Chapter 8
I slept like a baby despite my misgivings. After a long shower, I’d headed for bed with Kenny forming a protective, restrictive ring around me. It had taken no time at all to fall asleep, which was odd as usually I would have spent the night tossing and turning.
In fact, I slept so late that I awoke to find it nearly lunchtime.
A message from Verity on my phone told me she’d opened the door and seen me conked out at a much earlier hour and left me to sleep.
You looked done in last night, so you seemed to need it.
I’ll ring you tonight and catch you up on what everyone has said today xx.
It was another scorching hot day, and the curtains were blocking out neither light nor heat.
I could hear movement in the house. Christ, if there was a burglar, then they could take anything they wanted.
I decided to send Kenny down to investigate what the noise was, only to discover my shadow was gone.
“Kenny?” I called, sitting up in bed in a panic.
“Kenny, boy, where are you? Kenny!?” I hopped out of bed and raced to the door.
The noises in the house grew louder. Maybe it was a builder?
I ignored that I was careening around Verity’s house in nothing but an old pair of blue boxers and ran to the end of the corridor and down the stairs, calling out Kenny’s name the whole way.
I raced through the foyer and into the massive kitchen, where I found the source of all the noise.
Which was unexpected to say the least.
Kenny was being dragged around the room on the kitchen mat, clinging on with his teeth and claws. His tail wagged at a million miles an hour as he play-fought with the person pulling him, who was laughing uproariously at his huffing and barking.
“Ollie?” I asked. Shocked.
Ollie let the rug go, and Kenny came to a halt. Both dog and man looked up at me, and it felt weird to see two faces so pleased to see me. Kenny ran over and stuck his head in my crotch. “No, off, no, naughty,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I asked Ollie.
“Getting vaguely jealous of a dog, if I’m totally honest,” he answered, his eyes looking south. I clasped my hand over my underwear.
Ollie pointed at them. “I think I bought you those boxers … about four years ago.”
“May I reiterate my earlier question?” I asked peevishly.
He grinned. “Verity rang me first thing this morning. Telling me his lordship was out for the count, and would I be a doll and bring him some supplies for his confinement in Surrey,” he said, and then his smile faded. “Then I saw the news and figured out what had happened. I’m so sorry, Arden.”
“So, you’re here to …” I ignored his second statement.
“I’ve taken today off,” he said brightly. “And told them I’ll work from home all this week. I think they can cope without me. I have Court on Thursday, but other than that, I can be here all week.”
“You don’t need to do that. In fact—”
“Stop,” Ollie said, holding up his hand. “First, you should eat. I’ve made shakshuka.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course he had. And we needed to discuss his staying here, not eat.
But my stomach betrayed me and grumbled loudly as he took the lid off the sauté pan on the hob to give it a stir.
“Needs another minute. You can save any formal complaints about me being here until we’ve sat down to eat. ”
“Well” – I tried to pull myself up to stand taller and straighter – “I will … um, well I’ll go and get dressed then.”
“No need on my account. That’s my favourite view.” He grinned.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go find my turtleneck,” I muttered. I heard Ollie cooing over Kennedy the moment I left the room.
I quickly changed – and put on deodorant, ran a comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, and – what was wrong with me? – spritzed on some aftershave – and came back downstairs in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt (it was simply too hot for anything else).
Ollie smirked as I entered; he was wearing his traditional light blue shirt and dark blue chinos. His uniform when not wearing one of his endless blue suits. We’d been dating for nearly a month before I saw him in a different colour.
He brought the pan over to the table and placed it in the middle. “Looks good,” I commented as evenly as I could.
“So, going commando, eh?” he said as he sat down opposite me with the biggest grin on his face.
I went as red as the shakshuka. “How did you—”
“I bought you those shorts as well.” Another grin came over his face. “I remember you demonstrating how well they fit. I also remember running behind you several times after you started wearing them and almost drooling at the sight.”
I was a tomato. I was a beetroot.
It was true. I had deliberately worn these shorts without any underwear on when Ollie dragged me out running – officially because it was more comfortable, unofficially because our runs always got shortened on those days and we’d go back to the flat and spend the next hour doing ungodly things to one another.
