Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emily
After saying goodbye to Sadie after our girls only lunch, I find Eli’s number and press call.
“Chere,” I hear after a couple of rings, and I honestly don’t think I will ever get sick of hearing him call me that.
I smile. “Hey. I’m just stopping by my flat before I come back. Didn’t want you to wonder where I was.”
“Everything OK?”
“Yeah, I just want to pick up some painkillers.”
“Aww, baby, is your head still bad?” I’ve had a nagging headache all morning. I’m due to start my period in a couple of days, so I think it’s probably that.
“It’s not too bad, just want to knock it on the head for the afternoon. Plus, I forgot those cookies I bought for everyone.”
He chuckles. “Did you just say cookies?”
I laugh. “So I did. You’ve been rubbing off on me, Nawlins boy.”
“Day and night,” he rumbles, sounding like he’s grinning. “Hopefully tonight, if you’re feeling better…”
“Well, rampant sex is supposed to be a good cure for a headache,” I purr.
“Baby, I am at your service,” he says instantly, and I laugh loudly, making a passer-by give me a strange look. “Oh, yeah - could you pick up my wallet? I left it on your nightstand,” he adds.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks, Em. Love you.”
“No worries. Love you, too. See you in a bit.” I ring off, place the phone in my jacket pocket, and quicken my pace. I have to be back in fewer than ten minutes.
It’s a rare lunch hour that I don’t spend with Eli, but Sadie wanted some girl talk.
Peter has started the tattoo removal process, and he hasn’t made any noises about getting engaged after she saw engagement rings in his internet search.
Personally, I’m quite relieved for her about that, as I’d like to delay her making that mistake for as long as possible, and hopefully avoid it altogether; however, I can understand her frustration.
She just needed to vent. From what she said, she isn’t planning on talking to him about it.
I think that’s a bad sign, if she can’t talk to him about things that bother her.
But I’ve long since decided to just stay quiet and be there for her as things crop up.
As much as I’d love to save her from a bad situation, like no-one did for me, I also know from experience that you have to want to get out of it.
It doesn’t matter what anyone else says; you can only leave when you’re ready, when you personally have reached your limit.
I unlock my front door and head in, closing it behind me.
I bought lots of packets of biscuits from the Pound Shop over the weekend and I keep forgetting to bring them in.
We stay at Eli’s more than at mine, but last night we ended up here.
I grab them, a packet of paracetamol, and Eli’s wallet, before heading back out.
When I open my front door, it takes my brain a few seconds to catch up to what I’m seeing.
Golden brown hair, slightly longer than the last time I saw him.
Hazel eyes, sharp and narrowed. I actually find myself smiling instinctively at Gav, out of habit I suppose, before I come to my senses and realise that he’s actually there.
Gav. At my front door. And his jaw is tight, his face intense. Why is he here?
I let out a cry as the panic sets in and I try to close the door as fast as I can, but his arm lashes out and bangs the door against the wall.
Unfortunately for me, my fingers get trapped between them and bear the full brunt of the slam.
There’s a sickening cracking sound. Pain shoots up my arm, and I cry out, dropping everything.
My bag, the packs of biscuits, everything scatters on the floor, and I back away, bent double as I cradle my fingers.
I’ve never broken a bone before, but this horrible, stomach turning thud of odd pain tells me that’s exactly what I’ve probably done.
“Emmy?” he asks, dashing over to me and trying to lift my hand. I back away frantically to stop him from touching them. I don’t want anyone near them, least of all him, so I hold them securely against my chest.
“My fingers,” I manage to squeak out, “they’re broken.” You broke them, I want to shout at him, but I don’t. There’s no point. He’s not going away, but surely, surely he’s going to help me…?
“Ohh, baby,” he says contritely, kicking the door shut behind him, “I didn’t want to do that. That’s not what I intended. I just didn’t want you to slam the door in my face.” He’s a bit too close to me. “Let me have a look…”
“No,” I whimper, turning away to shield my hand, “let’s just...I need to go to hospital.” That’s the most important thing right now, more important than anything he might have to say, and even Gav will recognise that. We can talk there, if he really insists, though I wish he wouldn't.
“They might not be broken,” he says, walking me backwards into the kitchen, still trying to take my hand.
“No, let’s just...I have to get this looked at.
