So. What to wear to wreck a wedding?
He left at eight, just like always. He didn’t glance around as he walked to his car, and didn’t look in her direction when he pulled out of the driveway. Abigail waited a moment before she lifted herself up in her seat. Her heart was pounding and her palms felt clammy. She’d pulled the logo stickers off the van—the beautiful stickers Dillon had had made for her, that said who she was and might have led to a terrible confrontation. She’d also parked in Bibi’s driveway, a sweet old lady who didn’t have a car and was never out of bed before ten.
No-one paid attention to cars in driveways. And Mal, he didn’t pay attention to much beyond himself, thankfully.
She turned the key in the ignition, and drove the van onto the street.
Abigail felt disconnected from her body as she stepped from the van and turned towards the house. It was just like she remembered, although there were new privet hedges planted beneath the lounge room windows, and the welcome mat had changed. The subtle tug of nostalgia surprised her, but then again, she’d had some good memories in this house. It hadn’t all been a nightmare. She’d planted the climbers that were now thriving. She’d picked the design of the security screen door that she raised her knuckles to now. It had been Mal’s house, but she’d made it a home.
She knocked.
The door opened before she could steady her breathing.
‘What did you forget—?’
Isobelle stopped. Mouth still open but words gone, she stared at Abigail through the screen. She was dressed for work and in the middle of her breakfast; a bowl of cereal in her left hand.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Are you trying to see Mal?’
Abigail held her hands up. ‘No. I’m … please. I really need to talk to you.’
‘You assume I want to listen. There’s nothing you could have to say that would make me open this door. Get off my property.’
‘Please. Isobelle, we were friends once. It wasn’t even that long ago. Can’t we just forget for a moment that we’re supposed to be rivals now? I promise you, I don’t wish you ill. In fact, I drove all the way up here because I want you to be happy.’ She hooked her fingers around the curved pattern on the screen. ‘I need to know you’re going to be happy. When I’m sure of that, I’ll leave you alone. You have my word.’
Isobelle sniffed. ‘For what that’s worth.’
‘Please.’
Maybe it was because Abigail didn’t defend herself, or maybe it was because she looked like crap—she’d deliberately skipped make-up this morning to lessen the chance of being seen as a threat, but Isobelle opened the door.
Which appeared to surprise them both.
She glanced at her bowl, then looked at Abigail and licked her teeth. ‘Fine. Come in. Torture yourself or whatever the hell it is you’re doing, and take a look around at the life we’re making together.’ She waved her free hand when Abigail took hold of the door. ‘Soak all the happiness up, then get out.’
She turned and walked away, down the hall to the kitchen that Abigail had repainted one sunny, summer morning two years ago. Abigail followed.
Isobelle dumped her bowl on the sink with a clatter, then turned and balanced her hands on the counter. ‘What’s your fetish, huh? Photos? Maybe videos of us together? I’ve got plenty of those.’
Abigail helped herself to one of the two kitchen chairs, and tried to remember the starting point of the speech she’d been practicing on the drive up from London. She had to be careful. Isobelle was loyal to Mal. Abigail couldn’t attack him too forcefully, or she’d alienate her audience. It had to be about Isobelle.
She glanced at the spot on the kitchen floor where she’d cowered once, then looked away.
‘I, uh … let’s pretend I’m talking about someone you don’t know. Can we do that?’
Isobelle’s expression suggested they could not.
Abigail cleared her throat and pushed her fingers along the tabletop. ‘When I, uh … when I was growing up, I watched a lot of rom coms. I mean, we both did. You watched them for the laughs. I know you did, you used to love the corny lines and the grand gestures. You used to tease me sometimes, because you didn’t think I got the jokes. I never laughed as hard as you did.’
Isobelle glared down at her fingernails. She rolled her fingertips against the countertop. ‘A lot of that stuff went over your head.’
