Chapter 8 #2
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah, she did the Paris and Milan fashion weeks. But that was over twenty years ago now.”
“Wow. That must have been amazing,” I say, impressed.
“I don’t know,” Wren says with a shrug. “She doesn’t really talk about it.”
“Why not?” I ask.
Wren applies one last piece of masking tape, then stands up and walks over to the desk. “I think she misses her old life sometimes. Either way, she always changes the subject quickly if anyone mentions it.”
“Oh.” I stand beside him and start to pull the rest of the stuff out of my bag and arrange it on the desk. “My dad’s like that too. He never talks about before the accident, almost like that time never really happened.”
Wren sets one of the paint tubs down on the sheet. Then he slowly peels up the lid. Without really looking at me, he says, “Mum’s acting weird at the moment.”
“In what way?”
He takes the roller I’m holding out to him and twists it around in his hands. “She makes out that this is all totally fine, but…” He hesitates a moment. “Yesterday I heard her crying in the bathroom. The walls here are pretty thin.”
I bite the inside of my lip. “I don’t think this kind of move is easy for anyone,” I say quietly. “It’ll probably just take a bit of getting used to.”
For a moment, Wren says nothing. Then he exhales suddenly. “I hate it when Mum’s upset.”
He looks so down and so hopeless that I long to give him a hug. But I don’t move. “Crying is actually a good thing. It stops your sadness eating into you.”
Wren nods, although he doesn’t look convinced.
“Maybe your mum should go up on the rooftop and cry her eyes out, to get rid of everything that’s getting her down.”
Now his lips twitch again. “That really would scare the neighbors.”
“Good point. In that case, she’ll have to save it up until you’re all such good friends that she could never scare anyone off.”
I arrange the different-size brushes on the desk and pick them up one by one, choosing which one to start with.
After a while, I realize that Wren is shaking his head at me. His smile broadens.
“What?” I ask.
His eyes run over my face, and he opens his mouth slightly. But then he shuts it again and presses his lips together.
“Nothing,” he says in the end, nodding toward the paint can. “Shall we start?”
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I say, grabbing a brush and dipping it in.
The whole time we’re painting the walls in Wren’s new bedroom, I’m secretly wondering what he chickened out of saying just now.
Ruby
My bullet journal now looks totally different from how it did a week ago.
I’ve always structured my days around my timetable, the events committee, and my studying, but now I have no reason to get up at any particular time, or any deadlines for handing in my homework.
For the first couple of days, that threw me off completely, but then I decided not to wallow in a swamp of misery, and I came up with a new routine for myself.
I spend the mornings in the little village library here in Gormsey, where I start looking at some of the reading lists for Oxford and keep on working on my A-level revision.
After school, either James or Lin comes to my house to drop off the notes from the day’s lessons, and I spend my evenings trying my best to work through it, and to get my head around it all.
It’s weird not going to school anymore. With every passing day, it gets harder to shake off the horrible fear that’s crept into my bones since Monday—I feel like it’s choking me.
It torments me on every walk to the library, and the fifteen minutes back home again.
It’s there when I sit down with my family, and it plagues my nights, even though James stays on the phone, talking all kinds of nonsense to soothe me.
But I’m not going to admit defeat. And I refuse to accept this situation.
James gave Cyril an ultimatum, and until that runs out, I’m clinging to the hope that Lexington will learn the truth and let me back into Maxton Hall.
Right now, I can’t even think about what will happen if he doesn’t, or I’ll see my entire future bursting before my eyes like a soap bubble. And I can’t bear that.
Meanwhile, Ember keeps coming up with a new alternative every day in case Plan A (Oxford.
Whatever it takes.) doesn’t work out. Her favorites so far are Plans B (Apply to Alice Campbell for work experience so that, one day, I can get a job with her cultural foundation) and C (Chuck it all in and set up a fashion empire with her), although she is way keener on Plan C than I can be at the moment.
I lean back and stretch my arms out over my head.
The gray upholstered library chairs are anything but comfortable.
Or stable. In the last three days, I’ve figured out that there are precisely two that don’t wobble, and one of them has a screw that drops out at regular intervals.
I’ve already had two almost–heart attacks because I’ve been deep in my books and the seat has suddenly lurched, making me think I’m going to crash to the floor.
So far, it’s been OK. But I’m pretty certain that William, an old man who also comes into the library every day, has reached the same conclusions about the chairs.
Because every time he’s there before me, he’s already snagged the non-wobbly, non-lurchy chair for himself, and there’s a wicked glint in his eyes as I resignedly pull one of the other seats over to my table.
Even so, I like him.
When I arrive at the library on Friday morning, I discover that they’re closed for stocktaking and won’t be open until after lunch.
That rattles me at first, but in the end, I take my books to a little café and spend the time there instead.
I head back to the library at one on the dot and find William already waiting at the door.
He smiles at me for the first time, and this evening, as I pack up my stuff and peel myself out of the little seating area, I wave and smile back.
I set off home feeling happy at this tiny success.
I unlock the front door and call out, “It’s me!”
“In the kitchen,” Dad replies at once.
I slip off my shoes and hang my thin jacket on a coat hook.
“William smiled at me for the first time today,” I say as I walk down the hallway. “I think he—”
I stop and blink.
My dad isn’t alone in the kitchen.
Standing beside him at the work surface is James.
The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to the elbows. He has a potato in one hand and a peeler in the other. Dad is sitting beside him, in the middle of finely slicing one of the spuds.
