Chapter 28
I wake to daylight leaking in around the edges of the blinds, those church bells ringing full throttle, announcing with joy that it’s Christmas Eve.
Selfridges closes early, so I have until Boxing Day off from work.
Which should be a good thing, and I want it to be a good thing, but instead my head throbs, my mouth is dry and I’ve never felt so alone.
Because I’m always alone on Christmas Eve, but this one was meant to be different.
I was meant to be with Jonathan.
There’s one new text, but it’s not from Jonathan.
It’s from Daphne, a picture of her at some party with lots of beautiful people with glowing skin and life in their eyes.
I heart the photo, and as I do, her words come floating back: Aubs, you can’t crack first. That’s the mistake we always make, we give up right before they crack . . .
A flash of me last night, rubbing my scent on Jonathan’s pillow, leaving my earring under his desk . . .
I’d say I’ve well and truly cracked first.
As I get up, I feel even worse than I usually do in the daytime, my limbs are heavy, and Oscar’s blood has completely worn off. I make myself a cup of warm blood then sit on the sofa and reach into my bag for that blue envelope from last night and peel it open.
I pull out the card—a silver-glitter snowman with Merry Christmas in cursive beneath it in the same glitter.
Inside, in loopy handwriting it reads: Merry Christmas J, can’t wait to see where the new year takes us, Love, Liv xx.
She calls him J . . .
Does he like it when she says that? Does he like her? With her cookbooks and her air fryer and her face creams in the bathroom—all the other normal things I’m sure she has, while I sit here with my warm mug of blood?
Is she why he hasn’t texted me yet? Because he can somehow sense that while she’s normal, I’m defective. Broken. Even if he doesn’t know why?
God, imagine if he ever found out what I did last night?
Shame pulses through me as I move the blind aside and glance up at the sky. It’s overcast and glary, like my mood. And those bells just keep on ringing like they couldn’t care less about me and my heart.
A flash of Jonathan and me, just three weeks ago, lying in bed, my head on his chest. Listening to the heartbeat I’d recognise anywhere, as I stared at the moon out the window.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You seem sad.’ And usually I was happy with him, but right then I was sad, because I knew one day he would get old and die and I’d be without him again.
‘No, I’m just thinking,’ I said, extra cheerfully, because I’ve learnt the hard way that people don’t always respond well to my melancholic churn.
But he didn’t falter. ‘You don’t need to fake anything with me, Aubrey,’ he said. ‘You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. I love that you’re so sensitive.’ He held me a little tighter. ‘Nothing could ever change my feelings for you.’
It felt in that moment as though he could see into my soul and it was terrifying .
. . but also, it wasn’t. Because I’d shown him something real, and he hadn’t recoiled.
Instead, he’d said ‘love’. It wasn’t ‘I love you’ but it was on the way there.
And you don’t say things unless you mean them—not when you’re Jonathan, a guy who freaks out over too many texts. He meant it.
And he might still come around, it has only been what, four nights since we broke up? He’s probably been thinking about us, and tomorrow is Christmas.
That’s a perfect excuse for him to text me: Merry Christmas.
I close my eyes. Please god, if you’re up there, if you have any affection for me at all, please just get him to text me Merry Christmas. Please? I will make him happy, I promise.
My eyes open slowly, and as I refocus, I see the empty bag of cat treats still sitting on the counter, reminding me to get more. And that’s something I can do, something I can succeed at. Then at least I’ll have Cat with me on Christmas Day—assuming her neglectful owner leaves her outside again.
I get up, pull on my coat, grab my keys and bag, put on a cap and sunglasses and head up the stairs into the daylight. Even through my sunglasses, the glare makes my head throb. But I keep moving, past the bins outside the pub, across the road and towards Borough Market.
I walk slowly, like someone recovering from an illness. I’m almost at that pub from Bridget Jones and now I’m thinking about how Bridget and Mark Darcy also had problems. It’s normal.
As I enter the market I’m hit by a swirl of laughter and chatter, a flurry of last-minute Christmas shoppers. And it’s almost nice being out, among people, even if it is daylight. It’s nice to forget myself for a moment. And at least the market is undercover.
I move through the stalls, the aromas of bread and doughnuts and dates and vegan brownies all mingling together until I’m in the fresh food section. I peruse brightly coloured clementines and pears that I won’t buy and then walk towards the stall with artisan pet treats up ahead.
I get in line and buy a new bag of treats, turn to leave, and as I do, one single face stands out in the crowd.
Is that . . . it can’t be . . .
My breath catches and I step to the side, peering through my sunglasses, squinting to get a better look: tall, weak chin, pockmarks, long dark Underworld coat, slightly stooped posture.
And it is. You’ve got to be kidding me.
There, standing by the fruit stalls, next to a stack of cranberries, is Riley.
That creepy guy from the vampire hunters’ meet-up.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My throat tightens. Am I hallucinating? Is this some horrible come-down effect from Oscar’s blood? Because it definitely looks like him. Exactly like him. He’s talking to some guy with blond hair, showing him something on his phone.
And shit, it really is Riley.
A flash of the way he looked at me the night we met in that bar on Carnaby Street, his hand on my wrist like maybe he was checking for a pulse, his eyes on my mouth, his voice saying, ‘Wow, you’re cold for summer . . .’
And the last thing I want right now is to have him see me and remember I exist. Especially while I’m standing here, in sunglasses, looking like death warmed up, like I don’t do well in the daylight. So I turn around, doing my very best to blend into the crowd, and rush home.
My breath is quick as I get inside and close the door behind me. I rush to the fridge and put Cat’s treats inside, then go and sit silently on the sofa.
That was close.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I feel my blood slow to its usual crawl, my stress levels lower, and then: Ping. My eyes flick open. I glare at my phone.
One new notification.
VHC: You have one new message.
WHAT IF IT’S RILEY?
What if he saw me there and wants to catch up?
I tap through to the Vampire Hunters’ Collective and log in, then go to my messages.
But there, sitting waiting, is just a message from Sally. My shoulders relax as I tap on it.
And then, I’m a lot less relaxed. Because it reads: OMFG have you seen this? Didn’t you know him??? Have you heard anything?
Beneath her message is a link.