‘Sweetheart, those words you whispered to Gregory.’
I swallow hard. I knew she’d heard but hoped she hadn’t. There’s nothing aged about my grandmother’s acute hearing. Humming my acknowledgement, I sit back in my chair and lay my palm across my forehead, ready to ease the pounding head that’s about to ensue. It’s already working up to a light thudding, just at the thought of explaining those words. ‘What about them?’
‘You’re right.’
My hand drops and I gaze ahead at nothing in particular, confusion replacing the threatening headache. ‘I’m right?’
‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve told you before, we don’t choose who we fall in love with. Falling in love is special. Holding on to that love, despite circumstances that could destroy it, is even more special. I hope Miller realises how lucky he is to have you, my darling girl.’
My bottom lip begins to tremble, my throat closing off any words that I’d like to say in return – the most important words being thank you. Thank you for supporting me – for supporting us, when it feels like the whole of London is on a mission to sabotage what we have. Thank you for accepting Miller. Thank you for understanding, even if you don’t know the full truth. Gregory knows what this could do to her. ‘I love you, Nan.’ I swallow hard around my words and the puddles of tears in my eyes start to tumble down my cheeks.
‘I love you, too, darling.’ Her voice is even and strong, yet soaked in emotion. ‘Are you staying with Miller tonight?’
I nod and sniff, just spitting out a ‘yes’ in response.
‘Okay. Sleep tight.’
I smile through my tears and use the sound of her loving tone and her words to gather myself and speak. ‘I won’t let the bedbugs bite.’
She chuckles, joining me in my fond memories of one of Granddad’s favourite bedtime lines. ‘Get yourself off up those apples and pears,’ she says, reminding me of another.
‘Miller lives in an apartment. There are no stairs to the bedroom.’
‘Oh, okay.’ She falls silent for a while. ‘Are you cream crackered?’
‘Exhausted,’ I confirm on a laugh. ‘I’m going to bed now.’
‘Good. Nighty-night.’
‘Night, Nan.’ I smile as I cut the call and immediately consider calling back to ask how Gregory is, but stop myself. The ball’s in his court. He knows the deal; he knows I’m going nowhere, and he knows that nothing he can say will change that, especially not now. There’s nothing more I can say and there’s no guarantee he’ll listen. It kills me, but I’m not putting myself in the firing line again. If he wants to talk, then he’ll call. Satisfied with my decision, I make to leave the kitchen but pause at the doorway, my mind wandering to silly places.
Like the top drawer where I know Miller’s date book to be.
I try to disregard my bout of irritating curiosity, I really do, but my damn feet take on a mind of their own and I’m standing looking at the drawer before I can convince myself that it’s so very wrong to snoop. It’s not that I don’t trust him, I wholeheartedly do, but I just feel in the dark, unaware and ignorant, and while that’s undoubtedly a good thing, I can’t help the raging inquisitiveness from getting the better of me.
Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the cat. Damn curiosity killed the fucking cat.
I open the drawer, and it’s looking up at me, teasing me . . . tempting me. It’s like a magnet to my hand, drawing me in, pulling me closer, and before I know what’s happened, the leather book is lying in my palms, feeling like a forbidden spell book. Now I just need the pages to miraculously start flapping open, but after staring at it for way too long, it’s still closed. And it should probably stay that way – sealed for ever, never to be looked upon again. History closed.
But that would be in a world where curiosity doesn’t exist.
I shift the book in my palms and slowly pull the front cover open, but my eyes don’t home in on the first page. They drift down to the floor, following a square of paper that’s slipped from the inside cover, until it comes to rest by my naked feet. Closing the book on a frown, I scoot down and collect the wayward piece and immediately note the paper to be thick and glossy. Photograph paper. The chill that sneaks up my backbone confounds me. I can’t see the photo, it’s still face-down in my hand, but the presence of it unsettles me. I glance to the doorway, trying to think, and then return my curious eyes to the mystery picture. He has said there’s just him. No one else, no matter how many ways I ask the question. Just Miller – no family, nothing – and while I was shocked and curious, I never pressed too hard on the matter. There were too many other Miller revelations that came about to be dealt with.
Drawing a deep breath, I slowly turn it over, knowing that a piece of Miller’s history is about to be revealed. I’m chewing my lip nervously, my eyes closed to slits in preparation for what I might be confronted with, and when the full picture comes into view . . . I relax. My shoulders loosen and my head cocks to the side as I study the image, placing Miller’s organiser back in the drawer without looking.
Boys.
Lots of little boys – laughing, some with cowboy hats on and some with Indian feathers protruding from their happy heads. I count fourteen in total and guess an age range of five to fifteen. They’re in the overgrown garden of an old Victorian terraced house – a tatty-looking house, with what look like rags hanging at the windows. A quick assessment of the boys’ clothing tells me this picture was taken in the late eighties, maybe early nineties, and I smile fondly as my eyes travel across the photograph, feeling the elation of the boys’ happiness, mentally hearing them shout their delight as they chase each other with bows and arrows and pistols. But my smile is short-lived, dropping away the moment my gaze creeps onto a lone little boy standing to the side, looking on at the shenanigans of the other boys.
