Chapter 6
I see that smile often while I’m away up-country. My phone rings each evening, Monday through Thursday, and I don’t cancel any of those calls like I did Flynn’s. I accept each video request, then settle back on a Travelodge bed to hear all about his sorting progress.
“It’s slow going.”
After years of clearing houses, I can guess why, and on my last night away from London, I tell him, “That’s because it isn’t just stuff to categorise into auction lots for you, is it? It’s a lifetime of reminders.”
Dair nods, and after four evenings of helping him with that categorising process, I can do the same for each of his expressions. Tonight, my phone screen shows a recent favourite—he looks at me like I have every answer.
“That’s it exactly, Vincent. Everything reminds me of Alice.”
I also like how much he wants an answer to this question.
“What time will you be back tomorrow?”
“Not too late.” I regret that I have to give him this reminder. “Blake’s coming over.”
“The one with the scary eyes.” He narrows his own, which only makes him look cute instead of like a killing machine armed with a massive cannon.
“Yeah. That’s Blake. So I won’t be free Friday night, but I’m not working at all this weekend.
Shit.” I shove hair back from my forehead.
“Actually, I’m busy on Saturday. Visiting the fam and getting a haircut.
But I could come over Saturday evening. Be quicker for two people to keep categorising everything, if you want some more help? You could type while I pack and wrap.”
That earns me a smile which fades all too soon. “I can’t see you Saturday night. I just said yes to some more care shifts. Got a couple of long ones in the nursing home Alice stayed in after her surgery. It will be the first time since then that I’ve been back to Holborn.”
That sounds like another tough reminder.
“They’re lucky to have you.”
Saying so earns me a smile with a category all its own. It’s bittersweet, I think. A little bit bruised. I’m still thinking about it when I get back to the city on Friday evening, which doesn’t slip past my cousin.
Kev side-eyes me in the cab of his van. “You sure you want dropping here instead of coming home for some grub with me and Marilyn? You could stay over.”
“I can’t.”
He scowls at the entrance to a Tube station like it’s to blame for me turning down his offer. “Thought you said there was nothing left at your place to go back to?”
That isn’t entirely true now that there are cups in my kitchen cupboard. Glasses as well, not to mention the last of a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
I don’t confess that. I let him check the Underground app and give a grumbled order. “Marilyn said don’t forget your haircut.”
I do make a confession to the next person I speak to, but that’s because it’s Harry, who calls me from a boat show as I emerge from the Tube at Kensington. He gets straight to the point. “What’s this I hear about a no-nookie rule for Heppel Exes?”
“Ha!” My laugh booms so loud that commuters scurry. “Believe me, I already regret it.”
I tell him why, and someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth listens as I walk past the kind of homes none of my ancestors could have dreamed of entering by the front door.
They would have been relegated to the tradesman’s entrance or been in service to people right at the very tippy top of the class pile.
My people would have been at the bottom, only good enough to cook, clean, or care for their youngest and oldest members.
Like Dair does.
Him giving up a property here is still on my mind as I pass the Heppels’ London place. The one night we never made it past his hallway, Charles told me it was handy for city visits. Dair’s place isn’t nearly as big. It’s still got to be worth plenty.
I tell Harry all about that too, and he does that thing of hearing what I’m really saying. His hum is thoughtful. “He was the sole beneficiary?”
“Yeah. Charles said so and Dair confirmed it.”
“But he’s going to lose everything?” Harry lets out a sigh so clear he could be right beside me. “Oh, darling, that’s got to feel familiar.”
It does. So much so that the reason slips out. “Flynn called.”
“To say?”
“Dunno. But if he wants a cosy chat, he’s too late. I got nothing to say to him, and I’m not interested in listening to any more of his bullshit.”
Harry hums again. “You’re still feeling a lot, aren’t you?”
I huff, saying nothing.
Harry makes a quiet suggestion. “Use my pen.”
“To do what? Stab him?”
Harry snorts. “You couldn’t. You’re a lover, not a fighter.”
“I dunno about that.” I’ve scuffed my knuckles for less. “I could take him in a fight.”
“And yet it’s you who puts broken things back together.”
That description could fit my aunt. Nothing made her happier than finding matching china fragments in riverbank grit and gravel.
Harry fills my silence. “Fighting Flynn wouldn’t make you feel any better. Using my pen might, so write yourself a list of all those feelings. Good, bad, or ugly, write them out, let yourself feel them one last time, then leave them behind.”
