Chapter 36
Day Twelve
Difficult as it was to leave him all sleepy and sex-sated in my bed, it’s lucky I didn’t succumb to the temptation of Christian and call in sick. Work is crazy and not to sound arrogant, but no temp would have kept up with all that needed to be done this morning. It’s almost noon, and I haven’t had a single break. I’m finishing up changing a drip for a ponderous Basset hound, still groggy from anaesthesia, when Alice pokes her head through the door.
“Someone here to see you, Haley.”
“Sure. Give me a sec.” I’m too engrossed in the task to even think about who it might be, but even if I wasn’t, I’d never have expected to find Bethany Holt waiting for me when I step into reception. She’s talking away to an elderly lady who has a curly white bundle of Bichon in her arms. Bethany coos at the dog, oblivious to the uncertain look I see in the owner’s eyes when she looks my way. The woman’s wariness isn’t surprising. Bethany may be harmless, but her outrageous hair and makeup, and intimidating clothing, say otherwise. At first impression, Bethany looks downright scary.
She’s once again dressed in dramatic black from head to toe, except for a pair of floral patterned combat boots. Over slim leggings, her baggy coat with angular collar pulled up against the cold, makes her look like a bat about to take flight.
“There you are.” She pulls away from the dog and fixes me with those violet eyes. Her mouth, today coated in lipstick the colour of an espresso shot, curves in a smile. “I told Peter I’d find you here.”
“Bethany, hi, how are you?” I splutter out, as a whisper of possibility stirs inside me. After two days, I’d almost given up hope my pleading with Peter Holt had made any difference.
“I’m great. Now I’ve found you. I can’t believe we let you go the other day without so much as taking your phone number. I think we were all so entranced by little Kona. Well, never mind. I’ve got news.” Her eyes dance and my stomach leaps in anticipation.
“Good news?” I suck in a hopeful breath, while still fearing disappointment.
“Very good news. So, Peter has made some decisions. But we need your help. You and Tommy Bunt.”
I nod, agreeing even though I’m unsure of what’s about to be asked of me.
“Don’t worry. It’s not much. All we need, my darling, is for you both to come along to the live show tomorrow evening. Wear something nice. You know how the girls get all glammed up for them? Here, give me your address.” She shoves her phone at me. “Phone number, too. A car will call for you at six. One of the crew will fill you in on everything when you get there.”
I have so many questions spinning through my brain, but it seems I’m not going to get answers because Dana interrupts, leaning through the door from the emergency suite.
“Haley, we’ve got incoming, I’m afraid. Cops have raided a dog fighting ring.” Her mouth is set in a grim line. It’s going to be a rough afternoon.
“Bethany, I have to go.”
“Of course, darling.” She pats at my arm with long, black-tipped fingernails. “Don’t let me take up any more of your time. I can see you’re needed.”
“I’ll see you there tomorrow?”
“You will.” Her smug smile suggests maybe everything is going to be alright.
She flounces out the door with a swish of her jet black coat. I head for the ambulance bay, realising she never bothered to wait for me to say yes.
It’s probably just as well the tube is packed. The press of commuters helps keep my exhausted body upright as the train sways and jolts along the Northern Line. Squeezed like a sardine, I manage to wiggle my phone from my handbag. It’s the first time today I’ve had a moment to look at it and I’m eager to catch up on Christian’s messages.
There’s a pang of guilt at neglecting him. I look forward to his selfies with the dogs, the nerdy jokes, and the flirty suggestions. They brighten my day. And today I could have done with some of them to restore my faith in the goodness of people. Of the three dogs brought in from the dog fighting ring, we only managed to save one. Days like today are the worst.
My brows knit in a frown when I find only two messages. I open the first to see a selfie of him and Mularkey. He’s still wearing my Oodie, like he was when I left him this morning. He’s adorably ridiculous in it. What is oversized on me, swamping my body, with the hemline reaching my calves, is a figure hugging mini dress on Christian. I shake with laughter, a loud snort escapes, and the woman pressed against my back huffs her disapproval as if she’s the fun police.
When I open the second message, my world upends.
CHRISTIAN: Maybe this was a mistake. I’m going home to the apartment. I’m so sorry.
I gasp in horror. It can’t be right. This must be some kind of silly joke. I’m frantically trying to think of the punch line. He sent this hours ago, this morning, and I haven’t replied. What will he think of my silence? With shaking fingers, I tap out a reply.
