Where the Stars Fall

by Ana Simons

  I think it’s raining. Yes, I can hear a soft patter of rain against the window and even that, along with a sour mix of regret and self-resentment, makes my head pound even harder.

  Where am I? Is this hell?

  Shit. My mouth tastes like sawdust.

  Yes, this is hell for sure.

  “Brian?” Another whisper.

  Who’s this?

  My eyes struggle to open against the blistering daylight, but, dammit, the ceiling doesn’t stop spinning and I’m so drowsy!

  My eyelids fall shut again.

  What the fuck happened last night?

  Leave it, I don’t want to know. My head is banging like crazy, I think it might explode.

  “Love?” The same familiar voice murmurs, its warm breath caressing my face and rocking me gently, one hand on my chest, the other stroking my hair. “Hey, wake up. You fell asleep on the sofa again.”

  Olivia, is that you?

  My eyes flicker open, but I remain still, completely still, just looking at her. There are many emotions coursing through me right now, mostly relief, but also a mix of anger and frustration I can hardly contain.

  “Why’re you sleeping here again?” Her voice is soft, as soft as the hand that strokes my stubble. She lets out a nervous giggle. “Please, don’t tell me there’s another woman in our bed.”

  “What? No.” The words struggle to escape my throat.

  “I know,” she says, with another nervous smile trembling on her lips. “I must have called you a thousand times, but it always went straight to voice mail. What happened?”

  You called?

  I need to sit up. Based on the severity of the state you’re in, sitting up is usually a stunt that can take anything from a couple of minutes to twenty-four hours. God help me, my head is throbbing, everything is fuzzy and the dizziness in my brain is nearly killing me. I have absolutely no idea how I ended up sleeping here, all I know is that I’m about to find out how massive my hangover is.

  I force my battered body up. “I don’t know, last thing I remember I was in the nursery room, flipping through some old photographs, and talking to a wall,” I tell her, evenly, rubbing my palms against my temples. “What day is this, anyway?”

  “Monday. It’s almost 10. You okay?”

  Shit!

  “I need a coffee. And a shower.”

  “I’m getting you a warm mug of ginger tea to settle things down. Coffee will only dehydrate you more.”

  The idea makes me shudder. “That crap you drink when you’re nauseous? Thank you, but no. I’m not going–”

  She’s already disappeared into the kitchen.

  I push myself up from the sofa and stagger along the hallway towards the bathroom, the awareness I’m no longer master of the fine art of recovering from a night of drinking dawning hard on me.

  I reach the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and horribly sunken, my face so pale, my lips dry. I rub my cottony tongue over my lips; it feels like sandpaper on raw wood.

  You’ll never do this again, I reprimand myself as I down the aspirin I’ve just taken out of the cabinet and drink water directly from the tab.

  Resolutely, I take my clothes off, step into the shower and let the warm stream run down over the top of my head. My eyes close against the water and I breathe slowly through it.

  For a good couple of minutes, I let it run over my face, across my chest and drip down over my whole body, hoping it soothes my thudding head and my aching muscles.

  Hopefully, it’ll also wash away the pain and anger seething within me since I last saw her.

  When I’m about to finish, my eyes meet hers. She’s leaning against the door waiting for me with a towel slung over her shoulder, a trace of a nervous smile playing across her lips.

  I open the glass door and step out of the shower cubicle. I can’t bring myself to return her smile.

  “Thank you for the flowers. That was really sweet of you.”

  “Was it?” I throw her an ire-filled glance and yank the towel from her hand.

  I dry myself off fast enough it almost burns.

  “Grandma said if you’d arrived ten minutes sooner, we wouldn’t have missed each other completely,” she says, with a soft voice, trying to ease the tension. “Actually, I was heading to your parents when you went to see me.”

  My eyes seek hers in the mirror as I wrap the towel around my waist. “You were?” Though surprised, I try to sound unaffected.

  She grabs the mug of steaming tea waiting on the countertop. “Your father invited me in for breakfast. Hot chocolate was on the menu – my soft spot these days, he knows that.” She flashes a nervous smile. “I was hoping to see you there.”

  “And?”

  “And we talked. We talked for a while, about a lot of things. About when we were kids, about our story and our life now. About the future... Oh well, about how important it is that we always try to look at things from different angles and–”

  I narrow my eyes at her and hiss under my breath, “And now what?”

  “And now I’m here, aren’t I?” She takes two steps closer to me, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder.

  I step aside, my face impassive.

  “And just like that, it was almost eleven and I was already late for work. I didn’t have the chance to call you or anything,” she says with her eyes cast down and her voice sad and tight.

  “But I called you, goddammit!” I explode, probably louder than I should, with exasperation dripping from every word. “Why didn’t you answer any of my calls? Why did you have to leave me alone the whole bloody weekend, desperate for a sign from you? Because in that messed-up head of yours I deserved to be punished, is that it? What about now? Mission accomplished? Feeling better already?”

  Her face is blank, she doesn’t react.

