Chapter 23
I didn’t sleep. Nowhere close. I’m not replacing Rosie. I hit the slow button and work my way down to a jog, grabbing the towel and wiping my face before laying it across my bare shoulders and wedging my palms into the handles, staring at nothing on the TV screen. Then I’m staring at something.
Ava.
My present. My future.
She looks peaky. Drained. Jesus, this morning sickness has got her good. “Oh baby.” I take in her sorrowful face. “Crap?”
“Terrible.”
That makes both of us.She’ll still insist on going to work, though. I scoop her up, carrying her to the kitchen. “I was going to ask why you’re not naked.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll throw up on you.”
Chuckling, I sit her on the counter. “You look beautiful.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ward.” She pouts. “I look like shit.”
“Ava,” I whisper. She’s clearly got enough energy to curse. “You need to eat.”
Her cheeks balloon, an unattractive sound rumbling up from her stomach. I step back, genuinely worried she’s actually going to throw up.
“I’m here,” Cathy sings, the door closing in the distance. She appears at the door. “Morning.” Then she takes us both in, Ava looking green, me looking worried. “Oh dear. Whatever is the matter?”
“Ava’s not feeling too good.”
“Oh, the dreaded morning sickness? It’ll pass.”
“Will it?” Ava asks, sounding truly hopeful, looking for reassurance as she sinks into my chest. “When?”
I look to Cathy, holding Ava, hugging her, fussing over her.
“It depends,” she says, starting her usual faff around the kitchen. “Boy, girl, mum, dad. Some women have a few weeks of it, some struggle throughout the whole of their pregnancy.”
Oh shit, that’s not ideal.
“Oh God,” Ava grumbles, clinging on to me weakly. “Don’t say that.”
“Ginger!”
I jump, jarring Ava from my chest. Ginger? Is she telling us ginger babies make morning sickness worse? “What?” Ava asks what we’re both wanting to know.
“Ginger.” Cathy dives into her bag and pulls out a pack of... biscuits? “You need ginger, dear. I came prepared.” I’m shoved aside. I’m not injured. Cathy’s just put one of those biscuits in Ava’s hand, telling her to have one every morning, and she’s started nibbling it without protest. It’s a miracle. Let’s see if she keeps it down. Ginger? Who would have thought. “It’ll settle your stomach.” Cathy pats Ava’s cheek, her old nose wrinkling. “I’m so excited.”
No shit.I claim my wife back and sit her on a stool, checking the biscuit. Half gone. This could be a gamechanger.
“The new boy gave me these,” Cathy says, holding out some envelopes. “Cute little bugger, isn’t he?”
Cuter than Clive? I hear Ava chuckle, life suddenly in her bones. Good for her. I take the envelopes on a scowl.
“He’s very sweet,” Ava says, as I work one of the envelopes open, still scowling.
They chat happily about the new concierge while Cathy makes breakfast and Ava works her way through her biscuit. I rest my arse on a stool and pull out a letter, seeing a few leaflets attached to the edge. At first I think it’s junk mail. Then I see Ava’s name. Or, at least, her old name. O’Shea. And her old address.
Where she lived with her ex.
Confused as fuck, I look at the front of the envelope. It’s addressed to me. Not Ava. And it’s marked private. Ava’s next to me, talking happily, a little more color in her cheeks, as Cathy pushes a plate toward me. I smile my thanks, going back to the letter, reading. It’s a scan appointment. I thought I told Ava I’d organize a private scan. But then I look at the date in the corner, mentally doing the math. This was sent a week ago. Last Monday, to be precise. Last Monday when I followed her to the surgery. Last Monday when she walked out of the doctor’s office and threw up all over the bathroom. Last Monday when she told me she wasn’t pregnant. That I’d failed.
A horrible coolness slithers through my veins as I read on, past the appointment date and time.
Options.
Will be discussed at the scan.
Termination last resort.
Consider adoption.
My stomach drops like a fucking rock as I turn the letter over and read the leaflets.
