Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘She’ll want to see me, I swear.’ Maybe not initially. Maybe not at all—not when she hears what I have to say. But it’s better than her seeing me—lots of me and lots of her—on Dynamic Entertainment’s site or Porn Hamster. Fuck, please don’t let it come to that. I don’t want to be the cause of her hurt again.

  ‘If I learn otherwise . . . ’ Along with one pointed finger, the implied threat lingers in the air. She reminds me of my own granny quite suddenly. I feel guilt I haven’t thought of her in a while. They don’t look remotely alike—Nonna was round, not like the frail wee thing standing before me—but she was fierce when she had need. Grandmothers come in all shapes and sizes; some might be made from rosewater and cannoli and from twinsets and pearl, but they all seem to have a steel rod for a backbone when it comes to those they love.

  ‘Please.’ If I sound desperate, it’s because I am. ‘I just need to see her.’

  She regards me for a few seconds more, seconds that draw out into an age, even as the hairy barber nods his encouragement. Her hands slip under the counter, returning with a card pressed between fingers and thumb. It looks like an invitation as she passes it into my hands. An invitation with a stag’s head embossed in gold on the front of the thick card.

  Suddenly, she snatches it back. ‘That’s mine, y’ken?’

  ‘But Ivy—I can find her here?’

  She peers at me for a moment longer, her thin lips firm. ‘Weel, I suppose I can always take you along as my plus one.’

  Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I was holding in a breath. ‘You will? Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘But you’ll have to be prepared to bide there a while, and you’ll have a car?’

  Was that a question? Maybe? ‘Yeah, I have a car.’ I raise my eyes from the card open in her thin hand. From what I could gather during my brief look, it’s a hotel opening.

  ‘Or you can go later; watch the tide times. I can make my own way there.’ Tide times? We’re going on a ferry or causeway? I shake my head at the suggestion because any kind of time is something I don’t have. ‘So long as you also know you’ll have to mind the tide times.’

  Definitely a water crossing of some kind, but I don’t answer her. At least, not verbally as I lean over the high counter and plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘When do we go?’ Because I’ll swim there if I have to.

  She turns a pink sort of flustered, her hand touching a pink powdered cheek. ‘I’ll go get my coat. You’ll bring the car to the door? These old legs aren’t so good.’

  ‘Sure. Car. I’ll go get it now.’

  ‘What a gent,’ crows the beard as I turn. Pulling on the door handle, I anticipate the quaint jingling sound, my heart light for the first time since I’d stepped off the plane.

  ‘What d’you suppose all that means?’ the beard all but screeches as I step outside.

  ‘That she’s a lucky girl,’ answers the granny. ‘I saw a video of him, and that man’s boabie is like a baby’s arm.’

  Surely . . . Nah. I couldn’t have understood that right.

  Chapter 32

  Ivy

  The room is nothing short of beautiful. In fact, the whole room is beyond swanky, and to think Fin had a hand in the design of the place after some sort of trouble with the interior designer. I’m not surprised she has an eye for this sort of stuff; she’s always been super stylish and amazingly clever. For sure that girl isn’t only a pretty face. She’s more—more than even a beautiful face. She has a beautiful heart to match. A heart big enough to forgive my mistakes. God, I feel humbled . . . is that the right word? I’m not sure, but I definitely feel something. Something that leaves me feeling lighter and grateful, pushing away the film of guilt. Thankful with a twinge of discomfort, maybe, every time I look at him? Not that I see him often, but it’s there, even now as I look at the mirror image of him, standing at the front of the room in the form of his twin brother, Kit.

  Is it any wonder I feel so awful?

  Especially with Fin by my side staring, absolutely besotted by the sight of him.

  ‘You okay?’ In the periphery of my vision, I see Fin’s question accompanied by the cock of a quizzical head.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ Her eyes glide to the front of the room as though the presence of Rory has them magnetized. ‘Stop with the self-flagellation.’ Her hand finds mine, grasping it tightly. ‘No more apologies, okay?’

  ‘But I’m so good at them.’

  Because I am sorry—seriously so. Sorry I let the bitterness over my own circumstances colour my perception of Rory. Of his sincerity. Of her love for him.

