What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

  When I get home, I go through my ritual with the door locks. I check the deadbolt at the top. The Yale lock is next. Then the chain. Finally, the bottom deadbolt. When I’ve finished, I check them all again from start to finish ten times. It’s my only escape route, and it has to be done correctly.

  Taking off my coat, I lean against the door and exhale a deep breath. He’s a counsellor? And he teaches self-defence.

  I don’t believe in fate and happy endings. Not after what happened to Mum. Not after what happened to me. I want to believe, but it just doesn’t happen, except in novels and romantic films. But…I need a counsellor, and I probably need to learn self-defence. And if he does those things, he can’t be a threat, can he? He must be a good guy. And deep down, despite everything, I still know they’re not all bad. Is that why I didn’t feel threatened by him? I can’t shake the feeling that what if there is a reason for this? Like someone, somewhere, knows something I don’t.

  But then I question my judgement, which must be seriously flawed. I obviously can’t trust my own instincts about people, so what am I even thinking? And I’ve never been friends with fate or destiny, or whatever you want to call it. It’s all bullshit.

  Kicking off my shoes, I realize I’m actually hungry for the first time in ages. I peer into the fridge, but it has little to offer. A mouldy carrot, a couple of eggs I can’t even remember buying, and a half-eaten packet of cheese, probably way past its sell-by date. In the freezer, I spy half a loaf of bread, so I pop a couple of slices in the toaster and uncork a bottle of rosé.

  My drug of choice: wine. I like to think it helps me sleep, but I know it doesn’t. Nothing does. Still, it’s better than taking sleeping pills, so I sip a glass of it and wait for the toast to brown.

  As I chew slowly on the toast, the wine makes me drowsy. I’m so bloody tired, but my body is still on high alert. Hyperaware of every noise inside the flat. The central heating ticks and bangs under the floorboards. The kitchen tap drips into the sink. This building is old, and the pipes are full of lime scale. I should get a plumber out to fix a few things, but I don’t want to be alone in here with a man. Even the thought of it makes my skin crawl.

  A woman screams outside on the street, and my breath catches in my throat. I hold it. Then she laughs loudly, followed by a man’s laughter. Just a couple walking, having fun with each other, probably coming back from the pub up the road.

  I reach for my wine glass. It’s empty. Instead of pouring more, like I normally do, I head for bed.

  Slipping under the clean, cool sheets, I reach for the knife under my pillow, reassuring myself it’s still there. I close my eyes, knowing his face will appear, but it isn’t his face I see for once as I drift off.

  It’s Ben’s.

  At three-thirty a.m., I’m throwing up into the toilet, the acid from my stomach burning my throat. A voice screams in my head.

  This is not normal! Get some help!

  I can’t go on like this. I know that. And I have the same conversation with myself every day. My life is just one continuous loop. Like Groundhog Day gone seriously warped. It’s just that knowing it and doing something about it are two incredibly different things.

  By half-past-four, I have my mask of makeup on, and I’m inside the shop, baking. While I’m measuring and mixing ingredients, cleaning the shop and checking the equipment, I forget. For a few hours, I actually forget. And it’s heaven. Doing this anesthetises me. I don’t even notice it’s daylight until Lisa knocks on the door with a beaming smile.

  ‘Morning!’ She hugs me tight, and the warmth of her bump presses between us.

  ‘You’ll never guess what happened last night,’ I say, surprised I’m smiling what feels like a proper smile. One that stretches right up to my eyes.

  ‘Brad Pitt came in wanting a cappuccino on the way home?’ She smirks.

  I snort. ‘No.’

  She slaps a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, yeah, silly me. It was a latte, wasn’t it?’

  I laugh and wonder what I’m going to do without her here. She’s the only bit of saneness in my world. I tell her about the hospital. ‘I was so scared, I thought it was Jack.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t God. His name’s Ben.’

  She tilts her head, giving me a knowing look. ‘Was he hot?’