HALEY: What’s happened? Tell me. Talk to me. Call me.
I stare at the screen, begging for those three little dots to appear, and when they do, my legs sag in relief. The dots hover for a moment as I wait, holding my breath. Then evaporate. I’m left with blank white emptiness. I sway, distress swamping me, each breath like a knife in my chest. The train jerks as it brakes for the next station and I stumble.
“You OK, love?” A woman opposite me, with kind eyes, places her palm against my shoulder, steadying me before I lose my footing.
“Yeah, thanks,” I nod, but she sees the lie in my eyes.
When the train pulls into Leicester Square station, I’m first off, ducking and diving through the crowds of evening commuters frantic to get to the next platform. I’m in luck, finding a Piccadilly Line train waiting. I leap through the narrowing gap and the doors glide shut millimetres behind me. I slump in the doorway, panting.
Opposite me, a woman with dangling Christmas earrings smiles up at the man with his arm wrapped around her waist. He rolls his eyes and gives one of the tiny green trees a playful bump. Their banter, so like Christian’s gentle teasing, is in stark contrast to the despair nudging at me. There should be a guy like this one waiting for me at home. What if he’s not?
At South Kensington I fall out onto the platform and tumble up the escalators jostling my way past those who don’t make way. I’m pushy and rude and I don’t care.
Outside, my footsteps are precarious on a pavement slick with early evening rain; a hint of sleet, that faint metallic smell drifts in the air. I elbow my way through the streams of people hovering outside the shops and restaurants. It’s a relief to turn into the side-streets where the dark hush swallows me up. I keep running .
There are lights on in the house, little golden beacons of hope shining down on me. If the house is lit, he must still be there. I fling open the door to find silence. The usual smells of dinner cooking are absent. There’s no smoky crackle from the fire, only the hum of the heating system. I race into Christian’s room and it’s empty. His things are gone. In the lounge, there’s no guitar case propped up in the corner.
I check my room even though I sense I won’t find him there. He’s made the bed and my neatly folded Oodie sits at the foot. My eyes are drawn to the bedside cabinet. There’s a little present, Christmas wrapped, but I don’t pounce on it like I normally would. It feels final, like a parting gift, and I don’t want to open it and confirm my fears. Dread that what was between us is over spirals, a tornado in my stomach.
The books I loaned him sit beneath the tartan wrapped box, one with a bookmark tucked into the last page he read.
Above my head, I hear the flush of a toilet and the sound of footsteps and a door closing. Ollie’s room is up there. He must be home. My heart lifts a little at the thought. It will be good to see him. A small optimistic part of me suggests maybe Christian’s upstairs with him, catching up, as friends do.
“Ollie?” I call out and the footsteps start again, heading my way. Moments later, my brother appears on the stairs.
“Hey,” I say, a smile breaking on my face. At least something good has happened today. I haven’t seen my brother for three months. I’ve missed him. He’s thinner than last time he was home, maybe a little too lean. Beneath the healthy glow of bleach blonde hair and sun-bronzed skin he looks tired, his normally dimpled cheeks angular, little crescents of purple below his eyes suggesting jet lag .
“You’re home.” I fling my arms around him, but his return hug is uncharacteristically half-hearted. I pull back to scan his face, worried he’s not well.
“Yeah,” he says. But he doesn’t return my smile.
“Ollie, what’s wrong?” His eyes lower. “Is it Christian? I thought he’d be here, but then he sent this weird message saying he was going back to the apartment.” The words pour from me, my agitation notching up.
“He has.”
“But why?” I’ve searched my mind for a reason and I can’t find one. We’d separated this morning like every other this week. His lips on mine, a reluctant parting kiss and a murmured regretful farewell.
“He left because of me.”
This is why Ollie won’t meet my eyes. I retreat from him, crossing my arms across my chest, clutching myself protectively against what I suspect is coming, while still holding on to a tiny shred of disbelief. As the knowledge dawns in my brain, the warm joy of seeing my brother seeps away, replaced by a rush of ice cold anger.
“What the fuck have you done, Ollie?” My voice is shrill.
I step towards him and shove at his shoulder, willing him to look at me. His face blanches. It might be because of the f-bomb, which isn’t my usual style, but if my brother has done what I think he has, then it’s totally appropriate. In fact, if he’s done what I think he has, there’s going to be a blitz of them raining down on his sorry head.
