Chapter 8
Darius
My father’s home in Birmingham sits fifteen minutes outside of the city.
A large Georgian mansion with tall windows overlooking the rolling front lawn, and a long cobblestone driveway, lined on either side with thick evergreen trees.
It’s a property he bought shortly after marrying my stepmum because Birmingham is where she’s from and where most of her family still live.
Though they split their time between here and their two properties in London, and occasionally the one in Spain.
Every Friday night is a repeat of the last. I either drive up or take the train, arriving in time for an evening meal, after which, providing my father doesn’t have other business to attend to, I sit with him in his office and catch up, maybe play a game of cards.
Then I retire to the guest room set aside for my use before heading home the next morning.
“Darius, good to see you again,” my stepmum says as I open the front door and step into the large, ornately decorated entry hall with its high ceilings and minimalist decor.
She’s dressed in an immaculate pair of white jodhpurs and an equally fresh polo shirt.
Her brunette hair is tied into a high ponytail, and her makeup is flawless as always.
She’s a beautiful woman, and though we don’t know each other well, she’s polite and offers me a warm smile whenever she sees me.
She saunters past me, and I throw down my overnight bag at the front door and make my way in the same direction into the dining room, where my eyes land on my father, seated at the head of the table.
“Darius!” he exclaims, standing when he sees me. I walk over and hug him, getting a return pat on the shoulder before he’s pulling away and taking his seat again. Laptop open in front of him.
“Hi, Dad. Busy day?”
He flips the screen down, then pushes the device aside.
“Always. But I’ll see to it later. Let’s eat. We’ve a wonderful slow-cooked beef shin tonight.” No doubt cooked and delivered by the home cooking service that prepares our meals every Friday night.
We chat while we eat; the conversation moving from the weather, to what my stepmum wants to do with the garden, to their holiday plans for the rest of the year. Which is when my father says, “We’re thinking of hiring that villa again in Portugal in the new year. Get some winter sun.”
“Oh, nice,” I reply, bringing a forkful of mash and beef to my mouth.
“I offered to buy the place from the old man who owns it, but he declined my rather generous offer. Again.”
“Dad,” I chuckle. “That place has been in his family for decades.”
My dad puts down his knife and fork, steepling his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the table.
“I know, but you love that place. I thought it would be nice to have it in our family.”
Reaching out a hand, I tap my father’s forearm.
“That’s kind. But not necessary.”
“That’s what I told him,” my stepmum says, a glass of red wine in her hand. “But you know your father. Always wanting more, never happy with what he has.” She gives him a sly smile before taking a sip of her wine. My father grumbles but seems unperturbed by her comment.
“I’ll book it and ask him again in a few months.”
I roll my eyes, then pick up my own wine glass.
“You could always buy a different villa in the same town, you know?” I suggest.
My father sighs, pushing his plate away from him.
“There are memories in that villa, Darius. You took your first steps there.”
I can’t hold back the half laugh, half scoff that passes my lips.
“Since when are you sentimental?”
“Just because I’m not cuddly and affectionate like you, son, doesn’t mean I don’t treasure this family.”
He’s not an affectionate man, or at least he isn’t anymore. I have vague memories of him at different times in my life, when he was, but those times have long since passed. Traded in for stoicism and boardrooms.
Lifting my hands, palm up, I say, “I know you do.”
He nods, drawing a close to the conversation.
“Now, let me tell you about your date for tomorrow night, or more importantly, about his family.”
The date is a fucking disaster. The guy my father set me up with is the son of a Chelsea socialite and bigwig finance director with ties to something or other that has clearly given my father a boner.
My date, who insists I call him J, is not the slightest bit interested in me, more interested in whatever is happening on his phone.
We tried to make small talk. Two guys shooting the shit, but found we have nothing in common and there’s definitely no connection between us on any level.
I’m not ashamed to admit I zoned out when he started on about Premier League football.
When the conversation fell into a lull, he reverted to scrolling on his phone while we ate mediocre soup.
Now he’s standing outside, leaning against the wall, his phone to his ear.