My throat is stupidly tight. “Wouldn’t waste the ink.
” Harry must be at a boat-show party. Glasses clink and people chatter.
Like Flynn, he’s moving in high-powered circles, so I tell him, “Get back to chatting up your clients.” I turn onto my own street to find someone waiting on my doorstep. This time, it isn’t a Scottish redhead.
An ex-Horse Guard stands sentry.
“I gotta to go. Blake’s waiting.” He hasn’t spotted me yet, and for the first time, I see him the same way Dair described. He’s intimidating. Grim. Unapproachable—until his sights lock on me. Then Blake looks relieved in a perfectly timed example of what Harry mentions before our call ends.
“Good. He’s got to be lonely after being in charge of new recruits for years. Not being needed must be one hell of an adjustment, especially if him and Adey still aren’t talking. You found out what happened between them?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“But you will.” I can almost see smile lines deepen around sea-green eyes. “Because I left my pen with the right person.”
I slow my steps. “I don’t know about that either.”
Harry’s pause draws out, and this is quieter.
“Listen, I’m not expecting a miracle. Not expecting anything at all, to be honest. Just couldn’t help thinking that it takes a deeply practical person to do what you did for Flynn.
You’re a workhorse.” Again, he could be describing my fam.
“That kind of steady hand on the plough matters. You don’t have to keep my pen,” he promises.
“You can give it to any of the other Exes if you want. But I am glad you took it.”
I’m glad too when I reach my doorstep to let Blake in. The role Harry gave me means I get to hear him laugh the minute I make him tea in my not-so-empty kitchen. He chuckles over my new possessions. “Gold rims? Very la-di-da. Thought I’d left teacups like these behind at the Palace.”
It’s true that the cups Dair wrapped so carefully are quite fancy looking, even if they cost his old client pennies at boot sales.
Blake lifts up his cup to read the maker’s name on its base. He doesn’t find one, but he does find a mark on the base of the saucer. “Does this mean they’re worth something?”
I don’t even look at that print. “No clue. Ceramics aren’t my thing.”
Blake isn’t done taking the piss. “Well, these are a step up from IKEA. You must be going up in the world.” He takes a sip of Twining’s finest, eyes meeting mine over the gold rim of his cup, and Dair was right—usually that stare could pierce armour plating.
Tonight, Blake’s eyes twinkle, which I take as a good sign.
“You made up with Adey.”
That twinkle winks out. “How, when I never see him?” The bright lights of this kitchen show a sudden bleakness.
“Since retiring, I always start my weekends with a run through Hyde Park. Time it so I can check in on the newest troopers. See how those donkey wallopers are getting on. Adey used to come with. Now he says he can’t. That he’ll be too busy working.”
“He teaches at the weekend?”
“No. He stopped teaching a while back. Called it a sabbatical. I dunno why he’s working at a bougie coffee shop serving fucking cappuccinos to tourists in Covent Garden.”
It’s telling that he can pull out his phone and show me where his not-boyfriend will be so quickly, like he’s checked this coffee shop’s opening times often. Not gonna lie, I googled care-work shift patterns while I was away, wondering when Dair might be home, so I get it.
Blake stares down at his phone. “Think he’s taken on more shifts there to avoid me.”
And I want to avoid pushing and prodding, only Harry told me he gave me his pen for a reason—that he believed I wouldn’t give up, especially not on this ex-soldier who stopped me from drowning in red wine the night I hit my own rock bottom.
He helped me. I’ve got to help him.
I make a start by doing my best to channel our real leader. “When did you two last talk?”
Blake fires back, “When did you last talk to Flynn?”
Touché.
“I wasn’t ever with Flynn.”
“And I’m not with Adey.” Blake huffs. “We aren’t together. Never have been. I’m years older and too boring now that I’m not…” He swallows. “I used to take him riding. Can’t do that now, so if he finds serving coffee more interesting than spending his time off with me, I can’t force him, can I?”
I’m stumped for how to answer. All I can offer is a weak-sauce suggestion. “Emotional support kebab?”
“Maybe.” Blake scrubs a hand through regulation short hair. “Actually, I might just head home.”
That’s the opposite of what I all but promised. “Don’t make your mind up yet.” I can’t think of a reason to keep him here. “Let me go shower. Then I’ll walk out with you.”