‘Miller,’ I whisper, my fingertip meeting the picture, stroking across the image like I could rub some life into his little body. It’s him; I have no doubt whatsoever. There are too many of the traits I’ve come to know and love – his wavy hair, looking wilder than ever, his wayward curl present and correct, his impassive, emotionless face and his piercing blue eyes. They look haunted . . . dead. Yet this child is inconceivably beautiful. I can’t pull my eyes off him, can’t even blink. He must be around seven or eight. His jeans are ripped, his T-shirt far too small, and his trainers are wrecked. He looks neglected, and that thought, plus this image of him looking despondent and lost, cripples me with unrelenting sadness. I don’t realise that I’m sobbing, not until a tear splashes onto the glossy surface of the photograph, blurring the painful sight of Miller as a boy. I want to leave it that way, blurry and masked. I want to pretend that I never saw it.
Impossible.
My heart is breaking for the lost boy. If I could, I’d reach into this picture and cuddle the child – hold him, comfort him. But I can’t. I look towards the kitchen doorway in a haze of sorrow and suddenly wonder why I’m still standing here when I can cuddle, hold and comfort the man who that child has become. I rush to wipe my tears away, from the picture and my face, then slip the photo back into Miller’s organiser and shut the drawer. Shut it away. For ever. Then I virtually sprint back to his bedroom, at the same time pulling my top off, and slip between the sheets behind him, snuggling as close as I can get and breathing him into me. My comfort is restored quickly.
‘Where have you been?’ He takes my hand from his stomach and pulls it to his mouth, kissing it sweetly.
‘Nan.’ I give one word, knowing my simple reply will halt further questions. But it doesn’t halt him from turning over to find my eyes.
‘Is she okay?’ He’s timid. It magnifies the pain in my chest and swells the lump in my throat. I don’t want him to see my sadness, so I hum my answer, hoping the restricted light is hindering his vision of me. ‘Then why are you sad?’
‘I’m okay.’ I try for
a reassuring tone but manage only an unconvincing whisper. I won’t ask him about the picture because I already know that anything he tells me will be agonising.
His face is dubious, but he doesn’t pressure me. He uses the last of his drunken energy to pull me into his chest and envelop me completely in his strong arms. I’m home. ‘I have a request,’ he murmurs into my hair, squeezing me further into him.
‘Anything.’
We’re briefly bathed in a peaceful silence while he sprinkles kisses in my hair before he softly whispers his wish. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
His plea requires no thought. ‘Never.’
Chapter Seventeen
Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.
Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.
I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.
‘Medium Americano, four shots, two sugars, and topped up halfway,’ I gasp to the young guy behind the counter, slapping my purse down. ‘Please.’
‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a little alarmed by my flustered form. ‘Drinking in?’
‘Take out.’
‘And four shots?’
‘Yes, topped up halfway,’ I reiterate. If I knew how it should taste by Miller’s standards, then I’d take a slurp to test it, but I can only imagine that it tastes like coffee beans have been grinded to a pulp and that it resembles something close to tar.
He gets straight to work at the coffee machine, and I find myself counting the shots as they are added to the cup. He isn’t going fast enough, but my manners prevent me from chivvying him along, so I shuffle impatiently instead, glancing over my shoulder on a frown when that strange sensation settles over me. I feel like I’m being watched again, but when I scan the coffee house, I find only businessmen and women with their faces in laptops, slurping and tapping, so I shrug off the strange feeling and return my attention to the dithering server. Now he’s taking his time wiping the steam pipe, whistling as he does.
‘Would you . . .’ I pause, halted by the return sense of being observed, but this time I have the cold chill across my shoulders and raised neck hair to accompany it. A shiver reverberates through me, gliding slowly down my spine.
‘What did ya say?’
I look blankly at the guy, who has turned from his task and is looking at me expectantly. What did I say? ‘Nothing,’ I breathe, reaching up to run my palm over my nape, unease settling over me like a blanket. I shake my head mildly and he shrugs, returning to the coffee machine.
I look around but only find other customers waiting impatiently, nothing out of the ordinary, yet my body’s screaming that something isn’t right.
‘Three-twenty, please.’
I drag my wary eyes to the counter, finding Miller’s coffee and a hand being held out. ‘Sorry.’ I shake myself back to life and fumble for my purse, taking for ever to locate a fiver before shoving it into his hand. Scooping up the take-out cup, I slowly turn, my eyes darting everywhere looking for something, but I haven’t the first idea what. I feel stifled by anxiety. Claustrophobic. My steps are careful as I make for the exit, my eyes measuring every person I pass. None of them return my gaze. No one seems interested in me. I’d brush off my discomfort as paranoia, if my internal alarm bells weren’t still ringing like crackers.
‘Miss, your change!’
