's slowly
getting back on track, some wacko's starting to ruin it all. I'm so
angry I could hit the wall.
    "Sure," Jamie says. I see him exchange a
glance with Sam.
    "What?" Sam shrugs. "I'm starving. And pizza
sucks when it's cold."
    "I'll be right back. Just need to make a
call." Grabbing my phone from the table, I jump up before they can
protest or offer to accompany me, and head for the back of the
restaurant. From the corner of my eye, I see blinking lights
outside, so I sprint for the door with the toilet sign and lock
myself inside a small cubicle.
    The air smells of disinfectant and lemons. I
lean my forehead against the cool wall and allow my eyes to close.
I don't know how long I sit there pondering over the text message
and the fact that I'm being stalked.
    "Stalked," I say out loud, testing the word
on my lips. It doesn't sound as frightening as I thought it
would  just funny because something like
this usually happens to Hollywood stars and politicians, not to an
average-looking thirty-something with frizzy hair and baggy
clothes.
    I barely glance at my face in the bathroom
mirror on the way out, only wash my hands and then return to my
table. Jamie stops his conversation as he sees me approaching.
Plastering a fake smile on my lips, I sit and finish my water in
one gulp.
    "Anybody want coffee and desert?" Jamie
asks.
    I shake my head. Sam doesn't want anything
either, so Jamie pays the bill. I don't argue to split it, but I
vow to take him out as soon as my wallet allows it. Outside, a
star-less night has descended. The air smells relatively clean
given that we're in a traffic-infested city. On the way home I keep
silent until Jamie parks the car and accompanies us to the
entrance.
    "Sam, why don't you go inside? I need to talk
to Jamie," I say as I unlock the door.
    "Why? Are you guys going to kiss? The last
thing I want is watch you make out with some guy you just met."
    I smile. "Don't worry. No one's kissing."
    Sam pulls a face and squeezes in, but not
before throwing an interested look over her shoulder. She's not
stupid, I know that.
    "At the restaurant—" Jamie starts.
    I hold up a hand. "No, don't."
    "But there's something going on. Why don't
you talk about it?" It's so easy for him to say when he's not
really opening up to me either.
    "There's this huge mess in my life right
now." I take a deep breath, hesitating. How much should I say?
Should I disclose anything at all? Would spreading out my life in
front of a client make me seem less professional? Probably, I
decide.
    Jamie inches closer and whispers, "I see
you've overextended yourself with the club, and I want to help. You
can pay me back later even though I don't want you to."
    Why do men always think it's all about cash?
It