She settled an antique serving dish inside a new box. "Good for you."
"Didn't you hear me?"
She poured foam puffs into the box.
"Greta?" he said, gripping her wrists.
"Get your hands off me," she said calmly, wriggling from his grasp. The box between them trembled dangerously. She quickly righted it.
"Greta, please," he said. "What you saw today was just lunch."
"Horseshit," she said, getting worked up. Then she checked herself. She had no intention of getting into an argument with him after the shit she had been through today. "Matthew, listen to me. I'm only going to spell this out once. I gave you the time you asked for. Now you've pushed me too far. Besides, it doesn't matter."
"It does," he insisted. "What I'm saying is, it's all over. ICP's going to buy Wallaby after all. And I'll become president of the subsidiary, just like we planned. And we can go back to New York if that's what you want. Or we can stay here. Or whatever. Whatever you want."
"Ah, of course. You'll need a wife if you're going to be a big shot at ICP. Might as well stick with the one you've got, save yourself some money that way, and keep the young thing in an apartment." She offered a scornful chuckle. "Christ, Matthew. You still don't want to face it?" She shook her head sadly. "It's too late. We're through. Broken."
"But it's going to be easy from here on in," he pleaded, trailing her to a black lacquer display pedestal. "My job at ICP will be a cake walk."