‘It didn’t. Not really. I just wasn’t in it for the same reasons you were. The laughs were great. I mean, who doesn’t want a man who makes them laugh? But I was in it for the emotion.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘The lust, the love. The desperation. The profound relief when it all works out and they love you back.’
‘Are you still a sap, is that what you’re telling me?’
Abigail ignored the jibe. ‘I watched those movies and I used to think, I can’t wait to meet my guy. The guy.’
Another roll of the fingers. ‘We all thought that.’
‘I know, but I had a pretty shitty family life. You know that too. So, I also used to think, I can’t wait to feel that loved. That … safe. Because the man I thought I was going to marry was going to be a lot of things: tall, handsome, rich—you know, the typical list—but more than any of that he was going to be kind. In a way my dad was never kind to my mum.’ She paused.
Isobelle’s eyes were still hard, still closed off.
If the next line didn’t work, then there would be no way of reaching her.
She took a deep breath and continued.
‘Have you noticed how every one of those movies had a bunch of life lessons? Yeah, the writers and producers, they were big into second chances and self-improvement. Huge on honesty. I learnt a lot from them. I learnt it was okay to be wrong, and sometimes it was even good to be selfish.’ She swallowed. ‘But I was the wrong kind of selfish when I was with Mal because I realised I was just … wrong. I’d made the wrong choice because when I was with Mal, I was looking too hard for kindness.’
She braced herself. Isobelle had dropped her hands from the counter and approached, and Abigail didn’t know if Isobelle was going to shout or hit, or both. She didn’t know what she’d do. She couldn’t run—she’d already done that and that hadn’t fixed anything.
Would Isobelle’s loyalty be physical? Abigail lifted her hands a fraction, readying them to shield her face.
But Isobelle didn’t shout. She didn’t come more than a step closer, and when she spoke, her question was quiet. ‘What do you mean?’
Abigail licked her lips and tried to loosen her shoulders. ‘I mean that, I wanted to be treated a certain way by the man I loved. I wanted to be like those women in those movies.’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘No.’ Spoken in a whisper. With fearful hope. ‘Because he wasn’t like those men in those movies.’
Oh god, was this going to work?
Isobelle was standing unanchored in the middle of the kitchen floor. Her hands were loose at her sides, but her fingers were ceaselessly moving. Rolling, curving, straightening.
‘When I realised that …’ Abigail spoke slowly, with infinite care. Isobelle was hanging on every word and Abigail didn’t want to break the spell. ‘I stopped making excuses for him. And I left.’
Isobelle blinked. Once, twice—half a dozen times, very quickly. Her expression changed. ‘You didn’t leave,’ she said, ‘you were chucked out for being a cheat!’
‘After I was physically abused by the man I loved.’
The precarious moment was lost.
‘You’re a liar!’ Isobelle screamed. She advanced again, and this time she didn’t stop. Her fingers closed around Abigail’s upper arm and wrist, and she hauled her out of the chair. Unbalanced, Abigail almost toppled. It was only Isobelle’s grip that kept her up—Isobelle, who was bodily dragging her out of the kitchen.
‘I’m not a liar!’ Abigail cried out. Isobelle let go of her wrist and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Tears filled Abiga
il’s eyes. ‘Please!’
There was a jolt as Isobelle stopped to wrench open the door. Another jolt as she threw open the screen door.
‘Please!’ Abigail said again. ‘I’m doing this all wrong. Please just hear me out.’
They were both turning. Spinning. Abigail tripped on the door jamb, lost her footing and fell.
An explosion of pain shot out from her kneecap and seemed to fill her body with burning light. Her head hurt—her hair had been torn from Isobelle’s hand. She curled over her knee, and through the throb of pain she felt a pulse of fury. Why was she here, disgracing herself in front of this woman who hated her?
‘I don’t know what your relationship with Mal was like,’ Isobelle snapped. ‘Not really. And I don’t care. I’m happy and he’s good to me. I never want to see you again. Stay away from us.’
The door slammed.
