by Donna Alam
‘What are you fucking smirking at?’
‘Six months.’ Well, fuck me sideways.
‘How does your fiancée feel about your non-blonde slut?’
‘How does my wife feel? And slut shaming, Ivy, tsk-tsk. Do those girls really deserve to be called such names?’
‘Don’t wife me, you . . . bastard. And I meant you—you’re the slut!’
It’s all in the delivery, I suppose.
If her words are well-aimed barbs, they’re also poisoned with the truth. I feel raw—flayed—and turn away, unable to bear the weight of her accusing amber gaze. I am a slut. And a fuck up. And—
‘That’s right, Dylan. Just walk away,’ she crows from behind. ‘Maybe if you go back to the party, you’ll find someone to suck your dick. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your fiancée; she’ll learn for herself soon enough because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Ruin and hurt. Raze love to the ground.’
I stop in my tracks, forcing deep and even breaths through my chest. ‘Are you kidding me right now?’ I say, turning back to face her. ‘You spend months letting me believe you fucked someone else, and you expect me to—’
‘You let you believe, Dylan. And then you made damn sure into the bargain we were through.’
‘This right here is the problem.’ I’m pointing, I realise belatedly. More importantly, my eyes are glued to the swell of her stomach that, but for the earlier occurrence of a stiff breeze, I might’ve never have known about. And she would’ve done that to me. Let me go on through life without ever knowing what that night in L.A. cost her. What we made.
I put that there . My heart lifts. Life sprung from the midst of anger and punishment. The second thought is not so welcome and causes my stomach to churn.
‘This child won’t ever be your problem.’
She won’t look at me and has misunderstood. Again. My fault. Again.
I shake my head and direct my gaze away.
‘No, that’s not the issue here, wife .’ As I say this, I know this is absolutely true. It’s frightening and fucked up and all kinds of wrong, but am I unhappy she’s carrying my child? I should be. But I’m not.
‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.’
‘Fine, Mrs. Duffy, let me help you understand. The only wife I’m interested in is the one standing in front of me.’ She exhales a puff of breath that hits the air like a bullet. ‘And you’re pregnant. Well, guess what? So am I.’ She opens her mouth to disagree, and I cut her off. ‘You gonna tell me you’ve been fucking someone else? No, I didn’t think so,’ I add, reading her expression, her mind—fuck, her distaste. ‘That’s my baby you’re carrying—half of me. That means you don’t get to make all the decisions. Not anymore.’
Her eyes blaze like fire, tears only intensifying the effect. She inhales again, breathing out from her diaphragm this time.
‘How’s that meditating working out for you these days?’ A blow as low as a downward dog, and I don’t give a damn. ‘Because you don’t seem that chill, babe.’
‘Fine show of concern,’ I think she mumbles. ‘My blood pressure will be through the roof.’
‘What? Have you had problems—are you okay?’ My concern is immediate as is my regret.
‘No.’ I exhale, a relief that’s short lived as she adds, ‘Not that it has anything to do with you. I assume you’re here about the divorce, but Scottish law isn’t the most straightforward thing, and—’
‘I’m not here for that.’
‘Then why?’
I can’t . . . I can’t tell her about this fucking video. The court case, the circus that it’s bound to induce because all that is nothing compared to what stands before me.
Ivy.
My wife.
And how she’s trying to shut me out. From the jut of her chin to the firm line of her mouth, she’d keep me at arm’s length from her life. From my child’s life. Realisation of her betrayal almost weights me to the spot, but I won’t stand here. I won’t let her do this again. I take a step closer, the wind from the ocean billowing under her dress. She slaps at it, grabbing the short hem, flustered for a moment and not realising I’m in front of her until the tips of our shoes kiss.
‘You’re a fucking thief,’ I growl, staring down at her. ‘Stealing time and choices—robbing me of fucking fatherhood.’ My eyes fall lower, my hands rising as though magnetized. ‘Would you ever have told me?’ My voice cracks as my eyes rise to meet hers once again. ‘Would you have?’
‘I tried,’ she whispers, her eyes watery and contrite. Less defiant, at least. ‘And then you were getting married, so I decided—’
‘You decided? And on what fucking planet would I be getting married after what you put me through?’
