“You’re welcome,” he whispered, lifting his hand.
He crawled into the bed and laid beside me.
“You’re wondering how I know that tortured point,” his deep voice said, interrupting the quiet.
“Yes,” I replied.
“You were right. When you told him that you suspected I acted the way I did because something had happened to me? You were right.”
“I see.”
Oli turned toward me and kissed my temple, not ready to admit more. “Try to sleep. That’s the only thing that will help in the beginning like this.”
“Okay,” I said, my whole body feeling numb.
I expected him to leave, but he didn’t and I was so grateful. We both laid staring up at the ceiling and before I knew it, somehow my lids began to droop.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
When I woke, the daylight streaming through the windows disoriented me. I turned to my right, half expecting to see Graham, but saw Oliver’s dark head instead. I fought back the tears then remembered Graham’s smug face on the sidewalk with Chloe’s hand inside his and they dried quickly.
My blood boiled in my veins. Trying not to wake Oliver, I carefully lifted myself off the bed, but was startled still when Oli grabbed my wrist.
“What are you doing, silly girl?”
I looked at him over my shoulder. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Here,” he said, standing and wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Stay there. Let me get the scooter from the car for you.”
I nodded and he bounded down the small step at the door of my room into the workroom. I listened for the metal door. A few minutes later, he set the scooter in front of my room, then hopped up, coming to my side and lifting me.
“Getting used to the weight by now, are you?” I teased.
“Enough of that, Penelope.”
I smiled at him as he set me at my scooter. I hopped on and rolled behind him into the kitchen. I grinned because I could keep up with him.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing, really. I just don’t like being a burden, so my being able to nip at your heels like this makes me a little giddy.”
He barked a laugh. “It’s the little things.”
I nodded sarcastically. “It really is.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Starvin’ Marvin.”
I sat on the edge of my scooter while he worked at making a pesto pasta with salad. I brought my phone to my face to check the status of my latest vlog.
“Holy shit, Oli!” I shouted.
“What?” he yelled, spilling pesto on the counter.
“Sorry,” I told him, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
“It’s fine,” he said, mopping it up into the sink. “What’s going on?”
“My latest vlog. It has over a million views already.”
Oliver’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “I know!” I yelled.
“It’s the story,” he said.
“The breakup or the fall?”
“Both,” he said, returning to his sauce.
“Well, hopefully Revlon calls, baby.”
He smiled. “I hope so too.”
“I think my next vid will be on how to look stylish while still sporting these things,” I said, lifting my leg and arm casts.
Oli snorted.
“Mock all you want, but this is how I make that cold hard cash.”
“I’m not mocking.” He laughed.
“Sure you aren’t.”
“After dinner,” he said casually, “would you like to sit with me in the workroom? I can show you how I make my bags.”
“That would be cool. Maybe, if you have time this week, since I’ll just be sitting around here, you can show me how to make one of those handbags too?”
I rocked the scooter back and forth with my good foot, unable to sit still.
“That’s a sixty-hour bag, easily.”
“Sixty hours? Dang, dude!”
“What? You don’t have sixty hours to spare?”
I waved him away. “I do. You know I do.”
“Then, as you say, chill.”
I gut laughed at his attempt at my American accent.
“Do I not pull it off?” he asked.
I shook my head.
Oliver and I sat down to dinner. Afterward I tried to help him clean up, but I was lousy at it with only one hand. It exasperated him because he said he couldn’t focus, too afraid I might fall and he’d have to stand behind me to catch me. He forced me to sit back down on my scooter while he finished up.
When he was done, he set me on his leather chesterfield and propped up my leg and arm on pillows and turned the couch so I could get a better view of him working. I watched as he placed a worn leather apron around his neck but didn’t tie the strings around his waist.
“You can only stab yourself in the thigh so many times before this becomes habit,” he explained.
“Do you stab yourself often?”
“Haven’t done that for ages, but it’s one of those crutches I still hold on to.”
He sat down, one booted foot rested against the bottom of the workbench. The way he sat was second nature to him. I could tell he barely thought of it anymore. He grasped at his tools with his strong hands and his long fingers with such authority it was sort of thrilling to be witness to what I could tell was going to be something magical.
He stuck his phone into a speaker pod and hit play on his music app. Dark acoustic guitar rang out and it set such a heavy tone, something I didn’t think he was even aware of. With casual confidence he picked up an equestrian bag I wasn’t familiar with the name of and worked steadily and with such an assured manner, I was convinced he was making it look much easier than it actually was.
He matched two similar pieces of leather together, painstakingly examining their edges. He set the pieces down on the bench then pulled at a long strand of linen twine and cut it off from the spool set in the bench. He ran the twine through a block of beeswax over and over until he felt it was ready. He set the matched pieces between a wood clamp he kept in his lap that looked easily two hundred years old. With one tool, he punched holes into the seam of the two pieces of patinated leather then threaded the waxed twine through. He did this over and over with the precision of a machine.
