Everything You Are: Everything For You Trilogy 3

by Orla Bailey

  “Me too, hon.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after three.”

  I sit down beside her and shove my bed-messed hair out of my eyes. “No phone calls then?”

  She looks apologetic. “Nothing.”

  I get an idea. “I was supposed to leave my cell-phone just under the bed, as if I dropped it there but it’s not there now.”

  “Part of Amanda’s plan?”

  “Yes. I’m going to try ringing it. You listen out. It might be in a drawer somewhere.”

  Libby gets up. “Keep it ringing while I walk the apartment. I’ll start in the kitchen.”

  I pick up the house phone and press the code to withhold caller identity just in case. If Amanda has my phone for any reason, I don’t want to tip her off I’m on to her. I call my own phone number.

  It rings a few times before it’s answered and I listen for the sound of Libby’s voice. All I hear is heavy breathing. I say nothing and after a moment I hang up. What the hell just happened? I wait for Libby to reappear.

  “Did you find it?” I wonder.

  “No. I don’t think it’s in the kitchen. I even opened drawers to listen. You were ringing it, weren’t you?”

  “Someone picked up.”

  She looks surprised. “Who?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So you both kept quiet?” Libby looks at me with her brow puckered, as if I’m demented. “Is that really going to be the best way to find out who’s got your phone?”

  “If Amanda has it, I don’t want her to know, I know.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Why don’t you want her to know, you know, she’s got it?”

  “Now you’re giving me a headache.” I’m having enough difficulty working out what I’m doing, without explaining it to anyone else.

  “Sorry also.”

  We look at each other and giggle. This whole mess would be farcical if it wasn’t quite so tragic.

  “I’m going to ring it again.” I withhold caller ID a second time.

  This time it’s answered immediately as if the person on the other end is waiting to pounce.

  “Just give me your name,” he growls.

  I recognise Jack’s voice, instantly, yet it’s nothing like him all at the same time. He sounds cold, angry and distant. I clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself crying out to him.

  Libby does a silent mime to ask who it is. I put my fingers over my lips to tell her to be quiet.

  “Who are you?” Jack’s voice grinds like boots on splintered glass. “I can hear you. I want your fucking name.”

  I feel a sense of real menace. He doesn’t realise he’s talking to me, I know that much. Who does he think is calling my phone?

  “When I find out who you are, you bastard, I’m going to beat you to a bloody pulp for getting her tanked and for... running out and leaving her. How any woman could have feelings for a piece of crap like you…”

  I end the call in shock.

  Libby’s practically bouncing on the seat cushion with impatience. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “It was Jack.” I can hardly speak for lack of breath. I’m heading into full-scale panic mode and don’t even realise it until now. I breathe through a few cycles of inhalations and exhalations until I recover a bit.

  “Jack has your phone? What did he say?”

  “He’s going to beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  “Me? No way!” Her eyes are like saucers. “What have I done?”

  “Not you. That guy.” I know I’m not explaining myself very well. I’m still processing the information myself. “Jack thought I was the guy that had me in the hotel room.”

  “Amanda.” We both say it at the same time.

  “That bitch must have got you to leave your phone so she could follow through. She wants Jack to believe that guy knows you well enough to use your phone number. Jack was waiting for him to try and contact you.”

  “Amanda knew I’d be looking for my phone eventually.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Awful. I hardly recognised him.” His voice scared me half to death.

  “Like he’d been drinking?”

  “Yes.” I’m pretty sure that was a whole heap of it.

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “It is?”

  “Definitely. He’s drowning his sorrows.”

  I don’t see how that helps. “He still doesn’t want to speak to me.”

  “It’s probably too painful for him to speak to you, at the moment. Think about what he believes has happened.”

  “I’ve thought about nothing else.” It’s ruined my life. “He thinks I have feelings for that jerk.”

  “It means you’ve broken his heart.”

  “That’s not a good thing.” I can’t follow her line of thought at all. I don’t want to break Jack’s heart. I want him to love me the way I love him.

  “It means he loves you.”

  “He said he loved me. Just before he walked out the door.” How could he still after everything he witnessed?

  “All you have to do is make him forgive you.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I say indignantly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You know what I mean. It means things aren’t hopeless. He’ll want to forgive you.”

  “I’m not so sure he will. You didn’t see the way he looked at me when he came into that hotel room. I still need evidence to prove it.”

  “We’re not giving up on that either.”

  “When Jack makes up his mind he doesn’t change it.”

  “Then you’ll just have to change it for him.”

  “Yes.” Somehow, I must make Jack see the truth. Somehow. “I’m going to phone him back.”

  Libby puts her hand to rest on mine. “Shouldn’t you leave it for a bit?”

  “I can’t. Waiting won’t change anything except give him even longer to stew on what he thinks I’ve done. How am I ever going to get him to believe me if he won’t talk to me?”

  She nods. “Do you want me to give you some privacy?”

  I’m scared to do this alone but it’s probably for the best. “Please.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m going to cook us something decent to eat. Getting ill won’t help anything.” She gets up and quietly leaves.

