When she’d walked out of the Cheyne Walk apartment at the crack of dawn this morning, she hadn’t known herself whether she’d actually have the balls to go through with it. Flouncing off to The Dorchester was one thing, but disappearing to LA, running out not just on Ivan, but on her Polydor work commitments, was a big step. But here she was, gazing out of the window at palm trees and traffic through a shimmering heat haze, as if she’d never been away. Over the course of the eleven-hour flight, in between sleeping off her hangover and gorging herself on warm milk and cookies, Kendall had rationalized her decision. It was an impromptu vacation, that was all. She didn’t intend to stay long, just long enough to shake Ivan out of his complacency and help crystallize his thinking as to who was the priority in his life: Ava Bentley, his ex-wife or her. If Polydor kicked up a fuss about it, she could always tell them she was going into the recording studio here, or working on her vocals with her old coach, Maria Atavista, a legend in the industry.