  “Tell me! Is that it?” I hold her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “And now you think you can simply drop by, make me some bloody tea and thank me for some flowers I’m beginning to think you don’t even deserve in the first place – and we’re good? You think you can just tell me my father helped you see the obvious or the fucking light or whatever, and you can come back as if nothing had happened?” My heart is hammering hard against my ribs, the quick throbbing of my pulse almost choking me.

  She rests her hand on my chest. “No! What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with your father.”

  I ignore her. This mixture of sadness, bile and despair has already flooded my chest and my heart is racing, my mind in absolute turmoil.

  “Why the fuck don’t you trust me? That’s what I can’t get over! Why, goddammit? When I’ve never given you a single reason not to. How can you not know that I’d never do anything to hurt you or compromise what we have?”

  “Brian, stop, listen to me.”

  “How can we even think about doing this, if you don’t let your guard down and allow me in? Because this is how it’s going to be, isn’t it? Every time we have a problem, you’ll turn your back on me and run? Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t do it anymore.”

  She looks up, stunned, unable to utter a single work.

  “You heard me. I can’t do this anymore.” My heart drops to my stomach when I see her like that, but I’m too angry to listen and too proud to cave into whatever excuses she may have. “Thanks for the tea, but I’m having breakfast somewhere else. And then I’m going to work.”

  Five minutes later I’m slamming the front door shut behind me and my mind is reeling through the whole situation and the voice in the back of my head screaming that I am a fool.

  42 TURNING TABLES

  “…WE NEED TO TALK to the contractor again. I was on the site this morning and it’s not just the thermo-acoustic panels, Brian, the vibration supports need to be readjusted too. They’re working on the lighting today, and if you agree, we could–”

  In fairness, would you be so cool about it, if it was that dimwit of her ex in your bed?


  “Sure, Patel. Take care of that,” I instruct, though I have no bloody idea what his suggestion was. It’d better be a good one, as my thoughts are miles away from the McAllister Auditorium project meeting I’m supposed to be chairing. Every muscle on my face is straining to look normal and controlled, but my stomach is churning inside me.

  Would I be cool about it? The hell I would, I’d feel like breaking the fucker’s nose.

  I thought so.

  But I’d listen to her, I’d try to understand what really happened. I wouldn’t jump straight to my own conclusions without–

  You’d listen?

  Of course.

  Like you listened to what she had to say today? She’d been working sixteen hours straight, what do you know?

  “Shit,” I growl to myself, the hand under the table balling into a fist.

  And you know what else? You’re a complete arse! She’s pregnant, carrying your children; why did you speak to her like that?

  My chest tightens, this terrible what-the-fuck-have-I-done feeling leaving me absolutely restless.

  “Brian, you all right? Are you even listening or am I talking to myself?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to bring my absent mind back.

  No, I’m not listening, it’s all a blur. This is all fucking insane and I can’t focus on anything except the sickening tension consuming me from the inside.

  A knock on the door jerks me out of my stupor.

  “Brian? We have a situation, I need you to come here.” Millie peeks over the rim of her glasses.

  My eyes fall to the bottom right-hand corner of the laptop screen. 14:20. Then they scan the conference table. Six people have their eyes fixed on me and Millie is at the door, all of them waiting for a reaction.

  “Sorry. I have to be somewhere else.” Resolutely, I snap the laptop’s lid closed and stand to leave.

  “Brian?” Millie tugs at my jacket.

  “What?”

  “It’s Rogers. He’s waiting in my office,” she tells me in hushed tones. “Looking upset and very angry. What do you want me to?”

  My lips pull into a contented grin. Already having an idea of why he’s so pissed off, I flip the switch, letting the opaque walls become translucent so that I can see him. He’s pacing back and forth in an obvious rotten mood.

  “Brian, what’s going on here?”

  “I gave him a taste of his own medicine.” The taste of betrayal. “And he’s already choking on it.”

  Millie lifts an eyebrow, looking confused. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell him I’m busy, he should leave. If he makes any fuss, call security.”

  “All right.”

  On second thought, “No, it’s okay, I’ll go and talk to him.”

  *

  “Peter Rogers. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “What the fuck do you think you’re going to accomplish with all this?”

  “I’m confused. What are you talking about?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from each word.

  He takes two confident steps forward and says in a quiet voice, “Tell your friend to back off, to stop nosing around. If he shows up at my doorstep again, I’ll shove his fucking camera up his arse.”

  “Still confused.”

  He gives me a hard stare. “Cut the crap, I know you’ve been helping him–”

  I close the door with a heavy thud.

  “Unearth your dirty secrets?”

  “Launch a campaign to discredit me. All false claims. You can’t prove anything.”

  “But it will be so much fun to watch them drag your name through the mud. On national fucking TV,” I add, not bothering to hide the satisfaction.

  “I want you to stop it. Now.”

  “Or else what? You’re going to hit me? Like you hit Mary? You’re pathetic.”