  In the weeks since Fin and Rory have been back together, I have taken it upon myself to apologise approximately six million times. Though not always in person because that would seriously damage our relationship. And I don’t have the time or the cashflow to make the journey to London that often. And the closer I’d stood to her while making these apologies, the higher the chance she’d have slapped me. Instead, I’ve settled for saying it in other ways. I’ve cried it down a phone line. I’ve sent texts scattered with crying emojis and broken hearts. I’ve sent lengthy emails; lots of heartfelt words that post-pregnancy Ivy might live to regret. After the last one, Fin threatened to block my number and email address, but so far, I’ve escaped. My most successfully apology to date has been the delivery of I’m sorry balloons along with a box of cupcakes spelling out the same. I’d had them delivered to Rory’s cottage after the pair had travelled up to view the restoration works on Tremaine House. It was Fin’s first time in the village since she’d left, and the first time I’d seen Rory, post-reconciliation, face to face. Talk about awkward. Unsurprisingly, Mac made himself scarce that weekend.

  ‘I mean it. No more.’ Fin’s head doesn’t move, and though her gaze may be only for Rory, the quirked brow? That’s all mine.

  I sigh, a little long and a little loud, but struggle to pour it into my words, my grousing response bubbling up half huff, half snotty sob. ‘You spoil all my bloody misery.’ My vision immediately blurs. ‘Christ, Nat’s right. I really should never need to pee these days.’ Fin laughs softly in response. ‘Hormones are not funny,’ I continue. ‘You’ll find that out yourself one day.’ Her laughter stops, her hand tightening on mine.

  ‘Think that’s true?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Why not?’ My eyes follow the path of hers, and the look that passes between both her and Rory is almost pornographic. No, that’s not right—it’s intimate. So intimate I feel like I’m trespassing. ‘Anyway.’ I clear my throat. ‘Little Vlad will need a playmate, so do me a favour and get on that quick.’

  Before she can answer, Natasha appears on my left, handing me a glass of orange juice and a paper napkin concealing a tiny pastry tart.

  ‘It’s like I’m seeing double,’ she says as I run an index finger under my eyes one more last time.

  ‘True story,’ agrees Fin, following the direction of her gaze. ‘It’s like the genetic unicorn was in the room at their conception.’

  ‘Yeah, shaking its magical tail and sprinkling the room with magical, glittery ejaculate.’

  ‘Have you two been drinking while I wasn’t looking? I almost choked on a tart.’

  ‘That’s what he said!’ Nat raises her hand preparing to slap my back, but I ward it off by taking a sip of my orange juice.

  ‘In this witty riposte, am I to suppose that I’m the tart?’ asks Fin.

  ‘Take it any way you like. Just take it well, if you know what I mean?’ Nat ends her statement with a bawdy wink.

  ‘Oh, God. I think my morning sickness is coming back again. If it’s not you making horrible jokes, it must be the looks between the pair of them.’ I point my thumb at Fin, twisting my wrist to point it to the front of the room.

  ‘Vomit on my shoes and you’re paying for them,’ retorts Nat. ‘And she can’nae help it; just look at them. The odds of creating two people that beautiful must be about
the same as gettin’ all numbers and the Powerball.’

  As I place my glass on a passing tray, Kit taps his champagne glass with a piece of silverware. The murmur of conversation around us peters out as all eyes join Fin’s, the genetic unicorn offspring now the focus of the room. Rory stands slightly to the right of his brother, and it’s just so weird seeing them side by side. Yes, they’re incredibly handsome, but the fact they’re almost a mirror image of the other is so trippy, I’m pleased I can’t currently drink champagne. They have the same thick chestnut hair, gorgeous grey eyes, and cheekbones that could probably slice ham. Ah, ham . . .

  Pregnancy is proving a trial to my vegetarianism the last few days.

  ‘What happens if you get in’tae bed with the wrong brother?’ asks Nat.

  Fin sniggers, and I tell them to shush. ‘People will hear!’

  ‘So?’ Nat snorts. ‘Seriously, though,’ she asks, her head turning to Fin again. ‘How’d you tell them apart?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she demurs, smiling. And still looking at him.