All on abortion.
“Eat your breakfast,” Ava says, sliding my plate closer to me. I look at her, everything inside becoming heavy. Everything hurting. She searches my face, her chewing slowing. I can see her mouth moving. Can’t hear a fucking word she’s saying. She was going to let me believe she was never pregnant? Have an abortion and not tell me?
“What is that?” Ava asks, leaning in to see the envelope.
“Go upstairs.” They’re the only words I can find.
She withdraws. “Why?”
“Don’t make me ask you again, Ava.” I feel like a tightly coiled spring, an inferno burning me from the inside out. What the fuck is this crazy?
Not arguing, she slips down from the stool, looking tense and uncertain, and I don’t have it in me to fix that. Cathy looks between us as Ava leaves, no questions asked. I have to take a moment to breathe some measured breaths. Options. To be rid of my baby. Our baby. She doesn’t want this baby.
I could sit here for a year and find no control.
I get up and follow Ava upstairs, entering the bedroom. “What the fuck is this?” I ask, waving the letter and leaflets in her face, noting how she takes a step back, a step away from me. It’s a good indication that I’m looking extremely volatile. I’m definitely feeling it.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice quiet.
I have to drop the letter, the damn thing burning my skin. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe the letter was sent to Ava by mistake. “You were going to kill our baby?”
The instant fall of her face tells me my maybes were wasted hope. Her eyes drop to her feet. Hiding. My God, she was going to end this pregnancy? She was intending on killing our baby and letting me believe she was never pregnant?
My hands. I can’t focus on them, they’re shaking so much. “Answer me,” I bellow. She flinches, letting out a small, suppressed whimper. “Ava, for fuck’s sake.” I hold the tops of her arms, dipping, getting my face level with hers. She turns her head away. “Damn it, look at me.”
God help me, she continues to hide, silent, her body shaking along with her head. Shame’s engulfing her. Disbelief’s engulfing me. I take her face and turn it toward me, scanning every inch of it, wondering how the hell she could do this. My perfect wife. The woman who has literally given me life was going to take a part of it away from me.
Her eyes are full of tears, and they’re quickly rolling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, sniffing.
She’s sorry?
She’s... sorry?
My eyes dart across her blotchy face, my mind willing me to wake up from this nightmare. “You’ve broken my fucking heart, Ava,” I croak, releasing her and backing up. I can’t look at her. Can’t be near her.
I go to the dressing room, randomly grab some clothes, and walk out. And I walk fast, terrified I’ll change my mind and go back to shake her. I don’t use the elevator, needing to burn off the anger, so I take the stairs. My hands are trembling so much, it takes four attempts to enter the code correctly, and when I get to the bottom, I look at my hands. “Fuck.” I throw my clothes in a pile on the floor and strip out of my running shorts, pulling on my jeans, a T-shirt, and stuffing my feet into some boots. I leave the stairwell, ignoring Casey as I pass, and break out of Lusso, going to my car, calling John on my way. “I need you to collect Ava and take her to work, no questions asked.” I hang up before he can ask. Not that I think he would.
I get in my Aston, slam it into drive, and screech out of the car park. I narrowly miss the gates that are still opening as I exit, checking my watch. I hope for his sake he’s not left for work yet because I absolutely will go to his office to release this unbridled rage.
I don’t bother findinga parking space. I double park directly outside his flat and leap up the steps, hammering on the door repeatedly until some poor, elderly lady in a dressing gown answers. I pass her, leaping up more stairs to his flat and proceeding to smash my fist into that door too. The second I hear the latch release, I push my way in and grab the first thing within reach.
Matt’s throat.
I slam him into the wall, my snarling face up in his sleepy one, and before he can even murmur a plea, my knee has come up and slammed into his stomach, waking him up. I don’t ease up my hold so he can double over, keeping him pinned against the wall.
“You fucking psycho,” he chokes, grappling with my hold of his throat.