“We had a few words,” he sighs, shrugging his shoulders. How dare he shrug it off like that, like it isn’t important? “It got a bit heated.”
“A few words, right? And, let me guess, those few words were about me? ”
When will my brother learn to butt out of my business? That I don’t need him standing between me and anything or anyone that has the slightest chance of impacting negatively on me? He nods, not looking the least bit remorseful. I want to scream at the arrogance of him, thinking he knows best.
“Look Haley, I came home, and like, I knew he was here. I just didn’t expect him to come strolling out of your bedroom, wearing your freaking clothes. I mean, it’s pretty obvious what’s been going on.”
“Yeah, and what’s been going on is between two consenting adults and is none of your freaking business.” I spit the words at him.
This is so typical of Ollie. When is he going to realise I’m not eight years old anymore? He backs away from me, and I stalk towards him. He’s not going to run away from what he’s done. I am so fucking angry with my brother.
“Haley,” he stutters. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. After Jack…”
“Don’t you get it?” I stab my finger into his chest. Sure, he feels responsible for Jack Maplethorpe coming into my life, but that doesn’t give him the right. “This is nothing like Jack. Nothing at all. How could you even think that? Christian is your friend. You know him. You know he wouldn’t…”
A sob strangles in my throat. There’s the prickle of hot tears, and I swipe at them with the back of my hand.
“Haley, I didn’t mean to…”
“I don’t care what you meant to do. I don’t care why you did this. Christian was here. And we were happy, Ollie. So very happy.” I choke on the words, flailing at the tears that won’t stop squeezing their way out of my bleary eyes, tumbling hot and painful, searing my cheeks. “And now, because of you, he’s not.”
At last I see the belligerent expression in his eyes soften, and there might even be a glimmer of shame there. Good. He should be ashamed of wrecking the first decent chance at a relationship I’ve had in over a year.
“Haley, I’m sorry.” He fumbles the words. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Are you sure?” I spit, not ready to let go of my outrage. “Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re thinking about you. Making this all about you.”
“Haley, I’m sorry. Really.” He opens his arms. “Come here.”
I waver for a beat, and then collapse into the familiar soothing space. I hate my brother right now. But I need him right now, too. He strokes at my hair as I sob on his shoulder.
“Hey, hey. It will be OK. You’ve bounced back from worse break ups than this.”
I recoil in horror. “You think this is a breakup? You really think we’ve broken up? Because of you?”
“Well, yeah. But maybe not just because of me. Christian obviously realises this was a mistake. Otherwise he’d still be here, right?”
The words of Christian’s text pound in my head, over and over.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe this was a mistake.
I tear myself from Ollie’s arms and storm into my room, hot tears lashing at my cheeks, blurring my vision, but I can still see that text, those words in cold harsh black on white:
Maybe this was a mistake .
I fling myself onto the bed, bunching up the covers in my fists, crying into them until they are a soggy mess. When I finally exhaust my tears, I sit in the gloom, brooding. The strands of blue stars twinkling in my window blink in their usual cheerful cycle, oblivious to all that has changed.
Moving aside the Christmas wrapped box, I reach for the book on top of the pile by my bed, the one where words about stars that listen and dreams being answered have always given me hope and comfort. Christian’s bookmark is still tucked inside. Curious, I flick open to the page, and my eyes are drawn to an underlined sentence. In the half-light, the words seem to tremble, or maybe it’s my unsteady hands. I understand the message.
His heart knew. It knew I was his.
It knew when he met me backstage at Star Power . It knew when he underlined these words. It knew when he slid the bookmark inside this page. Did it still know when he left the house this morning? Does it still know now? I want to text him and tell him that yes; I am his. But the taunt comes back at me:
Maybe this was a mistake.
I return to the little parcel. Perhaps I’ll find a clue inside. My shaky fingers untwine the ribbon and pick open the tape. Inside there’s a hinged box, green leather with a brass clasp. I flip it open and pluck out a snow globe. It’s exquisite, possibly an antique.
In its centre, against the backdrop of a forest, there’s a winter village. The vibrant painted houses glow as if they’re lit up, window boxes and doors decked out for Christmas with minute garlands, and tiny decorations, wreaths and fairy lights. And tucked in the trees to one side, there’s a wolf. It stares at me with golden eyes, without a hint of menace. Instead, those eyes seem to signal quiet resignation, as if it’s pausing to take one last look at the village, alight and radiant with joy, before slipping back into the shadowy place it belongs.