Chapter 24
Day Eight
With a whoop of triumph, I find the one last doughnut waiting in the box has a small curve of bacon on top, smiling back at me. I pounce on it, sinking my teeth into the crispy outer, the sweet yet salty flavour, and the subtle smokiness of the doughy inside filling my mouth. I close my eyes in bliss and chew, slowly savouring the new experience. Haley and I have so much in common, and one bite is enough to tell me I now share her addiction to maple bacon doughnuts. It’s another little thing, more evidence of how easily she and I fit. And it’s the sum of all these ordinary little things that somehow matters a lot.
We got off to a rocky start when I appeared on her doorstep a week ago. Seeing the surprise in her eyes morph into dismay as her quick brain put together all the pieces, knowing I’d let her and the rescue down, cut me deep. But I’ve worked my arse off to try and make it up to her; and I’m glad I did, because everything I’ve done since prepared her to accept the secrets Loreena shared.
Although, it’s more than my obvious commitment to put this whole disaster right that led Haley into my arms last night. Much as she says she never knew, I think some subconscious part of her did. It’s like my heart whispered to hers in secret, offering itself to her, a hidden promise to be kept when the time came. And yesterday Loreena’s words reminded Haley’s heart, and it came calling, asking me to keep that promise. I shake my head, a smile sliding across my doughnut-filled face, when I think of what I’m going to say when I can finally talk to Loreena. Give her a hard time for spilling my secrets.
Beyond breakfast, the hours drag. I wish I could be like the dogs, curl into a ball and blissfully sleep away the day, but I’m too wired about the outcome of the meeting for that. I can’t face reading, even though the book—this romantasy thing—is really good. Although, I’ll never reveal how much I’m enjoying it to anyone but Haley.
She’s told me girls are attracted to a guy who reads those sorts of books. The last thing I need is news of my latest reading preferences to get out. It would be like wearing a billboard around my neck, advertising another reason for crazed female fans to make me the object of their attention. I wonder about the subtext in Haley’s comment. When she says girls, does that include her? When she says ‘a guy’, does she mean this guy? And what exactly is attractive about a guy reading romance, anyway?
Perhaps there’s some shared intimacy in knowing he’s reading the sex scenes—far more graphic than anyone would suspect beneath the plain cover—the book equivalent of watching a sensual movie together. Or maybe it’s the unexpected masterclass in romance offered by the men in these books. Currently, I’m getting one courtesy of a fairy lord. The anticipation that a mere mortal man like me might find inspiration in his romantic gestures could definitely be a turn-on.
But I’m not in the mood for the pointy-eared guy’s lessons today. Instead of diving back into the fictional world, where his ethereal city sparkles with starlight, I set to work on restoring Haley’s own magical fairy lights. The ones in the dining room sputtered and failed partway through dinner last night. Seeing the disappointment in her eyes, I promised I’d fix them.
It takes half an hour just to unwind the endless strings she’s woven through a wooden lattice that covers the entire dining-room window. I search You-Tube—which seems to have a tutorial for everything—and find it’s a matter of methodically working through them to find the single bad bulb. Only there must be a couple of hundred bulbs, and the laws of the universe say it will most likely be the very last one. What else have I got to do?
I sit at the table, untangling the bird’s nest of wires and begin. It’s tedious, but somehow the repetitive actions are soothing. Twist the bulb out. Click the power switch. Do the other lights go? No. Put the bulb back. Move to the next. Repeat. The mundane task allows my brain to meander towards more pleasant thoughts.
Last night still feels surreal. A couple of times, I woke up sure I was still dreaming. But no, I checked and there was a very real woman tucked into a small s-shape beside me on the couch, allowing me to spoon her, my body moulded to hers. Lying there, simply listening to the soft rise and fall of her breath under the protection of my arm, was so much better than anything I could have imagined. Her murmur of thanks when I pulled the covers tighter, capturing the two of us in a cosy nest as we eased back into sleep, was another of those ordinary little moments that, when pieced together, become extraordinary. All of these things happened.
The kisses happened too. Again, my brain could have never conjured up the taste of her, deliciously sweet, or imagined what it would be like to experience her raw hunger for my mouth. And that’s not all she was hungry for. Her less than subtle invitation was a bit of a shock. I suppose while I’ve often let my mind wander to what lies beneath Haley’s colourful wardrobe—more often since I’ve been confined in her house this week—I hadn’t even dared to give it permission to expect she would want me like that in return.
Don’t get me wrong—I like that she wants me. That in itself is an indication she’s different. I’m so over the girls who flaunt themselves in front of celebrities, offering themselves up on a plate. I don’t want them to want me. Like fast food, it might be cheap and readily available, but afterwards, you’re always left unsatisfied. Or one of those all you can eat buffets, where you stuff yourself beyond full just because you can, and then regret it later.
I want someone who wants all of me. Not only the rockstar image the record company and their PR machine grinds out into the world. To do that, the person needs to know all of me. The unexpected silver lining to this crazy situation is Haley has a chance to really get to know me. As long as I don’t fall back into my ‘man of few words’ persona. I know I adopt it to protect myself, but I don’t need protection from her. It’s time to take a risk. It’s big.
Getting her to take a risk with me may be bigger. After that prick, Jack, hurt her so badly, why would she trust any guy? I’m not any guy, not him, but she needs me to convince her of that. God, just thinking of the bastard makes me want to punch him.