  ‘Would I be asking if it was,’ Nat answers in the same simpering though slightly sarcastic tone. ‘Are you gonnae tell me Kit has an unsightly freckle on his left ballock, or something?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘That there is a cryin’ shame.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. He’s gay, not dead,’ I interject.

  ‘You’d better ask him about that because I watched him flirt with a waitress at dinner last week, and I’m pretty sure the way he looked at her made the girl pregnant.’

  ‘He was probably being smart; it pays to be nice to the wait staff.’

  ‘He wasn’t being nice. Seriously, he looked like he’d eat her, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘So he’s bi, then?’ Nat pipes up, excitedly.

  ‘Hush!’ Fin responds, unable to conceal her laughter.

  ‘Bi. Fancy that.’ Nat’s eyes all but glaze over with smutty daydreams before she comes back to us. ‘No, really, I fancy that. You’d still need to make them wear name tags, though.’

  ‘Yeah, like I have any intention of a threesome with the man I love’s brother.’

  ‘Why not? I would. Though I’d still need some way to tell them apart.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ Fin responds, ignoring my rolling eyes—hard rolling eyes—and cheesed off tone. ‘Rory is the more handsome of the two.’

  This time, we turn to examine the brothers simultaneously.

  ‘They look the bloody same,’ grumbles Nat.

  ‘Well, I suppose,’ Fin replies airily, ‘you could just ask them to take off their shirts.’

  ‘Now, you’re just teasing.’ Nat pauses for a beat before asking, ‘So Kit has no ink at all?’

  ‘I guess you’d have to find that out for yourself.’

  ‘Mute.’ At my interjection, both women turn to me in confusion. But I can feel my cheeks physically reddening, my concern for nearby flapping ear-lugs real. ‘What? It’s a mute point, because he doesn’t have enough facial fuzz for her.’

  ‘Moot, y’bampot.’ Nat shakes her head just as Kit’s deep baritone rings across the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen, and Natasha.’ I cackle. Just a little. And quietly.

  ‘Shut it, tubby,’ Nat whisper-hisses over me.

  My giggling instantaneously halts, morphing into a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘You . . . you absolute cow!’ As well as crying so much I no longer perspire, hormones have induced what Nat calls my temper coaster. Apparently, mood swing doesn’t cover my ups and downs, which can be so fast and fleeting, she’s likened my state of mind to a roller coaster ride. Yes, a ride.

  ‘Ooooh! Better not let June hear you swearing,’ crows Nat. It’s okay to say cock in her granny’s earshot, but heaven forbid anyone utter the most terrible of Scottish female insults. Shock—horror—I called her a cow!

  ‘I asked you if I looked like a pig at a festival in this dress—a fat pig with flowers in my hair—and you said no!’

  I almost didn’t come today; I couldn’t find anything to wear and had a mini breakdown at the thought of buying maternity clothes. Big knickers are one thing but tents? Then I’d remembered this dress; hanging on the back of my bedroom door, covered by all the stuff I don’t have hanging space for. It’s a bit too Coachella—Bardot shoulders, shortish, swishy, and white with embroidered flowers—but I thought it’d do. And in for a penny, in for a pound, I’d gone the whole hog and woven a few meadow flowers from the gardens into my heavy braid. ‘Call yourself a friend?’

  ‘I do. And you’re not fat. You’re pregnant,’ Nat retorts.

  ‘Like I need a reminder because I’m having a really good time sipping on orange juice while you’re on the wine.’

  ‘Face the facts, Ivy; there comes a time in a girl’s life when only big knickers will do.’

  My knickers are a little bigger, granted, but it’s not like they come up to my boobs!

  ‘I’ll give you big knickers,’ I spit back. ‘Next time you ask me to colour your hair, I’m stripping it back to ginger!’

  ‘For the love of—will you two just shut the eff up? I’m trying to listen,’ says a clearly exasperated Fin.

  ‘What for?’ we both ask at once.

  ‘Because some of us aren’t here for the free bubbles’—Fin looks at Nat pointedly—‘or canapes.’