“Do you mark where you need to punch the holes?” I asked after a few minutes of him working silently. I, rapt with interest.
“No,” he answered, not looking away from his work. “Eventually I got good enough I didn’t need to do that. It took years, really, to perfect this technique.”
“How long did you train?” I asked.
His head down, he said, “I started working with Dad and Granddad when I was around thirteen, I guess. I made my first completed bag that actually sold to a duke when I was seventeen, though.”
“That’s fascinating,” I told him. “Did you know you wanted to do this even at thirteen?”
His eyes broke from the bag as he looked at me. “I can’t imagine doing anything else,” he told me.
I smiled at him and he returned to what he was doing. When he was done stitching, he took out a small metal hammer and set the newly created seam carefully. During the next two hours, Oli pulled out several different and strange tools, working diligently. I kept up a barrage of questions, but he was patient while answering all of them, which upset me a little bit. Not because I was a masochist, but because Graham would have never stood for that. He would have shut me up with a passive-aggressive insult. It was yet another reminder I had been such a fool for Graham.
I studied the floor, thinking of how much I hated him and yet loved him so painfully. It wasn’t fair you could know those two emotions together, both for one person.
“Uh-oh,” I heard at my left.
My head rose. “What’s that?”
“You’re sad. I can tell you’re getting gloomy.”
“I’m sad,
yes, but I’m also bloody pissed. I’m more angry than anything else.”
“I know that feeling well,” he told me.
I counted to three in my head. “Can you talk about it?” I asked him.
He set down his tools and the bag he was working with on the bench. He reached for something underneath his workbench. Carefully, he placed the bag in a velvet case and set it aside then put the tools in all their rightful places as well as hanging his leather apron on a hook on the wall. I wasn’t expecting him to answer, but after ten minutes, he surprised me when he did.
He closed up his large cabinet and sat back down, facing me. “What has Graham told you about me?”
My eyes went to the top of my head as if I could read the memory. “Honestly? Nothing,” I told him, embarrassed for Graham, as if I should be embarrassed for him. The bastard.
Oli nodded like he’d expected my answer. He unconsciously gripped the armrests of his chair and took one solid breath before meeting my gaze. “I was married once,” he stated without emotion.
My mouth went dry. “Married?”
He grinned something caustic. “Yes, I fell madly in love once. I was twenty-two. She was beautiful,” he explained. “She had this shoulder-length Titian hair and bright auburn eyes.”
“What’s her name?” I asked him.
“Brooke. We were only married for a year and three months.”
“What made you break up?” I asked.
He sat silent, staring me down. A shadow crossed his face. “Her death broke us up, Penny.”
I couldn’t stop the gasp that followed. My hand slapped over my mouth. “Jesus, Oliver, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head at me. “It gets worse,” he told me, clearing his throat of emotion. I didn’t know how that could have been possible, but I waited. “She killed herself.”
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed.
He sat quietly. I was afraid to speak. A million thoughts ran through my mind.
“Threw herself on the Tube tracks,” he explained.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
His eyes stared blankly at the plaster ceiling. “I came home one afternoon after visiting my parents. Brooke said she had a few things to get caught up with and had decided not to come with me. I knew it was bullshit, but I thought she might want a few nights to herself and didn’t argue with it.”
He looked over at me. “She wasn’t here when I got back, but I didn’t think anything of it. I unpacked, took a shower, then planned to make her dinner. I lit a few candles, put on some music. It was all so normal. It all felt so normal.”
I reached for his hand and took it in mine. He squeezed it. “By six o’clock, I started to get worried. All my attempts at trying to ring her hadn’t worked. Eventually I started to panic. I rang up all her friends, her parents, and no one had seen her. I was just about to get in my car when my phone buzzed. I remember the feeling of my heart starting to settle down in my chest. I actually felt immediate relief that it was one of her family members or friends calling to tell me she was okay.
“I answered the phone, but it was Scotland Yard. They asked if I was Brooke Finn’s husband and I told them I was. They wanted to know if I could come down to the station. I still felt relief that she was there, though I would have preferred she’d just turned her phone off with friends or something, but I was so worked up at that point I was willing to take any explanation. I asked if I needed bail money, but they assured me I didn’t.
“Without skipping a beat, I got in the car and drove up to the station. I rushed through the doors, determined to get her out of there as quickly as possible. When I introduced myself to the front desk, they ushered me into an empty room. I thought it was strange but still hadn’t put two and two together at that point.”
My eyes burned for him. He looked at me, his eyes turning glassy. “I thought she’d just gotten into a bit of trouble is all and they needed to question me or something. I was eager to talk to someone and was growing impatient. Eventually two detectives came in the room. One set a bloody cup of tea in front of me. He asked how I took it. I told them with a little cream. They acted so casually it reassured me more, and my heart settled like a rock in my chest. I felt like I could breathe again.
“That’s when they dropped the bomb. I could not believe my ears, Penny. I literally did not believe them. Instant denial. It was instant denial. I kept telling them they’d made a mistake, insisting that Brooke wouldn’t do something like that.