Psycho? He’s seen nothing. “You thought that was smart, did you?” I snarl through my words. “You thought you’d slither in and try to cause upset?” I draw my fist back and sink it into his face, making his head ricochet off the wall.
He barks his shock and pain, gasping. “Are you sure it’s even yours?” he hisses, the sick fucker.
That’s it.
Any slice of control I had is lost, and I absolutely batter the fucker, punching him until my fist physically can’t take anymore, leaving him curled in a ball on the carpet, blood pouring from his nose, his eyes closed from the instant swelling. “Stay the fuck away from me and my wife.” I leave before I kill him, getting in my car and hitting the steering wheel over and over before screeching off. I drive like a total fucking idiot, my emotions changing as much as the gears of my car, tears clouding my vision, then anger, my mind in utter chaos.
Unforgiveable.
It’s unforgiveable, and that truly scares the shit out of me, because I didn’t think there was anything in this world that could make me question my feelings for Ava. This, though? It’s got me. And, worse, Ava will never know the level of betrayal I feel.
Because she still doesn’t know I’m a father who lost his daughter.
Two hours drivingaround the countryside didn’t cool me off either. John watches me pass him on the driveway, my car too fast over the gravel as I steer it around the side of The Manor. I get out and go straight to the garages, hitting my fob to open the doors and scanning the line of machines before me. I haven’t needed to do this for a while. I pull down my helmet from the shelf. No leathers. No gloves.
Swinging my leg over the bike, I settle in the cushioned seat. “She didn’t let me take her to work,” John says.
I laugh on the inside. Of course she didn’t.
“Jesse,” he goes on, appearing before me.
“Not now.”
“Then when?”
When I feel less likely to explode and destroy everything in my path. “Later.” I reach up to get my helmet on, but John’s hand on the front of my bike stalls me.
“What’s going on?” he asks, concerned.
I stare at him, unable to speak the words. How could she? “I’m fine.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jesse. Tell me before I drag you off this bike and kick it out of you.”
“She was going to have an abortion.”
His massive chest inflates from his shocked inhale.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I know.”
“And the blood?” he asks, pointing to my fists.
I lift my hand, seeing smears across the knuckles. “Matt’s face.”
“What?”
“He sent me the letter Ava’s doctor sent to his flat confirming her scan appointment and options.”
“Shit.”
“I need to ride.” I push my helmet on and turn the key in the ignition, kicking the stand up and revving the engine as I hit the button on the fob for the gates, ensuring they’re open by the time I get there. Ensuring I don’t need to slow down. Stop. And they are. I fly through them, checking for oncoming traffic, and as soon as I’m on the main road, I open her up, flying through the gears until she’s maxed out, my T-shirt stuck to me, the world whizzing past in a blur, wind rushing past, the noise mingling with the roar of the engine, diluting my thoughts. But not enough. Abortion? How could she? I’m at a loss, so fucking hurt.
Killing yourself isn’t the answer, bro.
Then what is?
Compassion. You think she’d have even considered it if she knew about Rosie?
I slow a little and take a curve wide, seeing the road ahead is clear. I max her out again. It doesn’t matter. She was going to take a life without a second thought for the aftermath. The guilt. The loss.
Is it the same thing?
“I don’t fucking know!” I scream at the road.
Slow down, bro.
“It should have been me, Jake.” My voice cracks, the road becoming blurry. “If it had been me, it would have only been me.” But it wasn’t only me. It was Jake, and that was a catalyst to many more lives being ruined.
Slow down.
Because of me.
Slow down, Jesse!
Jake, Rosie, Rebecca, Carmichael. Nearly Sarah too. All because of me.
Slow the fuck down, now!
I jerk, my fingers pulling at the brakes, and I skid to a stop by the side of the road, diving off my bike, leaving it to fall to the tarmac with a crash. I fumble with the strap under my chin, feeling suffocated, and yank my helmet off, gasping for air, struggling to breathe as I stagger to the verge. I collapse to the grass and fall to my back, looking up to the sky, my chest pumping hard.