  My face flushes. The timer sounds in the kitchen. Saved by the bell. I turn around and walk into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t notice,’ I call over my shoulder.

  ‘So, is he OK?’ She follows me in and puts on her apron. ‘I mean, he’s not seriously injured, is he?’

  ‘Well, he was talking when I left. Had a massive lump on his head, though.’

  She studies me for a while as I pull some brownies out of the oven, but I pretend I don’t notice.

  ‘Hmm. So, are you going to go to the hospital and see him again?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Why?’ Her hand rests on her hip.

  ‘Because I don’t even know him!’ I turn my back to her.

  ‘But you said he was hot.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You did.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t need to say it. I can see it in your eyes.’ She waggles two fingers in front of her eyes then falls silent for a few minutes, waiting for me to say something. I know she can’t hold back and stay silent for long. ‘I’ve worked here almost a year, and you never go out on a date or with any friends. All you do is work like a maniac. This is the first time I’ve seen you excited in all that time, so I know there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I load up a tray with cookies and macaroons and walk into the shop, arranging them under the glass counter. ‘I’m not excited. I was just telling you what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ She waves her hand through the air and shoots me a look of disbelief.

  I walk back into the kitchen and notice a puddle of water on the floor in front of the sink. Opening the cupboards underneath, I discover the pipe dripping.

  ‘Urgh! Stupid bloody building!’ I cry.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lisa’s in the doorway behind me.

  ‘Don’t come in here ’til I clear this up. I don’t want you slipping over.’ I make flapping motions with my hand to keep her back as someone knocks at the front door.

  Lisa walks off. ‘I’ll open up while you sort that out.’

  I find a bucket in one of the cupboards and place it under the leaky pipe, then clear up the water on the floor with a towel. Looks like I need a plumber sooner rather than later.

  By the end of the day, I’m frazzled, and I’ve completely forgotten about the leak. Lisa and I clean up, and I pack away the leftover food in a box to take to the homeless shelter.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then, hon.’ Lisa hangs up her apron and gives me a wave as she heads out the door.

  ‘See you.’ I lock it behind her and go back to the box. Before I know what I’m doing, or why, I take out a chocolate chip cookie, a brownie, and a cinnamon bun and put it in a separate box.

  It’s rush hour, so it takes me thirty minutes in nose-to-tail traffic to reach the shelter. I park the Ford in the brightly lit car park. It’s too early for the homeless to arrive for their evening meal, but Christine and her friends will be here, cooking up soups and stews. Carrying the box of cakes, I go to the side entrance and knock.

  The lock clicks undone, and Christine stands in the doorway. She’s in her early fifties with long grey hair tied in a messy bun.

  ‘Hi, Grace. How are you?’ She gives me a wide grin and steps back to let me inside. I follow her into the industrial kitchen and smell something like beef stew wafting its way towards me. My stomach growls.

  ‘I’m OK, thanks. I’ve brought some leftovers.’

  She opens the box and peers in. ‘“Leftovers” don’t do them justice. Yours are the best cakes and cookies I’ve ever tasted. These won’t last long. Thanks, sweetie. Do you want a cup of tea?’

  I usually stay for one; an
ything to delay going back to a soulless flat, but tonight I want to drop the second box off. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got another errand to run.’

  She rubs my arm. ‘OK, well, thanks again. You’re an angel.’

  An angel? If she really knew me, she wouldn’t think that.

  I suddenly remember the dodgy brake light. The last thing I need is to have an accident like Ben. If I can’t work, I can’t pay Aunt Imogen, or my bills.

  ‘Could you do me a favour, Christine?’

  ‘Of course, what do you need?’

  ‘I just need to check if my brake lights are working.’

  She puts the box on the worktop. ‘Come on, then, let’s have a look.’

  I get in the car, leaving the door open. I turn the ignition on and press my foot to the brake pedal as she stands behind.