Abigail stayed on the stoop, her hands on the cool concrete. She kept her head tucked down and breathed against her chest. Fast, sharp breaths.
And the position was all too familiar.
On her knees, winded and hurting.
She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and crashed her fist against the door.
‘Isobelle!’ she shouted. ‘Has he ever hurt you?’ She hit the door again. ‘I’m happy to be wrong about this—please! Just tell me: do you feel safe with him? C’mon, the way he behaved in my shop—that wasn’t okay, you know that.’
She waited. A shadow moved under the door. Isobelle was in there, just on the other side, listening.
‘He hurt me, Izzy. In ways that didn’t bruise, and that I couldn’t prove. He tried to control me, and he took my things. You must know those texts didn’t come from me. You must know that.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s a sociopath. He’s everyone’s best friend but alone … He’s different when he’s alone with you. Do you ever feel … uncertain? Confused by the double-speak and the half-truths?’
‘Go away!’
Abigail closed her eyes. Her heart was beating wildly and her knee throbbed and thrummed. There were a thousand words tumbling about in her stomach like insects, all of them useless.
She touched the screen door again. Lightly this time. ‘If he ever hurts you—’
‘Go away!’ The words were a scream now. Hysterical.
Abigail pressed her lips together, but she had to finish. ‘Find a way to convince him to leave you. It’s the only way.’
She pushed away from the door. There was no response, and Abigail was certain there never would be. But that was okay. Short of bodily dragging Isobelle out of her relationship, Abigail had done everything she could to prevent a future that was Abigail’s past.
It was far from the outcome she’d wanted, but it would have to be enough to help her sleep at night. She’d warned Isobelle. She had no control over what Isobelle did with her advice, nor did she take any comfort in finally contradicting the woman who’d viciously cut her down when she’d needed to be propped up. This was not about revenge. This was a dark day. It was simply woman to woman, and a case of trying to stop history from repeating itself.
She got in the van and sat behind the wheel until her breathing steadied, then she glanced at the house, sighed, and pulled away from the kerb.
The first message arrived before Abigail was back on the M1. The second message arrived before she could pull over to read the first.
She left her indicator on and pulled her phone from her bag.
Where she’d expected to see Isobelle’s name, she saw Mal’s.
Her thumb hovered over the button. A truck passed in the lane closest to her and made the whole van rumble, but Abigail was already shaking inside.
She glanced around, inexplicably nervous despite being alone and safe, then she opened the first message.
It was not the vitriol she’d expected.
It was well-considered. Polite, even. Reasonable and patient.
It was—every word of it—a lie.
She read it through three times before she read the second message. It was equally level-tempered and also a total fallacy. Mal was playing a game with her, and this was his first move. His messages were a polite request to leave them alone.
She dropped her head back on the headrest and stared out at the traffic beyond her windscreen.
She hadn’t won the last game, she’d merely taken herself off the board. But here she was, mere miles from the home he now shared with his new fiancée. Of course, he thought she was playing again—and rather aggressively too. She’d proven distance didn’t matter, she’d been underhanded. Christ, she’d stalked his front door until he’d gone to work. What had she thought might come of this—had she truly believed she could blow up their relationship without him rising to resist her?
In the most hopeful corner of her mind Abigail had believed Isobelle would respond to Abigail’s warnings. Maybe even seen a little of herself in Abigail’s narrative. But of course, she’d called the man she loved. Maybe she’d demanded answers, or maybe she’d demanded he get his crazy ex-fiancée away from her … either way Mal was coming.
Her phone rang and she jumped.
An unknown number.
Mal—blocking his caller ID?
She let it go through to her voicemail, and jumped again when her phone beeped, signalling that it had done so.
Another truck rattled past. Someone pressed their horn.
She dialled her voicemail and lifted the phone to her ear.
‘Hi Abigail, this is Ricky from Queen E Automotive. I’m ringing to let you know your van is ready—looks brand new. Please give me a call back to arrange a pick-up time. Thank you.’