‘You’re everywhere—Gylan, the celeb super-couple.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what they call you on the internet. The news—you’re everywhere. Even on Andrew Broughton’s show, you said—’
‘I don’t give a fuck what they call us—there is no us between me and her. And you know better than that. They pull stuff out of thin air—I can’t buy a coffee without being accused of boning a barista! They know shit about what’s going on in my real life, so don’t give me any of that bullshit. You know —you lived that life. Don’t kid a kidder, babe.’
Fuck this. Fuck her excuses, and fuck her. I’m not swallowing any of this.
‘But I didn’t,’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t live that life with you. We spent our marriage in a bubble—a bubble that burst.’ Her gaze sinks to the ground, the motion creating ink spots of moisture against the white of her dress. But I don’t step back, and I won’t take her in my arms. I have no pity or understanding in me. I have only fury, even as she gives me her wet gaze once again. ‘And then you didn’t say, you didn’t deny it on the TV—’ A hitch in her breath, and the rest of her words barely make sense. ‘An-an-and I c-couldn’t take that away from you. Don’t you see? I couldn’t tell you I was pregnant. I couldn’t take away your second chance.’
‘Yet you’re still a thief.’ The insult is dragged through the shards of broken glass lodged in my throat. ‘And a liar. You don’t get to make decisions for me . . .’
A pinch at my elbow and I glance down at blood red, pointed talons.
I blink. Exhale. Reach out to loosen them, the world around me coming back with a whoosh.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck who y’think you are.’ I register blonde hair and lashes that are unfeasibly black and long before I do her growl. ‘But you can fuck right off with your famous self. Would y’look at the girl!’ The fingers unfurl, the tall blonde pushing past me and enveloping Ivy in her arms.
‘So it’s himself, then.’ Turning her head over her shoulder, her gaze does a thorough though disdainful sweep of my body, face to toes, before pulling away. ‘I don’t care who he is,’ she says to Ivy, who I strain to see. ‘Or how big his cock is because it’s clear the Good Lord gave him nothin’ but shit for brains.’
Who the fuck is this?
‘Listen,’ I begin, ‘whoever you are, this has nothing to do with you.’
Her angry gaze flicks over her shoulders once again. ‘Why don’t you go back inside? I’m sure there are a couple of more pregnant women y’can go upset for kicks. There are a few oldies in there, too. But I’d avoid the silver-haired one in the pink cardi. That’s ma’ granny, y’ken? Upset her, and me and you will be havin’ more than words.’
Pink cardigan and silver hair; so this is June’s granddaughter? And it seems, Ivy’s friend? By the description, I wouldn’t have pegged her for this Amazon.
‘I’d like to speak with my wife.’
Her expression registers shock. Fleetingly, at least. She cocks a brow, her response thoroughly unimpressed. ‘Is that so?’ As for the half smile subsequently plastered across her face, I’ve no fucking idea what that could mean.
She turns away and begins whispering to Ivy.
‘Ivy, we’re not finished here,’ I warn.
<
br /> The friend’s shoulders move once in the semblance of a pissed-off snort.
‘You might not be done, but she is.’ She turns with Ivy’s form tucked under her arm like a child. A small, distraught child, I realise. One who can barely breathe for tears.
Why can’t I keep my big gob shut?
‘Babe, listen. I didn’t mean—’
‘What? You didn’t mean to make her cry so hard she can’nae speak? Or is it that you did’nae mean to impregnate her wi’ your superstar sperm.’ Natasha brushes past me, her charge wrapped and protected under her arm.
‘Ivy! Ivy!’ I plead as the pair stride past, but Ivy’s gaze remains glued to the ground. ‘But she left me!’
‘Have your people call mine,’ Ivy’s keeper responds without turning back. ‘We’ll mark a date on the calendar for you to get on ma’ tits with your whining some more.’
‘She’s my wife,’ I yell, desperate.
‘Find someone who gives a shite. Fuckity bye!’ she calls, her fingers releasing Ivy’s shoulder . . . in order to flip me off.
No, that’s not it. This isn’t ending like this.