The muffled yell of the server doesn’t make my steps falter. My legs have switched to automatic and seem hell-bent on carrying me away from the source of my distress, even if it’s not obvious what that source is. I break free of the confines of the coffee house, hoping my freedom will restore some rationality and calmness. It doesn’t. My legs take off down the street at a steady jog, and I glance over my shoulder repeatedly, every time finding absolutely nothing. I’m frustrated with myself but can’t seem to convince my legs to slow, and I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or frightened by this. The increasing coldness of my skin tells me frightened. My strides quicken, my breath instantly drained as I weave through the passers-by, stupidly careful not to spill or drop Miller’s coffee as I do. My relief is immense when Miller’s apartment block comes into view and a quick check over my shoulder reveals . . . something.
A man. A hooded man chasing me.
And that confirmation registers in the part of my brain that’s feeding the instructions to my legs. My pace rockets, and I return my focus forward, my mind oblivious to my surroundings. The vision of someone hooded bursting through the crowds behind me is all I can see. The pounding of my heart is all I can feel.
I rush into the lobby and head for the lift, autopilot not taking me to the stairs this time. Now autopilot is desperately trying to get me away from my cloaked shadow.
‘Lift’s broken,’ the doorman calls, pulling me to a sharp halt. ‘Engineer’s on his way.’ He shrugs before returning to his desk.
I growl my frustration and dart towards the stairwell, trying to gather some level-headedness. The door bashes against the wall behind me and I hit the concrete stairs, sprinting up them two at a time. The combination of my heavy breathing and pounding feet combine, ricocheting loudly off the walls around me.
Then a loud crash from below brings me to an abrupt halt on the sixth floor.
I freeze, my legs now refusing to work at all, and listen as the echo of that crash travels up the shaft of the stairwell, eventually fading to nothing above my head. I hold my breath, listening carefully. Silence. My lungs are screaming for some air, but I refuse them, concentrating on the stillness around me and the continued anxiety coursing through my cold veins. Long seconds pass before I brave a step forward, craning my neck to peer down the shaft, seeing nothing but steps, stair rails and cold, grey concrete.
I roll my eyes to myself, thinking I’m being ridiculous. It could have been a runner. There are hundreds on the streets of London. Get a grip! Allowing some air into my burning lungs, I bring my body further forward, almost laughing at my silliness. What the hell is wrong with me?
Feeling foolish, I begin to pull back from the rail, but when I see a hand grip one of the stair rails a few floors below, I turn to stone. Then I watch in silent terror as it glides silently upward, getting closer, but there’s no evidence of feet hitting the steps, like whatever’s heading towards me has no feet . . . or they don’t want me to know they’re there.
My head is screaming instructions to run, that I need to get away, yet none of my muscles are listening. I’m frustrated, mentally screaming back at my mind’s torrent of urgent instructions, but the deafening shrill of a mobile phone breaking through my mental argument brings me cras
hing back into the stairwell. It takes me a few confused seconds to register that it isn’t mine. Then I hear thundering footsteps coming closer. I can’t move. I’ve never been so terrified.
Nothing is working – my legs, my brain, my voice, nothing, but when I hear another crash of a door from below, energy seems to surge through me, snapping me into action and sending me sprinting up the remaining flights of stairs. The other set of footsteps increases its pace, which only catapults my fear and, subsequently, my speed.
Relief nearly knocks me to my arse when I reach the tenth floor, and I fall through the door into the corridor that’ll take me to safety, the sight of Miller’s shiny black door probably the most welcome vision ever – the most welcome until the door swings open and I’m powering towards a semi-naked, alarmed-looking Miller.
‘Miller!’
‘Livy?’ He starts towards me, his sleepy eyes widening by the second the closer we become, until it’s quite apparent that he’s wide awake and wondering what the hell is going on.
I drop the coffee and my purse as I reach him and launch myself into his arms, my panic now subsiding, making way for emotion. ‘Oh God,’ I gasp, letting him lift me from my feet and pin my full length to him, securing me to his bare chest with a firm hold at my neck and lower back. ‘Someone’s following me.’
‘What?’ He doesn’t ease up on his fierce hold.
‘They’re in the stairwell.’ My words are strained through my breathing, but I fight to spit it all out of my exhausted lungs. I wasn’t imagining it before. Someone’s been following me.
He’s suddenly prising my numb limbs from his naked body, fighting to free himself. ‘Livy.’
I shake my head into his neck, not willing to let him go. I know where he’ll head. ‘Please don’t,’ I beg.
‘Livy, please!’ he shouts, pulling impatiently at my body. ‘Let go!’ His anger doesn’t deter me, and I grapple at his body, my fear rocketing, but my tenacity is flattened by an irate yell and a fast shift in movement that detaches me from his body. I’m being held at arm’s length in a heartbeat. My eyes are full of terror, his full of anger. ‘Stay,’ he orders, releasing me slowly to ensure I do as I’m bid. Overpowering fear prevents me from doing anything else.
One Night: Denied Page 23