  ‘Yes, they’re both working OK.’ She rounds the car and stands at my open door.

  ‘Great, thanks a lot.’

  ‘No problem. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow if you have anything left.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I smile and drive away.

  Maybe it’s an intermittent problem like Ben mentioned. I should really get a mechanic to check it.

  Damn! The plumber! I slap a hand to my forehead as I remember the leak. Everything seems to be going wrong at once. What was it they said? Bad things happen in threes? I wondered what the next thing would be.

  As I pull out of the shelter and head towards the hospital, I seriously question my mental state. Why am I going to see him? I don’t have a rational answer, but then I don’t think rationally anymore. Irrational is my new norm.

  I find a spot in the car park and turn off the engine, watching people coming and going for ten minutes. Some of them wear frowns of worry, and I try to work out from their faces what’s wrong with their loved ones inside. Appendicitis? A tumour? A broken leg? A couple appear, holding hands, their faces radiant like they’ve just been given some terrific news.

  Before I know it, half an hour’s gone by. I can’t procrastinate anymore. All I can think about are his eyes and the way they studied me intensely, as if he saw something inside me that no one else does.

  Fumbling for the door handle, I look up at the fifth floor windows and wonder for the millionth time exactly why I’m here. But then I’m on autopilot, and I walk through the hospital and get in the lift that’s crowded with visitors.

  I press myself into the corner and clutch the box to my stomach. The floors light up on the dial as we climb higher. When I reach the ward, no nurses are at the desk, so I retrace my steps from last night along the corridor, my heartbeat fluttering nervously like a humming bird’s trapped inside. When I get to the bed, it’s empty. I look around the ward. The beds that had curtains around them last night now house an elderly man who’s asleep, and a man in his mid-fifties who’s reading a book. I walk towards him.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but there was a guy called Ben here last night.’ I point to the end bed. ‘Is he OK?’

  The man pushes his reading glasses up and the book drops to his lap. ‘Oh, he was discharged a couple of hours ago. Are you a friend of his?’

  My mouth won’t work because I don’t know what to say. I’m not a friend. I’m not anything. So why do I feel a flood of irrational disappointment rush through me?

  But then I get it. I know why I came here tonight. It’s because I think he has the answers I need to know.

  He’s a counsellor, and maybe he can help me before I go completely insane.

  Chapter Six

  Ben

  I can’t get her out of my head. I stare at the walls of the ward and think about what she tries to hide beneath the surface. I’m in over my head, though. I don’t know if she bought my lies, but instinct tells me she did. As a fighter, I’m good at reading my opponents. It’s a skill that works well in counselling, too. It means I can second-guess what might help people before they even know it themselves. I can read her in the same way, however much she tries to cover it up.

  The clock ticks annoyingly as I wait for the doctor to do his rounds. I’ve got a mild concussion, and other than a gigantic headache, I’m fine. Being here is doing my head in. Training or teaching will be out of the question for a couple of days, but I need to move. I feel claustrophobic in here, and it brings back memories of being cooped up inside.

  A doctor who looks barely older than me arrives. He picks up my chart hanging from the end of the bed and examines it.

  I fidget with the covers.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ He sits on the edge of the bed and shines a torch into my eyes.

  ‘I’m OK. I’ve just got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’

  ‘Follow my finger with your eyes.’ He moves his finger up and down, side to side. ‘Good. Any nausea? Dizziness?

  ‘No.’

  He stands and jots something on the chart. ‘Well, you just have a mild concussion. We wanted to keep you in last night for observation, but I’m happy to release you today.’ He hands me a sheet of paper with instructions on it. ‘If you have any of these symptoms, come back in as soon as possible.’

  I study the instructions and nod. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You take care now, Mr Hardy.’ He gives me a brief smile and hurries to the man in the next bed.