  I have to steel myself to make the call. The quiet rage in his voice the last time he spoke was pretty scary. What if he simply tells me he never wants to see me again? I pick up the house phone, take a deep breath and call Jack’s personal number. My heart beats in deep slow thuds and it’s like I can hear it echoing through my head.

  The call rings and rings. It’s cut off even before it goes to messages. Dear God. He knows it can only be me phoning from Belvedere. He really doesn’t want to hear my voice. He’ll never answer another call from me again. He does hate me. I want to die.

  I drift numbly through to the kitchen and tell Libby. She shoves me onto a counter stool and I watch her making food.

  “He’s punishing you. It’s what men do. Leave him to stew for a bit. If you phone back straight away, he still won’t answer and you’ll feel even worse.”

  “It won’t matter if I leave it for a week,” I wail. “He doesn’t want to hear from me. It’s over.”

  “The hell it is,” Libby shouts, indignantly.

  I wonder where all her passion comes from. I’m completely dead inside. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  She sits beside me abandoning a packet of dried pasta. “This isn’t the Tabitha Caid I know. You’ve always fought for everything you wanted. Even when it seemed you were never going to get it, you didn’t give up. Hell, you didn’t even give up on Brent Tapper when most bosses would have fired his pathetic backside months ago.”

  “Perhaps I w
as aiming too high, hoping I could keep a man like Jack.”

  She makes a derisory noise. “Jack Keogh’ll be a lucky man to have you. When he stops acting like an idiot.”

  I’m not convinced.

  “Do you want him to be landed with a bitch like Amanda, because you gave up fighting for the truth?”

  I stare at her. If there’s any more perfect thing to say to me, I don’t know what it is. “Not on your life.” I take a deep breath and let it out with a ragged sigh.

  “Let’s give it an hour or two, so he doesn’t connect the calls then use my phone.”

  “He doesn’t have your cell number logged and if I don’t withhold caller ID he won’t immediately presume it’s that guy either.”

  “No reason he shouldn’t answer then.”

  I glance at the pasta. “What are we making to eat?”

  “That’s my girl.” She hops to her feet. “How about Spaghetti alla Puttanesca?”

  “Whore’s Pasta?”

  “In celebration of Amanda getting what’s coming to her.”

  We smile at each other. I feel hopeful again just at the thought of speaking to Jack. Loving him sure is one extreme roller coaster ride.

  “I’ll find the olives.”

  “Any wine?” Libby asks.

  “Loads.”

  “That’ll do.”

  We busy ourselves making a passable plate of Italian food then sit down and eat in the kitchen. I drink way too fast, trying to chat and lose myself in the moment but at the back of my mind, is extreme trepidation about making that next critical call.

  Chapter Three

  I can’t put it off any longer.

  I swing wildly between being so desperate to hear his voice I’d welcome his anger and wishing I’d decided to leave phoning him until the morning. That way, I can at least pretend there might be a chance for us. Either way, I know I’m not going to get a moment’s rest. The only thing that will give me any proper peace is having Jack beside me and this nightmare over.

  Libby makes herself scarce. “Shout and I’ll come running.”

  I finish off my glass of red and press the numbers I know by heart. My fingers quake more with each key until it’s ringing... He’s not going to answer... I’d better hang up.

  “Jack Keogh.” His voice is cracked ice.

  I can’t speak yet I must. “Jack?” It comes out in a whispered croak.

  His silence kills me.

  “Why are you calling me? Is there a problem? Do you need help?” He sounds curt. Business-like. But I hear the pain beneath his words.

  “Jack, please.” I’m fighting not to cry. Emotional blackmail isn’t the way forward.

  “If you need something you must call Blackstock. I’m not doing this.” Now I’m talking to the Boss. That version of himself that masks the man I know inside.

  I jump in, fraught, before he cuts the call on me. “Blackstock can’t help me. I need you.”

  “Tell me who your lover is.” He puts me to the test by aiming a grim deadly gun in my direction.

  I don’t hesitate. “Jack Keogh. He’s the only lover I have. The only man I want to love.” I squeeze the eternal knot pendant for whatever magic it contains. I need all the strength and courage I can get, right now. Don’t hang up on me, Jack.

  “What I saw says otherwise.”

  “What you saw wasn’t true. Please, Jack, believe me. Talk to me.”

  I hear his harsh respiration and feel the tears roll silently down my cheeks. To be so close and yet so far apart from him tears at me like a wild animal feeding on fresh, warm flesh.

  “I can’t speak to you…”

  “Can’t you even say my name?” Despite my best efforts a sob escapes my lips.

  “Phone him instead.” The line goes dead.

  I weep unashamedly. The phone call was a complete disaster. What did he mean, phone him? Blackstock? Amanda’s hired criminal? Torment gnaws at my guts. If I knew where Jack was I’d go straight over and throw myself into his arms. But I can’t find him. He’s lost to me.

  Libby approaches gingerly carrying the wine bottle. She gives me a refill which I down in one as she strokes my hair. “Didn’t go so well then?”

  “He can’t even say my name,” I sob. Somehow that tells her everything I need it to.

  “It’s too soon. The pain’s too raw.”

  “Who’s comforting Jack?” Is he already finding his way back to Amanda’s waiting arms?