I’m tired, frustrated and would rather be anywhere but here.
After dinner last night, my father cut out early for a ‘sudden and urgent’ meeting at the social club he frequents when up north and my stepmum went out with friends, leaving me alone in the too large house.
Then today, I worked a double at the coffee shop after which I walked three dogs at the shelter I occasionally volunteer at.
I was exhausted before the date had even begun and yet, I still took the time to make myself presentable.
I look fucking incredible, actually, in a custom made merino pink shirt, a pair of cream tailored slacks, dark-lined eyes and a dab of pink blush on my cheeks.
My date? He rocked up in grey joggers and a Henley.
I almost feel annoyed at how much effort I put in, always put in, for these fucking arrangements of my father’s. But it’s not worth the stress headache.
When it’s clear that my date is not returning, I gesture the server over, pay our bill, stand and walk out.
A group of my close friends had invited me out this evening to a sports bar not far from my place. Looking at the time, it’s not even eight thirty, which means there’s still a chance to rescue this night.
I hail a black cab, give the cab driver the bar’s name, then drop a message into the group chat to say I’m on my way.
Darcey, Lachlan and Finch are all crowded around a small table at the back of the bar.
It’s hot inside, the lights dim and some god-awful music is playing from the bar’s antique jukebox.
There’s a fortieth birthday party happening in the far corner, the area adorned with gold and black streamers and a large helium balloon.
My shoulders relax as I sidle up to my friends, taking the empty stool next to Darcey.
“Didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” she says, her long blonde hair sweeping my shoulder as she leans in to be heard over the music and chatter.
“What are you drinking, Darius?” Finch asks, sliding off his stool and indicating that he’s headed to the bar.
“Vodka cranberry, please love,” I say, turning my attention back to Darcey. “I didn’t either, but my plans changed.”
Darcey nudges me with her shoulder. “Well, I’m glad. We don’t see you often enough.”
“Last I checked, it was you who kept cancelling now that you’re living in domesticated bliss.”
Darcey laughs. It’s a warm and bubbly sound that is the very thing that drew me to her back in high school. She lifts her left hand, the giant diamond engagement ring glinting.
“Can you blame me, though? You’ve seen my fiancée. She’s gorgeous. And smart. And sexy…”
“Yes, we all know that you’re punching above your station,” I joke. It results in Darcey slapping me on the arm, which only makes me laugh along with her.
Lachlan, who is the quietest member of the group, smiles, shaking his head ruefully. Finch returns with our drinks a little while later and we fall into rowdy conversation as though no time has passed at all since we last met up. At some point Lachlan leaves to get us another round.
While the others are chatting, I pull out my phone and check for messages, frowning with disappointment when there still isn’t a reply from Oliver.
The last thing he sent me was a heart eyes emoji in reply to the selfie I sent him of the two of us.
That was early on Friday morning. He’s been unusually quiet the past day and I wish I knew why.
“Waiting for something?” Darcey asks, gesturing to my phone, which I lock and shove back in my pocket.
“Nope. Was checking the time.” Darcey narrows her eyes, her bullshit radar as astute as mine.
“Sure you were. That’s why you hid your phone so quickly, is it?”
“No. It was…urgh stop being so nosey.”
Darcey and I have always been closer than the others in the group.
There isn’t much we don’t know about each other.
Apart from Caiden, she’s the best friend I have.
I could tell her about Oliver. There’s no reason not to.
Other than that, I feel really possessive of what Ollie and I have, and for a little longer, I want to keep it all to myself.
She grins. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But bring them along to my party, okay?” She takes a swig of her drink and I do the same. I’ve lost track of what drink number this is, and my head is a little swirly. “The more the merrier.”
I give a noncommittal reply and the subject changes to Lachlan's upcoming holiday. Shortly before midnight, we say our goodbyes and I stagger the two blocks home. There’s an unread text on my phone from my father, but still nothing from Oliver. I’ll deal with my dad in the morning.
One of two things will happen when I speak to him. He will either be silently disappointed the date didn’t go as he wanted, or he’ll brush it off, mind already on the next possible union he can milk for his benefit. I’m not in the mood to deal with either scenario right now.