  “Defending her, huh? That cold-hearted bitch is a gold digger. She’s only interested in what she can get out of men like me,” he hisses, the words louder than he intended.

  Clicking my tongue in pretend disapproval, I remind him of his own life motto, “Whatever happens, don’t lose your cool. Get a grip, mate.” I slap him on the back with a mocking stance.

  “Fuck you,” he snarls. “That backstabbing cunt joined forces with you and sold me out, didn’t she? I know you’ve been asking too many questions, but let me tell you something, son: you don’t want to stir things up. You’d better stop rummaging through–”

  “I’m not your fucking son.” I fix him with a stony stare. “And how do you know I’ve been asking too many questions? Was it one of your bank managers? Javel Espinoza, perhaps? Man, so many questions to which he had no good answers… Or was it Ajay, that ‘good friend’ of yours, who so kindly allows you to use the yacht he keeps docked in the Caribbean?” I ask, doing air quotes to emphasise the sarcasm.

  Bastards like Rogers hide their fortunes in jurisdictions that allow the creation of trusts, foundations, corporations, whatnot, where the ownership is always kept secret. The real owner is always hidden behind a nominee, sometimes a professional agent, sometimes the office cleaner. Or some poor guy like Ajay, who makes a living cleaning rich people’s boats.

  “Or maybe it was the bulky security bloke in that empty office where you run your so-called consulting company?” I ask, irony lacing my words.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Karlson P. West’s financial services. Does that refresh your memory?”

  Rogers shrugs, feigning nonchalance. But I know him too well; there’s panic rising behind his eyes.

  “How about their real estate investments in Asia? Paying you £1.5 million annual commissions for consultancy services? Well, fuck me, you must be really good!” I let out a dry laugh. “The thing is, those dummy contracts saying they’re paying you for your specialized advice? I can easily prove it’s all a scheme. The only work being done over there is passing on part of that money to a certain government official, isn’t it? To guarantee all the necessary licenses and permits.”

  “You can’t prove any of that,” he growls like a trapped animal.

  “Mate, careful planning is the key to success. That’s what you always said to me, remember?”

  His brows knit in confusion.

  “How come you didn’t plan for any of this? That after so blatantly stealing from my family, I’d leave no stone unturned until I made a talentless fucker like you pay for the damage you caused?”

  “You’re bluffing. If you had one solid bit of evidence against me, you wouldn’t just stand here, making these empty threats and–”

  “Am I?” Letting out another laugh, I turn to leave. “Check your inbox. I’m sending you some… very enlightening files. But don’t take my word for it, see it with your own eyes.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  I turn the doorknob but do not open the door. Looking back at him over my shoulder, “Your bone of contention: Cranleigh. I want my father’s name back on that property title.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  “And will you stop this nonsense?”

  “I might. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Come back here, I haven’t finished.”

  “Well, I have.”

  In a larger and more encompassing sense than he knows.

  I’m ending it today. I’m getting the bombshell to the press and close the door to the past. I’ve done my part; the authorities and the tabloids should take it from here. It’s time to move on and start a new chapter in my life.

  I open the door and find half of the office looking at us, curiosity plastered on their faces. “Millie, please have Mr Rogers escorted outside.”

  43 WHAT I DO KNOW

  OLIVIA IS SITTING OUTSIDE, on the balcony, with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking into the void, probably gathering her thoughts and trying to make some sense of all those things I told her.

  “Liv?�
�� I call her softly from the living-room and she tilts her head to the side, startled. Her eyes are red, her face flushed and swollen.

  I grab a blanket from the sofa and go outside too, to sit next to her. “Here, wrap this around your shoulders. It’s freezing.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was suffocating inside...” A sob escapes her throat.

  Neither of us says a word for quite a while, there’s only this strained silence filling the space between us as we keep looking at the heavy rain falling down.

  “I apologise for being a jerk. For spilling my guts like that.” I rest my hand on top of hers and squeeze it gently.

  She interlaces her fingers with mine. “I’d left my phone in the doctors’ lounge. On charge. That’s why I didn’t see any of your calls until later in the night. And your texts, for that matter.”

  “All right.”

  “It wasn’t your father who talked me into coming home. Sure, I wasn’t happy about the whole thing – would you be? – but I was already getting ready to come and give you a good morning kiss when he called me. For some reason, I thought you’d be there. Or I hoped you would. And I’m so sorry too, if I disappointed you and even made you question if we wouldn’t be better off apart and–”

  “I didn’t mean any of that, Liv.” I pull her close to me and hold her. “That was the hurt talking. You know that, don’t you?”

  “What about those texts, the things you wrote last night? Did you mean any of that?”

  What texts?

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, I’m afraid last night got a bit blurry.”

  She takes her hand back gently, in her eyes a sad expression.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I hold her head in my hands and let the pad of my thumb brush her lip. There’s disappointment written all over her face.

  “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, but the last thing I recall, I was... Come inside with me, I want to show you something.”

  I hold her hand and take her to the nursery room.