Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  I don’t deign to answer; my back still to her as I begin to wash my hands. It wasn’t—fried in animal fat, that is—because I’d asked. The strange thing is I think I’d have still rammed the thing down my throat if it had been in animal fat and inside a beef pie. That was a donut I’d craved so badly this morning, along with the cappuccino with extra sugar. My mother would call it eating my feelings.

  ‘It’s like I don’t even know you.’ Nat’s eyes do an obvious up then down sweep of my body. ‘And if I saw you on the street, I don’t think I’d recognise you these days. Where’s your fucking spark?’

  I laugh. Hard.

  No, I mean, my laugh is hard.

  ‘I’m serious. Since you came back, you’ve not been the same. Quiet and grumpy—you don’t even do your hair!’ My hand goes to my messy bun self-consciously because she’s right. ‘You’re a shite advert for this place. Put some bloody lippy on—reintroduce your hair to the GHDs.’ She pauses, her lips pursing as she looks at me with a sudden intensity. ‘Is this about Fin?’

  I breathe quite suddenly, relieved at the direction of her assumptions. Nat may be brash and loud, but sometimes, she’s emotionally astute. Yeah, sometimes.

  ‘Fin is fine,’ I mumble, grabbing a dishcloth to dry my wet hands. ‘Or at least she will be, so long as she doesn’t find out about that . . . that bum hole turning up all the time.’

  In this instance, the bum hole in question is Rory Tremaine; the man who’d given my bestie the run around while I was in LA. The pair had been hooking up—casual, she’d said, and still maintains it was—until it became something entirely else. Something heartbreaking, it turns out. Which is exactly why I’d warned her against becoming involved in her emotional state. Finding out your dead husband had been cheating . . . and then all the other stuff. As it was, Fin discovered recently that Rory’s about to become a father; whether by an old girlfriend or a current one is less clear.

  I clasp the dishcloth tightly between my fingers. Poor Fin. While plenty shocking, these aren’t even the most deplorable of her recent discoveries. No, that accolade would belong to Fin finding out that her less than darling husband had plans beyond a suicide. Plans that were so wretched, I can’t even speak of them without wanting to rage.

  Dead? Right now I could kill him myself.

  ‘He seems serious about being in Auchkeld every weekend until he finds her.’

  ‘What?’ Nat’s words bring me back to the moment.

  ‘That bloke, Rory, and what he threatened last weekend. He’s gonna keep turning up, isn’t he?’

  ‘He can please himself—come until he’s as sick of this awful driecht weather as we are because I’m not telling him a thing.’ Since my return, the weather has been like a Morrissey tune. Bloody miserable. ‘He doesn’t deserve to know where Fin is after what he put her through, whether he realised he made some woman pregnant or not.’ I shake my head angrily. ‘She’s been through enough.’

  ‘It might not be all his fault, Ivy. Maybe he didn’t know.’

  I raise my head from my second attempt at mixing tint. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not taking his side, are you?’

  ‘I’ve been glared at by much scarier people than you,’ Nat answers, her words bland. ‘I’m not on his side. I’m on hers, but she also didn’t tell him about being a widow.’

  ‘Yeah, well, turned out she wasn’t, was she?’ It’s as confusing as all buggery.

  ‘That’s not the point. They were both keeping secrets, and that’s not healthy for any relationship. Ivy, that man has it hard for her. Can you no’ tell? I mean why else would he be bothering us when he could be out doin’ someone else?’

  ‘I don’t give a stuff who he does, so long as he’s nowhere near Fin. And I’ll damn sure keep her away from Scotland until he takes the hint.’ I’ve even booked train tickets to travel to London next weekend to visit. It’s where she’s working now.

  ‘It’s not your place to make decisions for her. At some point, she’s gonna work out you’re trying to keep her out of Auchkeld.’

  ‘Yeah, well, by that time, she’ll be over him. She’s in no hurry to return to a place she has no ties.’

  ‘You’re her ties, Ivy. We’re her ties.’

  ‘Good job I’m booked on the train to see her soon then, isn’t it? I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘So that’s it? That’s your big plan? What about stopping him from being here and calling week after week? With the big house near to opening, he’ll be around plenty.’

  ‘I might have to ask Mac to have a word with him.’ My responding tone is grim.

  ‘You mean you’ll ask him to do the big brother thing.’ When I don’t answer, she adds, ‘You’re gonna get Mac to threaten him?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  We stare at each other, neither one willing to budge an inch, when the door to the kitchen opens. We both turn our heads.

  ‘Ivy, your client out here will be needin’ Nat’s waxing skills if she’s to wait any longer.’ My brow furrows at Ted’s expression, which immediately turns to a withering glance at the ceiling. ‘She’s been waiting so long she’ll have grown a beard as full as mine.’

  ‘Will she need colour to hide the grey, too?’ Nat responds, saccharine sweet.

  ‘You know what, Natasha?’ Ted asks, stepping into the tiny kitchen now. ‘You’re a troll.’

  Nat scoffs, folding her arms as she rests her hip against the countertop. ‘At least I don’t look like one.’

  Ted begins to huff. And flounce a little. ‘You’re a cheeky besom! You take that back.’

  ‘Okay, okay—enough of that now. You can’t keep going around rubbing each other up the wrong way.’

  ‘I would’nae rub anything up against that girl. You don’t know what you might catch!’ Before the final words are out of his mouth, he stumbles back in response to Nat lurching forward.

  ‘Ha! You wouldn’t have any idea what to do with me, you big girl’s blouse.’