  “Men prefer to nurse their sorrows alone. I bet he’s holed up somewhere with a bottle. He’ll come around.”

  “When?”

  “No knowing. Even the toughest of men have fragile egos. They fall a lot harder than we do.”

  I look at her. “When did you get to be so wise?”

  “Some of us have university wisdom.” She points at me. “I have street smarts.”

  “You do. I’m sorry I ruined your weekend.”

  “Ruined? I’m staying in a luxury penthouse. Stuffing my face with whore’s pasta. Drinking the good stuff. I’m having a ball.” She realises what she’s saying. “Sorry, Tabitha.”

  Despite everything, I laugh briefly. “Don’t be. You’re the one thing keeping me from throwing myself off the balcony.” That and a quietly growing determination to recover everything Jack and I have built together. “Will you stay with me again tonight?”

  “You’ll have to throw me off the balcony to stop me.”

  “We’ll pick you out something from the designer labels in the bedroom to match your new Business Manager status.” I’m already formulating a vague plan for myself which doesn’t include looking like a copy of the perfect Amanda. If I’m going to get Jack back, I’m going to do it as me.

  Libby and I spend the next couple of hours playing dress up and drinking Jack’s wine. It diverts my mind from my problems. Libby is a similar size and quite a lot of my new stuff fits her and suits her well.

  “Brent’s eyes will be out on stalks,” she says looking at her transformation in the mirror.

  “Do you think he’ll be back Monday?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s had long enough to lick his wounds. He’ll probably be back to see what other mischief he can cause. He likes his status in the company. Some of the younger guys even look up to him.”

  “I think they’re a bit scared of him, actually,” I say. I’m beginning to slur my words a little.

  “You’re probably right. He’s a big mountain to climb.”

  “Well we’re going up and over.”

  We pour the remainder of the second bottle of Jack’s Chateauneuf-du-Pape. It went down rather more quickly than the first we opened, theoretically to slosh in the pasta sauce.

  “Want me to go get another?” Libby asks, waggling the empty bottle.

  “One more shouldn’t hurt.” It’s keeping the worst ravages of misery at bay and I can’t contemplate being without its anaesthetising effect tonight.

  We polish the third off in record time. Even for me.

  I’m beginning to understand why Jack might have wanted to lose himself in a bottle. When I spoke to him on the phone I think he’d already come down from the night before. He was lucid and had that scratchy morning-after quality to his voice. I’ll have that to deal with tomorrow, I suppose.

  When the bedroom extension of the house phone rings, Libby and I stare at each other. I sweep it up clumsily.

  “Future Devereaux residence.” I don’t know what makes me say it but it strikes me as hilarious. I snigger and Libby joins in. I stuff her in the walk-in and shut the door on her.

  “Miss Caid?” It’s Blackstock. Sounding rather perplexed. Who did he think I was? “Have you been drinking?”

  “Only a drop of red. There are no limits to my reckless behaviour this weekend, it would seem.” Now I sound like a pompous arse.

  “Is Libby still with you?”

  “I disposed of her body in the wardrobe.” I guffaw. Libby sticks her head out of the walk-in wearing Chane
l the way it was never intended, and smirks. We titter.

  “Do you require some assistance?” He tries to project stern and I mimic the expression I imagine is on his face, which Libby loves. I put my hand over the mouthpiece so he won’t hear us laughing.

  I fall over the bed dragging the phone with me. “I’m assisting myself, Mr Stackblock. As long as the wine holds out, we’re fine. Cheers. I might start in on Jack’s investment next. That’ll please him. He’s given up on me, you know. I’m a lost cause.”

  “Shall I come over?”

  “Haven’t you anything worth drinking there?” I drop the phone and it takes me a while to put it the right way up to my ear again. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Miss Caid. It might be better not to drink any more. It sounds like you’ve had enough.”

  “Yes, I have had enough.” I start jabbing my finger into thin air. “I’ve had more than enough, actually. You can tell that poker-up-the-arse Boss of yours I’ve definitely had enough.” I end the call, remember I forgot to say goodbye, lift it up and speak into the dead phone again. “Goodbye.” I drop it on the bed and collapse after it in the middle of dozens of pieces of clothing that Libby has tried on and thrown into yes, maybe and maybe-when-hell-freezes-over piles.

  As soon as I recover from the exertion I stagger through to the wine fridge in the kitchen knocking into every bit of furniture I encounter on the way. I have great difficulty uncorking the next two bottles as Libby appears wearing only underwear and an unbuttoned blouse. She stands swaying, watching me as I sink to the floor stabbing at the last broken cork with a steak knife.

  “Where’s all the corkscrews round here?” she asks, making us both snigger for some reason.

  I point at half a cork attached to the end of the corkscrew halfway across the kitchen floor where I threw it in disgust. I hand her one of the bottles of wine and she takes a deep swig.

  “Jack would like that outfit,” I tell her, waving vaguely at her lack of clothing. “He approves of women’s knickers.”

  She collapses down beside me while I get the last piece of cork out of my bottle. I down a good load. Neither of us has the energy or co-ordination to move much. I wonder how we’re going to manage when these bottles are done for.