I’m a little disturbed by this latent aggression surfacing in me. I’ve always been a runner, not a fighter. Probably just as well, given the bullying when I was a kid. If I’d risen to the invitation every time someone hassled me and wanted to settle it with fists, I’d have been in brawls almost daily. With my size—tall even then and muscular from all the farm work—I may well have come out on top in some. Although in the village school, that would only have made me more of a target, and added visits to the headmaster’s office and parents summoned to school to the list of reasons for my father’s dissatisfaction with his youngest son.
So why now? Maybe this is the first time I’ve felt passionate enough about something with the whole snare issue; and about someone—Haley—to consider laying my body on the line, as well as my heart. It’s strange to have this hatred for Jack surging through me.
On impulse, I scoop up my phone. Instagram is on there somewhere. I know I’ve got an account. Not that I’ve ever posted. Our social media manager, Vivi, takes responsibility for presenting me and the rest of the band online, with carefully curated shots designed to appear unscripted. She insists on me taking a look every so often, and I comply, giving nodding approval at the version of me there, even though I couldn’t care less.
This is the first time I’ve ever opened the app without Vivi’s prompting. I have to wait for it to reload, the small arrow and circling icon giving me a moment to wonder if this is wise. I do it anyway .
There’s a little magnifying glass in the top corner and I type in his name. Why am I not surprised when I see his ridiculous handle: @jackthelondonlegend. If there was any doubt this dude’s a douchebag, after seeing that, there’s none. My eyes flick to the profile details below, which only confirm it.
How Haley could even hook up with this guy, let alone fall for him, is completely at odds with the woman I know. She deserves so much better, but perhaps she’s only realised that now. The fact he still has the power to hurt her breaks my heart. Scrolling down his pictures, I still want to punch him.
The most recent shots are in Venice. There are a few touristy ones, ornate buildings and canals. In most, he’s with his arm wrapped around a woman. Paige, I presume. In every one, she’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. More like the booby prize, if he ends up treating her the way he treated Haley. She’s pretty enough, straight blonde hair to her shoulders, big blue eyes, wide and innocent, like a Disney cartoon character. But she’s not innocent. She’s as guilty as her arsehole of a husband.
I jump across to her profile and the recent pictures are almost a mirror of his: a wedding and a honeymoon. More of the wedding on here, some wedding prep ones. Maybe a hen night—god, could she have been callous enough to invite Haley? I don’t see her there and feel pleased. Even if she did get an invite, Haley had enough self-respect not to front up.
Rachel and Samantha aren’t there either. While I don’t think I’ve won either of them over yet, their absence in these photographs is evidence of why they’re hesitant to give me their approval. They’re good friends, who have stuck by Haley in a really shitty time of her life, and they don’t want me to be the source of any more problems .
However, what guts me most when I think of Haley, and causes a seething heat to rise inside me, isn’t the cute honeymoon shots, all romantic. They just make me want to puke. It’s not the wedding pictures—with satisfaction I note lots of umbrellas in those; even the weather gods didn’t approve of what they did. The thing that makes me regret even looking, causes my fingers to tense like claws around the phone and triggers a roar of hatred in my ears is what I see when I jump across to his profile and scroll back further.
There are photographs, so many of them, from the time before they shafted Haley. When he was with Haley. Even a couple taken in Venice, of all places. This guy has no class, taking his wife on a honeymoon to a city where, not that long ago, he’d spent romantic days with Haley. Pictures of Jack and Haley, laughing, happy, together—in love maybe, although the thought sickens me. Because it had to have been one-sided. Haley probably did love the bastard. But he didn’t love her back, despite the expression on his face, or the pretty words he most likely whispered in her ear. If he’d loved her, he wouldn’t have done this.
And when I flick across to the woman’s feed, there they are—pictures of her and Haley, too, the best of friends, at a bar, on the beach, and then one the most sickening of all: the three of them. Was he fucking this Paige then? Screwing around behind Haley’s back while posing there as if she’s the only woman for him. Most likely. And, if it wasn’t for the fact I can’t easily replace it right now, I’d hurl this phone across the room.
Why would you not remove those photographs? I shake my head in disbelief. It’s as if they want the whole world to see the then and the now, and show how Paige has snared the prize, edging out her friend to win this man—who’s such a great catch. Yeah, right? Those two deserve each other.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table in disgust. And then change my mind.
I know it’s childish, but I can’t help myself. I grab it up, and go to the picture Jack’s posted of himself leaning against the railing of a water taxi, the dark green canal sparkling behind him. It’s only a one word comment, but it brings me immense satisfaction as I hit the blue arrow: Wanker. My mouth twists in a smirk as I see it recorded in black and white, indelible, my name against it for him to read.
While I’m standing there, admiring my work, the phone vibrates in my hand, lighting up with a text. My first instinct is to ignore it, like I’ve ignored all the others. But when it’s Ollie’s name there, I swallow down my guilt at the memory of last night and tap the screen.
It’s dated yesterday, around eleven pm. Right around the time I was falling asleep, wrapped around his sister, like he somehow knew. Where the message has been for all the hours since I have no idea; drifting around in the ether like some digital messenger pigeon until just now, finally homing in on its target.
OLLIE: Just checking in to say I’m alive. Hope my sister is looking after you. No point texting back. Coverage still shit. Got a signal here but tour guide says it won’t last. This place is amazing. Not sure I’m ever coming back. Fancy taking over lead vocals ?
I close the message quickly, dropping the phone like it’s burning hot. While I do want my friend to come back, right now it might be a very good thing if Ollie stayed away a bit longer.