“They hit with me undeniable proof in the form of an envelope with my name printed on the front. They’d already opened it and pored over the contents. I felt ill. I opened the letter and read what she’d written. Immediately, I vomited into the nearest wastebasket.
“I staggered up and forced myself to stand, demanding to see her. They told me I would not be allowed to, that I would never see her, and I vomited once more. I racked my brain trying to remember what she’d worn when I left, trying to remember how she’d worn her hair, but couldn’t remember. I can’t remember what I’d last said to her, Penny. I don’t think it was I love you. If it’d been I love you, I’m sure I would’ve remembered. I still can’t remember.”
I sucked in a deep breath to steady my voice. “I am so incredibly sorry, Oli.”
He nodded his head. “It’s been almost three years and the memories are starting to fade.”
“That’s understandable.”
He creased his brows. “Is it, though? I don’t think that’s normal.” He took a deep breath. “I hate her.”
My eyes clenched and I swallowed. “Why?”
“Drink?” he asked instead of answering.
“Sure, Oli.”
He got up and returned with two tumblers and a bottle of Glenlivet. He poured two fingers’ worth in each. I sipped at mine. He downed his.
“I can tell you what she’d written in her letter verbatim. I’ve read it thousands of times. I’ll spare you most of it. Here’s the good bit, though.” He cleared his throat. “Oliver, she’d written, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but there is something that has eaten me from the inside out these last six months and the thought of facing you with the truth of it is too much for me to bear. I’ve been having an affair with someone. It wasn’t planned, but is it ever, really? Not that it is any excuse, but I never intended to hurt you. I want you to know I love you so very dearly, but I’ve made an irreparable tear in our marriage and it cannot be fixed. Please forgive me. I love you. She signed it, tucked it into that envelope, and left it taped to a concrete pillar near where she jumped.”
He choked back tears. “I don’t know why she even bothered to tell me about the affair at that point, you know? What is the point of that? I’ve fought with myself on that for ages. One minute I’m grateful she admitted to it so I at least knew the reason she’d jumped, sparing me from any personal guilt, but the next minute I loathe her so intensely for telling me. In confessing, she exacerbated the pain exponentially.” He watched me with a watery smile. “I know how you feel right now,” he told me. “I know that side of infidelity, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, Penelope. I know that strange mixture of hate and love that’s swirling in your heart and head. I am all too familiar with it, and it’s everything in me not to run over Graham with my car for it.”
I couldn’t help it, I smiled through my falling tears. “It’s the thought, Oli,” I said, reaching up and hugging his neck with my good arm. I choked back tears for him. “I’m so sorry, Oli,” I whispered.
He held me at the waist. “We’re kindred spirits,” he said over my shoulder.
I fell back into my chair with his help. I tossed the rest of my whisky, wincing at the burn as it settled down my throat, and held out my pinky. He wrapped his with mine. “Here’s to kindred spirits,” he said, breaking our hold, and pouring four more fingers between us.
“To us. To the pain. To it all,” I said, raising my glass in the air. His tumbler clinked with
mine.
“To it all,” he whispered.
We finished the bottle.
Oli and I slept until noon, courtesy of the Glenlivet. Oli showed up at my door at 12:03 p.m. with a large glass of water and a pair of aspirin.
“Bless you,” my scratchy voice rang through.
He carefully laid beside me on the bed and tucked his arms inside one another. “What the hell were we thinking?” he asked.
I laughed, but it was short lived, killed by the throbbing in my head and an involuntary moan. “We weren’t.”
“I’m surprised you can hold your own like that, though, Pen. I never saw you drink more than a pint whenever we all went out.”
“I don’t even remember getting into bed last night. I don’t think that’s holding my own at all.”
He chuckled. “Guess not. Why hadn’t I ever seen you drink before, really?” he asked me.
“Look at the evidence, Oli, the one night I did let go, Graham revealed he’d cheated and I fell into a sunken terrace.”
“But that’s an outlier, not the mean. Why, Penny?”
I forced a smile. “Graham always drank to excess and I couldn’t ever let myself get comfortable with him. I needed to stay together in case he needed me.”
Oliver looked at me with a worried expression. “Is that truly why, Pen?”
“Yes.”
“That’s just sad, that. Penny, why would you let anyone control you like that?”
“He didn’t make me do that. I did that on my own.”
He shifted on his side toward me. “Can’t you see, though? His knowing he could rely on you so implicitly that way and acting so irresponsibly with drink was controlling you.”
He was making too much sense, and I had nothing to say to that. He scrutinized my face, and it made me blush under the heat of his gaze.
“How old are you, Pen?” he asked softly.
“Twenty-two” I answered. He bobbed his head up and down. “How old are you?” I asked him.
“I’ll be twenty-seven in six weeks.”
“That’s when I get my leg cast off.”
“So it is,” he observed with a grin.
“I’ll probably be home by then,” I told him.
Penny in London Page 5