There was a beep, then a mechanical voice declared, You have no new messages.
She ended the call.
Not Mal. Not Mal, but her van at last. She needed the distraction, so she wanted the car now.
She rang Brittany to check in. Everything was going fine—there had been few customers after the initial open, so she was making lips and catching up on custom orders. Brittany shared Abigail’s excitement that the van was ready, and didn’t mind being alone a little longer so Abigail could collect it.
Which just left Dillon. With her van ready, that meant this van was no longer required. She had to return it, and forfeit the parking space she’d come to love. They hadn’t spoken since the Lamborghini launch. She’d fled the scene before he could drag her before the cameras.
The custom-made logo stickers were a mess on the passenger seat, another reminder of his generosity.
She smiled at them, then found his number in her phone and dialled.
He answered.
She’d been expecting him to send her call through to voicemail, so his neutral ‘Hello?’ surprised her.
‘D-Dillon? It’s Abigail.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh. Sorry, I thought you mustn’t have checked your screen—’
‘I’m not dodging your calls, Abigail.’
‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Uh … the van? My van? I just found out it’s ready—a guy just called from the repair shop and said I can collect it.’ She glanced into the storage area. There was very little to transfer from vehicle to vehicle, she’d deliberately avoided getting too settled into the loaner. ‘I was thinking I’d go in today.’
‘And my van?’
‘I’m in it now.’
‘Are you local?’
‘What?’
‘Are you in the area? You could pick me up and I could drive it back to Wheels after you’ve collected yours.’
‘Oh.’ She really had to stop saying that. She glanced around at the ceaseless traffic. ‘That’s a really good idea but no, I’m a few hours away.’
There was a brief pause, then, ‘Can you spare an hour before the close of business?’
She imagined leaving Boucake at four, driving towards Stratford then doubling back to the smash repairer. She’d be lucky to make it before they closed, id as much.
‘I can come to you,’ D
illon said. ‘I’ll catch a bus in and meet you at your shop at four.’
‘Oh.’
It was suddenly difficult to remember why she’d been avoiding this man. He was always so quick to offer his help.
As if she’d spoken aloud, he said quietly, ‘I owe you that much.’
Abigail shook her head, despite being alone in the van. ‘No, you don’t owe me anything. You made up for the crash ten-fold.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the crash.’
She managed to catch the oh this time.
He wrapped up the conversation so hastily there was only just time to agree to four o’clock. She stared at her phone, then pushed it deep into her bag and checked over her shoulder. Pulling back into traffic, she remembered Mal’s messages and spent the next few hours trying to anticipate his next move.
Don’t play with fire was an oft-used adage for a reason. Today, Abigail had poured petrol onto the inferno that was her ex-fiancé. It was too late to regret it. All that was left was to fire-proof her life, and as quickly as possible.
Chapter 27
The villain
He arrived early. Not by accident. The bus had run to time and he’d walked slowly, despite his feet being impatient, but he’d come a full thirty minutes before she was expecting him simply because he’d missed her, and her phone call this morning had shot the rest of his day to hell anyway.
Dillon sat out in the Yard, in a green seat by a green barrel, beneath the sparse shade of an autumn-stripped tree, and slowly drank the iced tea he’d ordered from Beatha Bakery.
It was another fine day. Had things been different between them, Dillon would be here with a plan to enjoy the last of the sunshine. The breeze carried the scent of burnt sugar and coffee, and something floral from one of the hanging gardens that made him think of the time Abigail had danced with him and smelled like daisies.
Her window display hadn’t changed from the profusion of sugar blooms, but he found he liked it more today than he had previously. Probably also because he missed her. Missed passing that window to enter the store. Nostalgia certainly applied a filter to things.
There was a flash of colour in the door window. There wasn’t a customer inside, so it had to be Abigail or Brittany. He leaned forward hopefully.
Have Your Cake Page 25