For a moment, I’m not sure if this is real or some kind of deeply weird dream.
“What…what are you two up to?” I blurt.
“Dauphinoise,” says Dad, not looking up from the chopping board.
I take a closer look at James and instantly clock that something’s not right.
I can see it in his eyes, his body language, and the general dark aura surrounding him.
“Are you OK?” I ask. I try to keep my voice calm, but I can’t stop my shoulders from stiffening or my fingers from gripping on to my backpack straps.
James clears his throat. He looks down at his hands, as if he’s forgotten what he’s doing here for a moment. Then he looks up again. His lips twitch upward slightly. It’s not a real smile, just a rubbish fake one, which makes my stomach lurch.
“I came to see you, but you weren’t here,” he says, nodding to Dad. “So Angus roped me in as a kitchen porter.”
I frown and look from one of them to the other. “I’m not as bad at it as I feared either,” says James, and Dad nods.
“Definitely not. We’re getting more potato than peel now.”
Normally, a comment like that would make me grin, but I get the feeling there’s nothing funny about this situation.
James is standing there with his sleeves rolled up and hair like he’s buried his fingers in it more than once.
I’ve never seen him this disheveled. Normally, his presence fills even the biggest of halls, but now he seems uncertain and hesitant.
Like he doesn’t even know where he is, let alone what to do next.
“Why don’t you two go upstairs and chat until dinner is ready?” Dad suggests out of the blue. “You’ve been a great help, James, but I can manage on my own from here.”
James hesitates a moment, but then he nods and hands Dad the peeler. He puts the potato down on the board and goes over to the sink to wash his hands.
I give Dad a grateful smile. He returns it, but I can see that his eyes are worried. Although I can’t tell whether he’s concerned for James or for me.
I wait for James, then we go up to my room. I put down my bag and turn to him as he stands indecisively in the middle of the floor.
I take two cautious steps toward him. I look up at him. He looks back at me, and again, it’s like he’s trying to smile for me.
“You don’t have to smile if you’re not in the mood,” I whisper. I’m afraid that he’ll vanish at the slightest sound. Probably because I’ve never seen him like this before. I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can think of is to give him time.
“I’ve done it,” he croaks in the end. He coughs. “I’ve left Beaufort’s.”
It takes a while for what he’s saying to sink in. “What?” I ask, almost inaudibly.
“I saw my father trying to bribe Sutton into leaving Lydia.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what happened, but something inside me flipped. I realized how wrong this all is. And that I just can’t carry on like that.”
My hands lift almost by themselves, and I lay them on his hips.
“I told him that I don’t want anything more to do with Beaufort’s and that I’m going to sell my shares.”
I hold my breath.
Only a few weeks ago, James admitted to me that he was scared of disappointing his mum, of destroying her life’s work if he didn’t succeed in following in her footsteps and taking charge of Beaufort’s the way she wanted it.
Breaking away from his dad was his dream but never a realistic option.
However much I wanted it for him, I just can’t believe that he’s done that today—despite all the consequences that this decision is going to have.
“How did he react?” I whisper.
“He told me not to bother coming home.”
I feel a painful stab in my ribs, especially as I see how hard James is fighting to hold it together. All the color has drained from his face, and when I take his hands in mine, they’re ice-cold.
“I have no family left, Ruby.” His voice breaks.
I fling my arms around him.
His shoulders shake as he hugs me back. He’s literally clinging to me, and I find myself remembering the day after his mum died when I went round to his house and held him in my arms as he cried. This moment feels the same.
I don’t know how long we stand there. The only sound in my bedroom is our breathing, which starts off fast and ragged, and gradually calms.
After a while, James leans back a little to look at me. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are red.
“I…just wanted to see you,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry for dumping all this on you.”
At once, I shake my head. “I’m glad you came. I want to be there for you.”
“When I walked out of Beaufort’s”—James exhales audibly—“I felt so free. Like now I could do anything I wanted.”
I look questioningly at him.
“But I’m slowly starting to grasp what I just did.” He gulps hard. “And what it’s going to mean for the rest of my life.”
I reach for James’s hand and pull him over to the bed. Once we’ve sat down, I turn to face him, fingers firmly interlinked with his. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”
James looks at our hands. His hair flops over his brow, and I long to hug him again.
“Do you need anything?” I ask instead. “Shall we go and get your stuff from home?”
“No,” James says, clearing his throat. “I took the most important things right away. And I came in my car. Plus, I have an account my dad can’t access—my salary from the company went in there, and everything I’ve saved in the last few years.
” He hesitates. “I’ve booked myself a hotel room for the next few weeks. Not far from here.”
I feel my eyes fill with tears. “You don’t have to go to a hotel,” I say, my voice muffled. “I’m sure it’ll be OK if you stay here for a bit.”
“I can’t impose on you like that, Ruby. You guys have enough on your plate.”
I shake my head. “I’m not letting you live in a hotel room after everything that’s happened.”
James sighs, but before he can say anything, I take his cheeks in my hands. “Stay with us. With me.”
James shuts his eyes and leans forward until his forehead rests against mine. I run my fingers gently over his skin.
“I love you, Ruby.”
At his quiet words, I close my eyes too.
This moment feels special—like the end of something huge, and like a new beginning, full of hope and possibilities. James deserves it. He’s the bravest boy I know, and I’m so proud of him.
And as we hold each other tight, I tell him so. I whisper it into his ear again and again.