I make to follow as a hand is planted solidly against my chest. A big hand from a big fucker; one of the suits from inside. Chestnut hair and a wry grin—about my height, but built like a brick shit house.
‘Baby daddy?’ he asks amiably in an accent heavier than my own. Discretion being the better part of valour, whatever the fuck that means, I nod in response, just once. Tersely . ‘Congratulations, but a word of advice, if you’re inclined.’ His hand drops away, and I nod again, noticing the very decent bottle of malt and the pair of tumblers he holds in his other hand.
‘Never get between those three,’ he advises, his gaze following the path of my wife to where Ivy is now bracketed between two blondes; the Amazonian with the gob, and now a woman with shorter hair. ‘Not if you want to keep your sanity.’
I frown, willing Ivy to turn just once. Turn around, goddamnit .
‘Leave well alone because there’s also a big brother who has a nasty right hook. I mean I’m no’ exactly small, but Mac? He’s built.’
‘What? Mac who?’ What the fuck is he talking about?
‘The brother. Ivy’s brother, more specifically. And he had less cause to punch me than he does you. Not that it stopped him, by the way.’ My companion looks up at the cloudless sky, absently rubbing one side of his face. ‘I thought for sure I’d be needing dental work.’
The brother, right. Ivy has a brother; I know that.
‘She’s my wife,’ I grate out again, like this excuses or explains my behaviour and her tear-streaked face. Christ knows why I keep saying it—she wants a divorce, but it’s the only thing I can find to say.
‘Aye, well, see the wee lassie on the right? She’s the love of my life and, as of today, my fiancée. But between Ivy and Nat, they hid her away; I didn’t see hide nor hair of her for months—fucking months! If those women think you’re here to harm, you’ve got no chance, pal.’
I stare at the backs of the three women, including the one called Nat. She doesn’t look like a gnat. She’s more like a brightly coloured butterfly. Or a horsefly. Yeah, more appropriate; a big fucker with a nasty bite.
‘They can’t keep me from her.’
‘Aye, you’d think,’ he says pleasantly enough, ‘but you’d be wrong.’ He shrugs, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, which makes me want to do the same. This fucking beard; I’m so sick of it . ‘But between them, and Ivy’s brother, and me and mine.’ His expression hardens, serious now. ‘You make Ivy cry like that again, and you’ve a chance not to get off this island, y’ken.’
‘Which part of wife did you not get?’
‘Oh, I get it all right.’ Jekyll and Hyde, he’s instantly back to agreeable again. ‘I’ll also not be gettin’ it if Ivy’s upset.’ As clear as his words are, I don’t understand. I guess that’s evident from my expression as he carries on. ‘I just proposed.’
‘Congratulations. To you both.’
‘Thanks,’ he responds with a grin he understandably can’t hide. ‘But I had other plans for today, beginning with this.’ He lifts the bottle, glasses gripped tight between two fingers and the malt itself. ‘And ending in a pretty fucking special room up there.’ Tipping his head in the direction of the hotel, I finally understand.
‘Gotcha.’ My expression twists. His problems are no concern of mine, yet he’s here with me. Is he here as a distraction, or are these words of advice meant to help?
‘Aye, exactly.’ He sighs, his face still harbouring the remains of his smile. ‘But there’s time yet.’
Maybe to conceal? ‘Time for them to take Ivy off the island—time to hide her, you mean?’
He laughs off my dark words. ‘No one’s going anywhere. No’ for hours. The tide’s gone out. Rory,’ he then announces, holding out his hand.
‘Dylan.’ We shake, though my eyes are scanning the windows of the building in front. Where will she be? How will I find her next?
‘Away inside for now, at least until she’s calmed down. We can have a wee a dram to christen my news—and yours? The debrief will take a while, I imagine,’ he says, now following the path of my gaze. ‘I should like to be doing just the same.’ The last he almost he mutters to himself.
I snort involuntarily. Rory laughs, and despite how shite I feel, I find myself chuckling, too.
‘So long as my briefs stay on my ass, I’m up for a drink.’
‘You’re safe with me.’ His reply is accompanied by a rumbling laugh. ‘Can’t say the same for my brother, though.’