Heaven.
Will I ever earn my way into that sacred place?
Will I ever see my loves again?
I don’t want to see your ugly fucking face for a long fucking time, Jesse. Do you hear me?
“Watch your mouth,” I murmur.
Fuck off. You have a job to do there. We’re fine.
“We?”
Uncle Jake’s looking after me, Daddy.
I cough over a sob, rolling onto my side, wanting to curl into a ball of shame and stem the pain. “That’s good,” I whisper. “Tell him thank you. Tell him I love him. And you, baby girl. I love you too.”
Silence.
I wait, listen, holding my breath.
No voices.
I roll onto my back again, looking up at the clouds. “Did you hear me, Rosie?” I roughly wipe my eyes, sniff back my tears, listening, waiting.
“Shit, mate, are you all right?”
I lift my head and come face to face with a young lad in a Manchester United kit. I laugh under my breath, seeing Jake and me in the garden, him in red, me in blue. Fucking hell, our looks were the only similar thing about us.
Come on, you Reds.
I blink, seeing him dribbling the ball toward me, goading me as I widened my stance, holding my hands up, getting ready to save his shot. But the fucker nutmegs me.
Goal!
“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, pushing myself to my feet. “I’m fine.” I notice his little boy racer car on the roadside behind my bike, his hazard lights on.
“I thought you’d come off, mate,” he says, flanking me to my bike, watching me stand it up. “That is one awesome machine.”
I laugh under my breath, getting back on my awesome machine. “What’s your name?”
“Bran.”
“How old are you, Bran?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen?Fuck, it feels like yesterday but also like an eternity ago. I look him up and down. He’s just a boy. His whole life ahead of him. “New driver?” I ask.
His puny chest pushes out with pride. “Two months.”
“Drive carefully, okay?”
Poor, confused thing frowns. “Yeah, okay.” He trudges back to his car, constantly looking back at me, probably thinking I’m all kinds of weird. “See ya,” he calls, opening his car door, just as another car goes sailing past, moving out onto the other side of the road to clear us.
My frown follows it down the road before it takes a curve and I lose sight of it.
“Fuck me,” the kid blurts. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” I murmur, a chill enveloping me.
“I’ll have a DB9 one day,” he says, confident.
“That was a DBS,” I call back, still staring at the road.
“How do you know?”
“Because it was mine.” I blink and pull my phone out, seeing a few missed calls from John. Fuck.
I don’t get the chance to call him back. He pulls up in his Range Rover behind the kid, and my apprehension is instant. “That was my car, wasn’t it?” I say.
One sharp nod, and I just stare at him, because I don’t know what else to do. “Who the fuck would steal my car?” I ask. “And how the hell did they get in and out of The Manor?”
“I don’t know,” John admits. “We need to call the police.”
“Fuck that,” I snort, putting my helmet on again, hearing John yelling at me. Distraction. Another opportunity to alleviate some of this pressure. I get on my bike and skid off, hearing Jake in my head warning me again. Unfortunately for him and John, I’m not feeling very receptive to advice today.
I yank at the throttle, hardly slowing for corners, dipping in low for them, my knees heating they’re so close to brushing the road. “Where the fuck are you?” Every bend I take, I brace myself for my Aston to appear in the distance. It never does, and before I know it, I’m back in the city with too many turns in the road and options for the driver of my DBS to take.
I reluctantly call it quits when my bike yells it’s in need of some fuel. Defeated and pissed off, I pull into a petrol station and fill her up, calling John as I do. “Not fucking cool, Jesse,” he spits, angry.
“It’s an Aston Martin, John. They should be impossible to steal.”
“They’re also one of the most stolen cars because they’re one of the most desirable. Where the fuck are you?”
“The Shell station, Marylebone.”
“Meet me at Lusso.” He leaves no room for refusal, hanging up.
I sigh, watching every car passing as I fill the fuel tank on my bike. No Astons. Not one.
Trepidation settles deep in my gut.
Who the fuck was driving my car?