Charlie sat on his bed staring at the phone. Do I call her, or do I just go around and knock on the door?  He got up and went to his dresser, pouring a shot from the bottle he kept there. If she hangs up, at least I don't get a door slammed in my face. Would she do that? She had a right to be mad, but she was a good woman at heart  He swallowed the drink and scowled, reaching for his phone.

The call was a mistake. He should have gone in person. Another one of your brilliant moves, Croft  He sat listening to a blistering condemnation of what he put her through and how it had left her. He needed to explain, but as she went on, he could see that what he thought was a valid explanation wasn't going to wash. Had his actions really been that bad?

Sure, he'd run around a bit, but it was just what guys do – wasn't it? He knew for sure that some women did. What got to him was his complete ignorance of just how much of her heart and soul she had invested in him, and the damage his betrayal had done.

The gifts, the money, none of it had made a difference to her – she had- she had truly loved me. His thoughts stuttered over the realization. Now, as he listened, growing more ashamed by the minute, she sobbed into his ear how nothing mattered anymore; how life was just a day to day drudgery, managed with a shattered faith and a broken heart.

The call ended abruptly, and he stood, looking out at the night sky, memories bubbling up and choking his airway. He sniffled and went for another drink. Procrastinating had never been his style, he just plunged ahead and damn the torpedoes. The second drink went down easy . . . too easy, and he slammed the glass down and swore.

Shards of her words, working like a shovel in his memory, dug out the various images that, at the time, had painted him the guy. The nightclub boozing and flirting. Money tossed around with an imperious complacency. The expected gratitude from the willing women that fawned over his every joke and innuendo. He closed his eyes and hung his head down. You really were a prick, Croft

The memories changed. His boss reading the riot act over expenditures and dissatisfied clients. The ill-conceived, smug defence that saw him out on his ear. The defiant belief he didn't need them – any of them – and the rude awakening from that action. The shunning of those he held at one time as friends – avoiding him like the pariah he'd become.

His money, what was left after many carefree blowouts, didn't have the same appeal, and the women – well, they couldn't seem to place him anymore.

He looked at the phone and felt a wave of self-pity. "She was a good woman, you asshole. She didn't deserve your deceit." The cramped room listened, but didn't care. He felt helpless suddenly. Charlie Croft, mover and shaker – now stranded and shaken  "Suck it up, Croft. Do this face to face. Be the man you should have been." He grabbed his jacket, turned out the light and left the room.

The drive was familiar. He'd made it a hundred times. The paved drives, the neat lawns, tended regularly for a handsome fee. Expensive cars accenting each home under the professional protection of door cameras and motion sensors. He left his car on the street and walked up the drive to the front door. It seemed so natural he almost reached for the knob to let himself in.

"Not any more, Croft," he whispered to himself, taking a breath and squaring his shoulders before ringing the bell.