I’d gotten used to wearing them commando, so I never even thought to put on underwear.
“It wasn’t meant to be indicative of anything,” I said, spooning out some food onto my plate through my embarrassment.
“Never mind, I won’t mention it again.” Ollie was unable to hide his amusement.
I was silent for a moment. “What’s um … you know.” I stumbled for words.
He cleared his throat and turned serious. “Do you want the long or short version?”
“Short.”
“Front page of every newspaper. Number one story on every website. All over Twitter. Your name is everywhere, too.” He checked his watch. “And starting any minute now is an emergency debate in Parliament with MPs standing up to condemn the invasion of privacy and demand an investigation.”
I put my head in my hands.
“Hey, hey,” he said and held his own out. It was what he always did. Laid his hand, palm up on the table, for me to take it in my own time. It was a gesture that used to make me melt.
I put my hand in his and he squeezed it for all he was worth. “Ninety-nine per cent of the coverage is sympathetic. A lot of people think it’s horrible. Yes, they’ve all gone and searched on Twitter for the photos, but in public they’ve condemned it,” he said.
“I expect Guy will have to drop out of the race.”
Ollie nodded. “I can’t see a way he can claw anything back from this. But, like I said, everyone is sympathetic. Owen Jones was on Sky News saying how bad he felt for him. Owen Jones!”
I rolled my eyes. Owen Jones, one of the UK’s most strident left-wing commentators, was sticking up for my centre-right love interest. “Do I dare open my phone?”
“If you want. Just remember—” He took his own out of his pocket, swiped it to unlock the screen. “Oh, look, someone is being a prick on the internet – you know the solution for that? Swipe, swipe, and back in the pocket,” he said and did just that.
I opened my phone and began to scroll. Tory HQ releases statement in support of candidate, Prime Minister to make statement on Truth2power photos controversy, Guy Frobisher makes statement.
“What’s Guy said?” Ollie gave a pained expression.
“I wouldn’t read that particular statement.”
“What? Why— oh.” Guy’s statement was defending himself – not from having his nudes leaked but from the fact that they featured a man who was awaiting trial for murder.
I had no knowledge of Tarquin’s true nature at the time.
He was my friend, and I cared deeply for him.
It was my choice to introduce him to members of my family and let them take him into their trust, which he would betray so gravely.
I will have to live with that for the rest of my life, I read out loud.
Ollie tried to give a reassuring smile, but none came.
I did the worst part and searched my own name on Twitter.
“Don’t torture yourself,” Ollie said, putting some toast on my plate to try and distract me. It usually worked with carbs.
I began to read the tweets and felt my stomach drop.
I used to be a fan of his, but this is sick, said one.
Can’t believe my favourite writer is caught up in all this shit, said another.
How could he have been with that fucker?
asked a commenter. He can claim he didn’t have a clue, but I bet he knew all about it.
Ollie took my phone out of my hand. “Hey!” I snapped.
“That’s enough now, Arden.” He had upped the Scottishness in his voice.
Not the Dumfries accent that was mocked by other Scots for the way they talked at a million miles a minute.
No, this was his serious barrister voice with a pronounced sonorous burr.
A voice that gave gravitas to everything he said.
“Torturing yourself is not the best idea.”
Not to be dramatic or anything but I started crying. “Oh, no, babe. Come on, hey, hey, this will all blow over.” He held both my hands in his before coming around the table to crouch down in front of me.
“I’m never gonna be free of him, am I? It’s always gonna come back up.
I only …” I tried to avoid Ollie’s eye. “I only started dating him to try and get over you.” I didn’t know why I’d told him that, because the look on Ollie’s face was one of undeniable hurt.
I wasn’t even sure if it was true. Yes, I’d jumped in with both feet into a relationship with Tarquin much faster than I might have normally.
Partly because he was charming and gorgeous and we clicked, but because I was in my thirties now and I thought that was how it worked when you were a bit older.
You didn’t have all the jittery angst of your twenties. You were surer.
I didn’t have a lot of time left of being passably attractive if I wanted to meet someone, so best grab the first one that comes along. Everyone knew the lay of the land, and if you liked someone, you went for it.
Ollie had been silent for a while.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Yeah, but you did, and it’s not an unfair comment to make.”