Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
ISLA
‘You’ve got to get out of this bed.’ Piper is in the doorway to the bedroom, razor sharp in a Valentino navy blazer and VB jeans.
I’m crusty and staring at the ceiling, although there are no continents to watch shrink on this ceiling, only perfect plasterwork and Farrow and Ball paint. ‘I can’t.’
‘You can. It’s simple. Cover back, legs over the side, and the final step is upright.’
I position my bent arm across my face, shielding my eyes. With my other hand, I wave her away.
‘Jemima Collins rang. She wanted to see if you are okay.’
My stomach lurches. ‘Does she hate me too? Think I’m a liar?’
Piper’s jeans make a whooshing noise as she marches closer to the bed. She toes me with her shoe, a jab on the shin. ‘No one thinks you’re a liar.’
‘Tell that to all the Daily Mail readers.’ There’s a rolling in my gut which makes my skin prickle with sweat. ‘And everyone who has ever had a conversation with me, who’s now seen my boobs.’
Another jab of a toe. ‘Babe, I hate to tell you this, but millions of people have seen your boobs, and not because they are on the front page of the Daily Mail, but because they’ve been on screen.’
‘Not the same.’
‘Boobs are boobs.’
‘Piper.’ I pause.
‘Yes?’
‘I love you. But please leave me. I just need to be alone.’
A stretch of silence teases like spun sugar between us. ‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Her jeans rustle again as she walks back away.
I leave my arm across my face.
Denial. I know what this is. A denial I’ve spent the last ten years existing in.
I just thought that if I locked away those early days with Vale, I’d be able to forget it.
I guess I did in a way – blindly, naively, I went through my life, smiling at cameras, giving interviews, walking the red carpet, and the whole time I felt proud of myself that no one knew what was hidden on the inside.
I must be the best actress, I used to tell myself, because look, no one has a clue.
That Oscar, its weight in my hand, felt earned.
Standing on the stage, giving my acceptance speech, I remember holding that golden statue up, a bit like a soldier brandishing a sword, wild with a war cry, and at the time, deep inside me, I’d been waving it at Marcus Vale, screaming in my head, You thought you could break me, but look at what I did.
He’s broken me anyway, hasn’t he?
I’ve been lying to myself. If I hadn’t walked in unexpectedly on Jemima Collins that day, on her knees, paying physically for a chance of success, I would have continued to lie.
Marcus Vale has won. All the things I wanted to hide from Kit Harding and Maggie back in Sea Salt Bay all those years ago, he’s shown them anyway.
It’s all been for nothing.
All this heartbreak.
All this guilt.
I missed the last few years of my grandmother’s life because of him.
And it’s all been for nothing.
The worst is that he’s back in my head, vile little whispers, poisonous endearments.
Stand still, my sweet. They adore you. I made that happen. Look at how much they love you, all because I do.
My lungs let out a wrenching cry that tears up my throat.
No! I want to scream. They love me because of me.
An echo of a laugh rebounds back. Is that what you think? No, darling, it’s because I made you.
That one truth has been chasing me for the best part of a decade, always on my tail, stepping into my shadow. People don’t applaud me because I’m good, or I’m talented. They only see me because that man, that bastard created me.
The front door closes with a soft click.
I’m alone.
The silence should feel peaceful. Instead, it presses down like water.
I roll onto my side, pull the duvet over my head. The darkness is better. Safer. No one can see me here. No one can judge. No one can ask questions I don’t have answers to.
My mind drifts – not intentionally, but because it has nowhere else to go.
Kit’s face. The way he looked at me under the harbour lights. I love you, Isla Quinn.
Maisie, patient and trusting as I tried to braid her hair without hurting her scalp. You’re good at this.
The pub full of voices singing for Peter. The feeling of belonging I’d never let myself have before.
All of it gone now.
All of it destroyed by a man who drugged me a decade ago and decided this week was the perfect time to finish the job.
My throat tightens. I won’t cry. Haven’t cried since I arrived. Crying feels like admitting something, and I’m not ready to admit anything except that I’m tired. So fucking tired of running, of hiding, of pretending I’m strong enough to survive this.
Maybe I’m not.
Maybe that’s okay.
A knock at the door jolts me out of the spiral.
I don’t move. Piper has a key. She’ll let herself back in if she needs something.
Another knock. Louder. More insistent.
‘Piper, I said I want to be alone!’ I call out, voice muffled by the duvet.
Nothing. Just silence. Then—
‘Isla?’
I freeze.
That’s not Piper’s voice.
It’s deeper. Male. Familiar in a way that makes my chest constrict.
‘Isla, please. I know you’re in there.’
No.
No no no no.
It can’t be.
I throw off the duvet, scramble out of bed. My reflection in the mirror is horrifying – hair unwashed, eyes puffy, wearing the same T-shirt of Kit’s I snuck out of his bed wearing. I look exactly like someone who’s given up.
Another knock. Softer this time.
And then a small voice. Higher. Younger.
‘Isla? It’s me. Maisie.’
My legs nearly give out.
Maisie.
Maisie is here. In London. At my door.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
They can’t see me like this. Can’t see the apartment, the mess, the evidence of how completely I’ve fallen apart. Can’t see what Marcus has done to me.
But they already have, haven’t they? They’ve seen the photos. Everyone has.
The thought should make me want to hide more, to stay in the bedroom and pretend I’m not home.
Instead, I find myself moving towards the door.
Barefoot across the cold hardwood. Past the white sofa and the untouched pastries and Piper’s laptop still open on the coffee table.
My hand reaches for the door handle.
Hesitates.
What if I open it and Kit looks at me with pity? Or worse – disgust?
What if Maisie is scared of me now?
What if they’re here to tell me it’s over, that they can’t do this, that seeing those photos was too much?
But then Maisie’s voice comes again, small and worried. ‘Isla, please. We came all this way. We just want to see you.’
We came all this way.
From Cornwall. Four and a half hours at least. Through traffic and motorways and all the way to a city they probably hate.
For me.
I turn the lock. Pull the door open.
And there they are.
Kit, tall and solid and real in his worn jacket and jeans. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. Hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t trust what they might do otherwise.
And Maisie. Small and fierce in her purple jumper, clutching a stuffed animal – Mr Snuggles, she called him once – and staring up at me with those eyes that are too much like her father’s.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
I can’t. Can’t find words. Can’t breathe properly. Can’t do anything except stand there in my stained T-shirt and unwashed hair and feel the full weight of what I’ve lost crashing down on me.
Then Maisie moves, launching herself forward, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressing into my stomach.
‘You left without saying goodbye,’ she says, voice muffled against my shirt. ‘That wasn’t fair.’
My hands hover over her head, uncertain. Then slowly – so slowly – I lower them and rest them on her wild curls.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, Maisie.’
‘We came to bring you home,’ she says, leaning back to look up at me. ‘Me and Dad. Because you’re our people and we’re not supposed to let each other run away when we’re scared.’
My eyes sting. Damn it.
‘Maisie, I—’
‘Can we come in?’ Kit’s voice is rough. Careful. Like he’s trying not to scare me. ‘Or we can talk out here if you prefer. But we need to talk, Isla. Actually talk. No running this time.’
I look at him properly then. See the exhaustion written in every line of his face. The hurt. The determination.
He drove four and a half hours with his daughter to find me.
He saw the photos – I know he did, everyone did – and he came anyway.
I step back. Open the door wider.
‘Come in.’