My penthouse is dark when I get home, and I switch on lights as I walk through to the lounge. Floor to ceiling windows make up the far side of the room with a view of the Thames. It’s nowhere near as spectacular as the view from The Vista, but it’s still what sold this place to me.
With a sigh, I undo the top three buttons of my shirt, slump down on my large leather sofa and stare out of the window.
I usually love my apartment. It’s big and luxurious, with modern appliances and bright, colourful touches.
It’s decorated with soft fabrics, fun art pieces, and piles of books. Tonight, however, it feels too big.
Too barren.
Too lonely.
I’m tired, but there’s a buzzing under my skin – too much vodka, frustration aimed at my father and anticipation at seeing Ollie tomorrow. There’s no way I’ll be able to fall asleep.
Picking up the TV remote, I select a show and hit play, turning the sound on loud enough to break the silence that’s settled in my penthouse.
I lie flat on my back, one arm tucked behind my head and the other holding my phone in front of my face.
Scrolling through my social media feed, I stop at a photo that Caiden’s been tagged in on his stepbrother’s profile.
He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, ducking his head, laughter on his face, as Jamie presses a kiss to his cheek.
I immediately hit the heart button, then, regardless of the late hour, I shoot Caiden a message.
Me: I’m happy for you, babe.
There’s a short break between my message showing as delivered and Caiden’s reply.
Caiden: Thank you. And thank you for pushing me to go after him.
I grin. There was no chance in this world Caiden was ever letting that man go, but I’ll happily take some of the credit; I did give him an awesome pep talk.
We message back and forth for a few minutes, Caiden filling me in on his trip back home to Devon, and I tell him about my failed date and then drinks with Darcey.
I don’t tell him about Oliver, and it’s not without a touch of guilt.
I should at the very least mention that Oliver came looking for him.
But I know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me that Oliver is bad news and he’ll get in a huffy mood.
So I leave out Oliver and tell Caiden to have a good night, promising to see him soon.
My eyes flick to the name three down from Caiden’s.
Without overthinking, I hit call.
Oliver answers on the third ring, his voice sleep rough and raspy. “D?”
“Sorry I woke you.” I have no idea why I’m calling, other than that I wanted to hear his voice.
Oliver clears his throat. “It’s okay. You alright?”
“I was calling to ask you the same thing. You haven’t messaged me all day.” And why the hell do I sound like a spoiled child when I say that? Bloody vodka.
There’s rustling on the other side of the line, like maybe he’s climbing out of bed.
“Sorry. I was a bit distracted today.”
“As long as you’re okay?”
“I am. I just – ” he blows out a heavy breath “I have to do something I don’t want to do.”
I open my mouth to ask if he wants to talk about it, but he speaks again before I have a chance.
“Do you want to watch something together?” His question takes me by surprise. There’s the sound of glasses clanking and a tap running. “I mean not together, together. But I’ll put it on here and you do the same there.”
Oh. I was not expecting that suggestion, but I can’t deny how much I love the idea.
“Absolutely,” I reply, that buzzing under my skin intensifying. “Give me two minutes.”
Tucking my phone against my ear, I rush into my bedroom and drag the duvet off the bed, taking it back to the sofa. Once I’m settled, I turn on the loudspeaker and rest the phone on my chest.
“What are we watching?” I ask once I’m comfy.
“You pick. I don’t have a television, but I’ve recently subscribed to a few streaming services on my laptop.”
“Okay. What do you have?”
We scroll through a few options before settling on The Greatest Showman. It’s my favourite film and one Oliver hasn’t seen.
We don’t get through much of the film before I’m fighting a losing battle with my heavy eyelids, but when I wake up four hours later, the sun already rising in the sky, bringing with it another hot summer’s day, the call is still connected.
“You still there?” I ask, mouth dry with that morning-after-too-much taste.
Oliver yawns. “Yeah, angel. I’m here.”
My cheeks flood with heat at the nickname. I like it. A lot. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering wildly as I replay the word, hoping I’ll get to hear him say it again.