Chapter 37
Xavier
Ibundle Ivy out of the care home. The black cab I ordered is here, meter running, and I usher her in.
Only when we’re both strapped in and the cab is pulling out onto the main road do I take her hand.
Her shoulders are hunched; she’s curling into herself as if trying to block out the rest of the world.
‘So, sisters, eh?’ I say lightly, taking her hand and squeezing it.
She’s been through the wringer tonight; I have no intention of making her feel worse by giving her a hard time.
But Jesus, the hits keep on coming. I knew Ivy had stuff going on in her life, and I’ve respected her privacy.
God knows, no one could blame her for not wanting to give herself over to me completely.
It’s clear, though, that I’ve completely underestimated the burden she’s been carrying, seemingly alone.
For a moment, she’s silent. Then she sighs and lets her head fall to my shoulder. It feels like defeat, and I’m glad I’ve once again chosen the middle seat so I can be close to her.
‘Yeah.’ It’s little more than a sigh.
I pause. I don’t want to push her, but holy hell, do I have questions. How many sisters? How old? And why the hell are they not here this evening? Why is Ivy managing this all by herself if she has family?
‘Where are they tonight?’ I ask. I keep my tone as breezy as I can. Again, this is not an inquisition. It’s merely me scrambling to understand exactly what we’re dealing with here.
‘They’re at the flat.’
‘Right.’ She’s given the cabbie an address on the Harrow Road, where she apparently lives. She was insistent that I not drop her home, but I’m glad to say I won that battle.
‘They’re—fourteen. Twins.’
Wow. Far younger than I assumed. ‘Okay, so… I assume they live with your mum?’
I feel as though I’m missing something. Her father is dead. Her stepmother is gravely ill. I don’t pretend to understand this messy family tree, or why Ivy is so involved with Dawn’s care if she has a mother and siblings of her own.
‘My mum’s dead,’ she says, so softly I can barely hear her over the engine of the cab.
Her head has fallen to my chest, and I hold it there, my arms banded tight around her.
‘She died of breast cancer when I was two. Lily and Rose are my half-sisters.’ She inhales raggedly.
‘It was just me and Dawn and the twins, basically, but they have school in the morning, so…’
Was.
In an instant, I understand what it is to have your blood run cold.
‘Are you telling me you’re their—what—caregiver? Guardian? It’s just you looking after them?’
A movement against my chest that I understand to be a nod of affirmation.
‘For how long?’
She lifts her head with a little groan, as if the effort of doing it is almost more than she has the energy for, and I don’t blame her. I really don’t. Never have I seen her face so blanched with hopelessness.
‘Well, Dawn got moved in October, but she’s been in a bad way for the past couple of years, so we’ve just been muddling along, really.
I’ve had some help from our neighbours, and I had nighttime carers in when I was working at Alchemy…
’ She trails off and averts her gaze to the window, which showcases a blurry, pointillist scene of raindrops.
If those ten words Ivy whispered to me that first evening have haunted me since she uttered them, then in this moment they’re a mind-fuck of epic proportions.
It must be nice to be able to afford morals.
Dear God above.
I knew she had challenges. Responsibilities, if you like. I sensed she was strapped for cash and struggling to make ends meet, and still, I judged her for the ways in which she had previously chosen to do that. Less so as I got to know her and began to fall for her, perhaps, but still.
Two dead parents.
The remaining parental figure institutionalised with dementia.
Full responsibility for two minors.
And she’s been selling her body in order to execute that responsibility.
I cannot fucking bear it.
As I wrap my arms even more tightly around her and pepper her temples, her sweet-smelling hair, with tender, helpless kisses, I wonder with a growing sense of self-loathing just how far I’ve underestimated this woman: the woman who appeared in my life in a blaze of light at a time when I needed the most to feel something real and has asked me for precisely nothing in return.
When we pull up to the address she gave, I see to my surprise that we’re outside Jan’s Caff. Reality tilts sideways, not for the first time this evening.
‘You don’t live—’
‘We live above it.’ The resignation in her voice as she opens the cab door tells me she was expecting me to question it.
‘I’m coming in,’ I tell her as I jump out. There’s a nondescript door next to the caff, and she makes her way towards it.
‘No you’re not, Xav. Look, thanks for—’
‘I’m coming in.’ I close in behind her and rub her upper arms as she fumbles with her keys.
She halts. Her posture is one of utter defeat. ‘I’m embarrassed,’ she whispers, and my heart threatens to break clean in two. I wrap my arms right around her and rest my chin on the top of her head.
‘You have no reason to be embarrassed. None. I’m only just starting to get a clear picture of what you’ve been dealing with, and it’s intense, sweetheart.
No one should have to endure what you’re enduring.
I think you’re formidable. But, just for now, let me be here for you so you don’t have to do everything alone. Please.’
It feels shitty to be arguing with an already broken woman, to be using that same brokenness to ensure my victory, but the end justifies the means here.
Ivy has been alone for too long, and I will use every tool, every weapon, at my disposal for the chance to show her that I’m staying. That she has someone to collapse upon.
Even if just for one night.
She doesn’t answer—I don’t think she has the energy—but she nods and unlocks the door. I close the door behind me and push the deadbolts to locked. Still, I don’t like that nothing stands between her family and the Harrow Road. I don’t like it one bit.
She trudges up a dim, narrow stairwell, and I follow, the smells of cooking—presumably from the caff—and the sounds of a TV blaring enveloping me immediately.
My sense of foreboding is growing as I come closer to confronting the brutality of Ivy’s reality.
The steps beneath my feet have the sagging structure that I suspect many a neglected Victorian building has in London, and the miserable excuse for a stair runner must surely be celebrating its quarter-century soon.
‘Sorry in advance for the mess,’ she mutters, not turning around.
‘I don’t give a single shit about the mess. I only care about you.’
She has no earthly clue how true both of those statements are.
‘Hi,’ she says as she gets to the top. ‘I’ve got a fr—’
‘How’s Mum?’ someone chirps.
Here we fucking go.