” I’m a little dizzy, which I suppose is hardly surprising.
The pain radiating through my hand is nauseating, and the horrid crunching noise I heard as my fingers got trapped between the door and the wall keeps playing through my mind over and over. I feel like I could retch.
And Gav’s here. That alone is disorienting, and I want him gone. I don’t want to listen to whatever it is he’s so determined to say that he’s come all this way. How did he track me down?
I’m backed up against the kitchen counter as Gav looms over me. He’s not as tall as Eli, but in my current state he seems huge and intimidating. He’s a lot thinner in the face than the last time I saw him, and his skin looks pallid and dry. Unhealthy.
“We need to talk,” he insists firmly.
“Gav...not now,” I wail, gingerly holding up my hand, cradling my wrist. “I need a doctor!”
He makes a frustrated huff. “For fuck’s sake, Emmy, I’ve found you, driven all this way, and all you care about is your hand! It’s just a bruise, I bet you anything. Just more of your drama queen fussing about nothing!”
The penny drops. I could smack my own forehead for being so slow on the uptake, but it’s hard to think when your worst nightmare is standing in front of you, lighting a cigarette. And my hand is killing me.
He’s obviously not going to help me. It doesn’t suit him to do so. He’d rather my fingers weren’t broken, so he’s decided they aren’t, and that I’m making a massive drama just to piss him off.
“Don’t smoke in my home,” I say quietly, coldly, but it’s empty defiance. He ignores me, like I never spoke, and takes a long drag.
“I mean, not even a hello?” he asks with a forlorn smile. “Come on, babe.” The smoke makes me cough, and I move away a little, but he follows me, so I don’t gain any distance from him. It feels menacing.
I wish Eli was here.
I need Eli now. I need him to come and help me deal with this bastard. I can’t sort this out on my own.
I slowly put my uninjured hand in my pocket, hoping like hell that he doesn’t do anything to jostle my fingers while they’re unprotected.
“You just tried to slam the door in my face,” he carries on with jittery, self-righteous anger. “You move without a word, you won’t respond to me, you block me on everything...and why? Why, Emmy? I never laid a hand on you. I didn’t cheat on you.”
“Yes you did. I saw the messages,” I say, trying to tap my phone buttons in my pocket while he paces in front of me.
I don’t think he’s aware of what I’m doing; he’s too consumed with his own indignant ranting.
I press what I hope are the right combinations of buttons to redial Eli, and pray like hell that he hears part of the conversation and comes looking for me.
They’ll be wondering where I am soon, anyway, I soothe myself.
I’m supposed to be back at work in five minutes. They’ll come looking for me.
Gav gives me an incredulous look. “But I never actually fucking touched them,” he yells, frustrated, like I’m being unfair, and picks up the nearest item he can grab from my draining board. My colander crashes into the cabinet door to the left of my head.
I’m really scared now. Gav was emotionally abusive, but he never got this physical before.
He’s completely lost the plot. Snapped. My mind races, and I don’t know what to do.
“Get - GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW!” I yell as loudly as I can.
Oh, please, let Eli have heard that, or even a neighbour, I think feverishly as I duck away, trying to get out of the kitchen and maybe, if I’m quick enough, out of the front door.
But I don’t stand a chance. He grabs me around my waist and slings me to the corner of the kitchen work surface, boxing me in.
I keep cradling my hand protectively as best I can, grunting in pain at being jolted.
“You,” he snarls, his finger in my face, “are going to shut up, and you’re going to listen to every fucking word I have to say!
Is that clear?” I can smell the harsh scent of alcohol on his breath.
It explains a lot. His spittle hits my face.
I really believed that I’d left that all behind, but there it is again, the taint of the angry drunk on my skin, making me want to puke.
All I can feel is that fleck of spit like it’s drilling into me.
“IS. THAT. CLEAR?!” I haven’t heard him yell like this for a long while.
In fact, this might be the angriest I’ve ever seen him.
Much as it pains me to do it, I decide my best bet is to appease him, play along, and hope that help is coming.
I don’t want to be submissive to him ever again, but I need to buy time and try to help myself.
At least this time this is me being smart, rather than just a brainwashed reflex. I take some comfort in that.
“Yes, I’ll listen,” I whisper, and he seems satisfied.