Chapter 34
Ivy
‘You’re supposed to give whisky for shock, aren’t you?’
My eyelids feel like they’ve been glued together with porridge as I attempt to peel them open, Nat’s hushed tones disturbing my slumber from the other side of the bedroom door. Although I’m not sure slumber quite covers a cried-my-body-weight-in-water coma, I realise, as my heart hits the floor once more.
He hates you.
Nothing to be done about it, I try to tell myself. The cards have been dealt or, rather, chucked at your head. You just have to get on with it now.
Christ, my mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage. One a pterodactyl lives in.
Rolling onto my back, I shield my eyes from the slice of late afternoon sun blinding me through a gap in the drawn drapes. I’m lying on top of the plush cover in nothing more than a tank top and my underwear, though someone has covered me with a light blanket at some point.
‘It’s tea with lots of sugar,’ Fin scolds quietly through the bedroom door. I’m relieved they’re still here with me, even if it’s on the other side of the door. Not that they’re standing in the hallway as Rory had insisted on booking each of us into a suite. Mine has a small sitting room plus a bedroom with en suite. ‘Because, contrary to local custom, a glass of whisky does not cure all ills,’ Fin continues.
‘It makes you feel better, at any rate.’
‘She can’t have whisky—not in her condition!’ Fin whisper-hisses back.
‘I was talkin’ about for me, not her!’ Ah, regular service has been resumed, at least with regards to volume.
I stretch out along the bed, my shoulders stiff. Yuck . Froggy porridge-glued eyes, sore shoulders, and drool.
‘Why are you in a state of shock? Ivy’s the one who’s been through the mill.’
‘Through the mill is right. And hammered a bit, too. God, my head feels like it’s been hammered, at least.’ Great; so now, I’m talking to myself.
Pulling myself upright, no mean feat when you’ve a beach ball shoved under your clothes, I catch the tail end of Nat’s reasoning.
‘Like how I’ve only just realised that not only has my boss—’
‘Friend, Natasha,’ Fin asserts. ‘I think in this instance the correct title is friend. She’s going to need them.’
I swallow a small sob as my feet touch the floor in my attempt to reach th
e bathroom to guzzle mouthwash.
‘I know that—I know! I’m just in a state of shock, that’s why—whisky!’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘For one, I’ve just found out my boss and friend humped a real live movie star—and then . . . then married him!’
Tears prick at my lids as I pause at the bathroom door because yes, yes I did. And now, he’s turned up fuzzy of face and shaggy of hair and he still looks like the sexiest thing ever, and I want him still.
Shuffling into the bathroom, I leave the door open to their squabbling. God, my hair. It looks like a load of crows has nested in it.
‘Yes, a real live movie star as opposed to a real dead one?’ Fin asks, deadpan.
‘Two,’ Nat says, absolutely ignoring Fin’s snarky response. ‘He’s just turned up with a beard I could f—fondle all day, and I took a maddy on him.’
‘Please don’t say that’s as bad as it sounds, and you can’t fondle the beard of a friend’s husband, no matter how secret he is.’
‘I know that!’ she says, incredulous. ‘But I just lost my rag with a film star. Come on—I went mental! I was really rude to him. Then I flipped him the bird—my favourite movie man and with a beard, and I flipped him the bird!’
Fin sets off laughing as Natasha begins to complain about the workings of the universe.
Rinse. Spit. Wipe away Listerine and more tears. I probably won’t need to pee for the next fortnight.
‘It gets worse,’ Nat cries, sounding a little distraught. ‘Because I might have also watched him getting it on with another girl. More than once!’ Fin’s laughter halts. ‘In my defence, it was really hot. Like—off the charts. I can’t even explain.’
‘When? Here, at the hotel? You saw him? I don’t think I quite understand.’
As Nat’s voice lowers to just above a whisper, I tiptoe over to the door. ‘There were no faces or anything, but I could tell it was him.’
‘Start from the beginning,’ my sensible friend says, her words heavy with concern.
‘It was a video; I haven’t been spying on him or anything.’
‘Thank the Lord.’
‘Pfft! Like any girl wouldn’t, given half the chance. Anyway, it didn’t show faces, just the good stuff.’