  Along with the chastisement, she adds the stink eye in my direction, and I find myself frowning at the used napkins crushed in my hand. I have eaten quite a few in the last half hour—that’s canapes, not napkins—but my appetite this past week has gone wild. For meat, too. I think I might’ve ingested a bit of ham in the wee morsel I devoured. And what’s worse is I went back for another, just to be sure.

  Just as delicious the second time.

  ‘No, seriously, what for?’ deadpans Nat.

  ‘This is a momentous occasion in my boyfriend’s life. And I want to hear what Kit has to say.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah. Thanks for coming, now bugger off and eat some grub,’ Nat gripes. ‘Those trays look full of grubs, anyway. I’ll probably need to order room service later.’

  Grubs. Yeah, small morsels. My grip loosens a touch on the wad of napkins. See, I haven’t eaten that much, after all. And a burger . . . yum. I don’t think I’ve had anything but the tofu kind since I turned twelve.

  ‘This place looks great, though. Very avant-garde,’ I pipe up, my eyes scanning the room for a member of the wait staff to take these soiled napkins. And bring me a new one. Concealing more canapes.

  ‘She means a bit mad,’ says Nat.

  She’s not exactly wrong. This room is quite tasteful with lots of exposed stone and glass. It’s a newly built extension to the house in a sort of orangery effect. The glass walls at the far side of the room allow for views over a stone terrace and lawn, past sand dunes, and to the ocean beyond. It’s a gorgeous space and will lend itself wonderfully to wedding receptions, parties, and the like. There’s even an outside fireplace, which would be lovely to sit around on a cool evening. Though I’m not sure what use they’ll get from the croquet lawn.

  While this space is very elegant, the main house—beyond its traditional façade—is a bit out there. Lots of colour and contemporary art. The interior designer was obviously very talented. Yes, my lovely friend, even if she seems to have developed a thing for stag heads—both the ancient taxidermy and manufactured kind.

  ‘Have you seen the bedrooms?’ Natasha asks.

  ‘Not since they’ve been finished,’ Fin answers, her gaze unable to stray from Rory for very long.

  It’s so lovely to see them happy. And to think, we—I—could’ve buggered it all up for them. Since they got back together, Fin tells me she’s had a blast hanging out with Rory, and that he’d arranged to take her out on dates. It’s so freakin’ cute, especially as she’d missed out on the earlier and more typical dating stage by getting married so young. />
  She looks so happy. I’m so pleased Marcus didn’t get to put her through any more pain.

  ‘When did you see the bedrooms?’ she asks absently.

  ‘When we arrived. I just popped up for a wee keek. Did you know,’ Nat says, her eyes sparkling with mischief, ‘there’s a room up there called the Master’s Suite.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replies Fin, frowning a touch. ‘It’s the hotel’s main bedroom.’

  ‘Well, the name’s pretty apt.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The crease between Fin’s brow deepens. ‘Specifically. Because that’s the suite Rory and I are staying in later.’

  ‘I’m saying nothin’,’ Nat responds, sniggering. ‘Except I saw something lying on the dresser. Something that looked like a cheese board. It wasn’t, by the way, though it was wooden. And long.’ Her brows lift almost into her hairline. ‘I’d say someone might be in for a skelped arse tonight.’

  ‘Give over,’ I scoff. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’ My gaze slides to Fin’s for confirmation. She looks a little pink. Maybe the pair are into that sort of thing? As she opens her mouth to answer, we’re distracted by a sudden round of applause. We’ve missed Kit’s speech, blethering as normal, but at least we haven’t missed Rory’s, and that one’s going to be way more interesting. I know. Kit begins to introduce his brother, and the beaming smile Fin sends their way is almost dazzling. As wonderful as it is to watch my bestie almost bursting with love, I turn to face the front of the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rory begins, his voice ringing confidently through the room. ‘If I could just ask my lovely partner in crime to come forward. Fin?’ As his eyes scan the crowd, seeking her out, Fin seems to shrink inwardly. She’s not a fan of any sort of attention; being hounded by tabloid journalists for a time will do that to a girl. For a moment, I think she’s considering using me as a human shield.

  ‘That is,’ he continues, ‘if she’s not too busy yammering to her friends back there.’

  Warm laughter ripples through the crowd, the modest but select group of people turning to find Fin.