  The other people in the accident are apparently OK and escaped with no injuries, just some damage that my insurance company will sort out. My own car’s wrecked. It was only a cheap, old banger anyway, but now I have no wheels. I’ve been in Cambridge two years—ever since I got out. A new place, a new job, a new start. Somewhere away from the memories. But I don’t know the bus system, so I take a cab back to my flat. It’s dark and cold when I step through the door. I bend down to pick up the post from the doormat and dizziness overtakes me. I press my hand against the wall, steadying me as I wait for the black and white stars to disappear from my vision. When satisfied I’m not going to keel over, I cross the open plan lounge/kitchen and sink into the two-seater sofa, the post still in my hand. I flick through the letters. Two are replies from recent job applications.

  I hold them in my hand for a moment, wondering if they’re yet more rejections. Of course, I have to disclose my criminal history to them, and even though I’ve paid for my crime, I know how they’ll see it. I told Grace it was hard to get a full time job as a counsellor, but I didn’t tell her the reason why. Not many people want to take a chance on me. I was lucky to find the part time work I have so far, and that’s all thanks to my parole officer going out of his way to help me. The last two years I’ve been counselling under supervision, working towards my British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy accreditation. It’s proved I’m good at my job. I just need an employer to see that, as well, but maybe that’s asking for too much.

  I open the first letter and scan it.

  We regret to inform you that we’re not taking your application further.

  I stop reading and chuck the letter on the floor. I rub my pounding head then open the next one. It’s from The Clover Project, a drop-in women’s centre.

  Thank you for your application. We’d like to invite you for an interview on…

  I raise my eyebrows and smile. Maybe things are looking up.

  Maybe Grace is the piece of sparkling light in all my shit that I need to put my life back together.

  Chapter Seven

  Grace

  ‘Haven’t you found a plumber yet?’ Lisa asks after she finishes serving a customer.

  I’m scanning the yellow pages, going through adverts. How difficult can it be to find one? But so far, every person I’ve called is either engaged, doesn’t answer, or can’t come out for ages.

  I take the pen out of my mouth and sigh. ‘Nope.’

  The door opens, and I look up. I’m staring into dark chocolate brown eyes, and my skin tingles.

  Ben.

  The breath catches in my throat, and my lips curve upwards as if they have a life of their own. I’m sure it makes my face loo
k odd, because a real smile doesn’t happen often and it’s strange, awkward, as if someone’s arranged it for me.

  ‘Hi. How are you feeling?’ I ask.

  The bruising on his forehead is a rainbow of colours, and the black eyes are darker than before. He’s wearing well-worn jeans and a black T-shirt. His shoulders are broad, arms strong, the muscles flexing as he holds the door open. His thick dark hair is layered in a choppy style that looks like he’s just got out of bed. And then I remember he has. His chiselled jaw is covered with a few days of stubble, and I notice for the first time his nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before.

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ His eyes crease at the corners as he smiles back.

  It seems like the doorway isn’t big enough for him. He’s taller than I thought when I saw him lying down, and more solid.

  He walks towards the counter and stands in front of me, blocking out everything else around him. ‘I just wanted to say thanks for coming to see me in the hospital.’

  I don’t mention I went last night. I’m sure I already seem like a complete nutter without him thinking I’m desperate or attracted to him, or anything. I’m only interested in his professional abilities. ‘Oh…that’s OK. I thought you were someone else.’

  He cocks his head. ‘Someone else?’

  ‘She thought it was my husband who’d been in an accident,’ Lisa pipes up with a grin. I’ve almost forgotten she was there.

  ‘Right.’ He nods.

  We stand there, staring at each other. I’m trying to think of something to say, but no words spring to mind. I look away, unnerved by the calm way he’s studying me.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ Lisa asks, because I seem to have lost my voice all of a sudden.

  ‘Actually, do you have any Earl Grey tea?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hastily grab a mug and a teabag and turn to the machines to pour in hot water. As I place it on the counter, Ben reaches to take it, and his fingers graze over mine. I snatch my hand back as if his touch has burned me.