  ‘M-maybe not,’ Ted stammers back, now standing his ground. Well, once he’s realised Nat’s movement was all bluff.

  ‘Come on—knock it off now before you’re both out of a job. I mean it.’ I point the soggy tinting brush at each of them in turn. ‘It’s like having a couple of kids. I’ve had it up to here,’ I say, bringing my hand to my forehead. ‘Now, apologise, both of you.’

  The pair mumble insincere apologies, making me wonder what was the point. I have no idea what the issue is, other than I assume Nat thinks he’s a waste of facial follicle and Ted’s probably jealous of Nat’s height. I may have employed the man, but I wasn’t here for his first week, meaning I’m not privy to what went on, but by the time I got back, it was already obvious they were never going to be friends. At this point, I’d settle for them ignoring each other because if they can’t get along, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m beginning to think they enjoy being mean to each other.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Ted,’ Nat says. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were a troll.’ I narrow my eyes at her as she pushes past the man in her effort to flounce out the door; I know she’s not done. ‘Because I totally meant to say garden gnome.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ivy

  Last time I visited Fin in London was just after I’d flown back from LA. She had a new job down there but wasn’t expected to start for a few weeks. However, inadvertently finding out the man you love has another woman pregnant can make a girl change her plans pretty rapidly. Accordingly, I’d changed mine, too. Nat and June assured me they had everything under control at the salon, so I’d booked a connecting flight to London timed within two hours of my long-haul flight touching down. We’re close, Fin and I. We spent our teenage years dashing in and out of each other’s bedrooms, crushing on the same boys. Got drunk together our first time, and even shared a flat at one time. But then, as they say, we put away childish things. We went our separate ways and, in the process, started hiding things. We’re still as
close, but our friendship has changed in its dynamic. Maybe due to a kind of preservation or, in my case, maybe more a selfishness. But whatever the reason, we’ve hidden things—my marriage and, up until recently, Fin’s sadness in hers. Maybe neither of us was prepared to listen to the other—the voice of reason in the face of the troubles we’d made for ourselves.

  But my past is milk already spilt—milk that has soured on the carpet. I wished I could say I was still crying over it, but I haven’t shed a tear since I woke up in the bed with Dylan gone. That’s not quite true; I did cry once, and the embarrassment from a stem of tears and snot I couldn’t slow was enough to make me promise it’d be the last time. No more tears from this girl. Business as usual, I’ll keep my feelings locked up.

  It’s too late for me to confide in her. What good would it do? I unburden myself and make her worry, but for what? My reality would remain unchanged. I couldn’t do that to her; she has enough to deal with herself. And, Jesus Christ, I’m so angry about all that on her behalf—hasn’t she gone through enough already at the hands of another man, her feckless husband—without being screwed over by Rory, the man she loves?

  The truth, if I cared to examine it at any length, would be I’m glad I’m heading to London. That I’m happy to be there to support her because while I’d do anything rather than see her unhappy, focussing on Fin’s heartbreak might prevent me from examining my own.

  I was doing my best to ignore anything relating to Dylan. To what I’d done. And I probably still am. Even now as I sit on the train, on my way once again to visit Fin, several weeks later. Last time, she was understandably devastated but has since spent hours reassuring me she’s fine—that she’s moving on. But I know she still hurts. I can hear it in her voice when she calls. And I know because I hurt, too. Love and pain, pain and love. These things don’t disappear overnight. So while she’s all positive affirmations over the phone, I know better. I know loss twists in her chest like a knife. Not regret over Marcus, her bastard of a husband—a man who deserves none of her regret—but for Rory. For taking a chance. For falling in love. I know with certainty that every time she thinks of him, her heart constricts, the barbed vines wrapped around it tightening.

  Again, I know because it happens to me.

  Scenery blows past the window as I reflect on how much time I have to think these days, especially now that she’s no longer living with me. During the day, I’m busy with the business, same old, but evenings, I seem to spend a lot of time wondering. I know I was unfair in my apportioning of blame. Don’t get me wrong—Dylan did plenty wrong, but if it hadn’t been for my cowardice that night I let him believe something that wasn’t true, I might never have found myself on the way to a divorce. These days, I no longer think of him with malice. Instead, I have . . . regret. And a sadness I try to hide from. Regrets. Like the song says, I have a tonne of them. I regret the choices I’ve made and the hurt I’ve caused. Most of all, I regret leaving Dylan.

  I-miss-him-I-miss-him.

  The train seems to echo the sentiment in its lulling sound. I push away my cold coffee and the rail company’s excuse for a cheese sandwich, which was so vile, while I consider the thoughts I usually hide from. I feel loss. And lost. I’d never allowed myself to feel sad after I left L.A. that first time. Back then, I’d channelled my energy into spite and hate. Into blame—how dare he assume I’d cheated on him. Why couldn’t he see the truth in my lie—the lie I told him. The lie I told for him? I’d turned my disappointment of his reaction into hate. Maybe I blamed his whole gender on behalf of him. But this second time? Yes, he was hurtful, and yes, his planned revenge was wrong, but somehow, being near him had opened up another part of me.

  Maybe it was a reminder. Of how we were. How we used to be.

  So yes, I miss him. And I’ve no one to share that with. It’s not just our partnership I grieve for or the way he loved me. It’s the little things. The presence of his hard body next to me in bed, the touch of his hands, and the way his arm would fall without thought to my hips whenever he stood near. It’s like I turned all my love into hate, and seeing him again, well, it thawed, melting away my rage and my blame.

  It made me remember the man.

  And I no longer worry that the choices I’ve made make me a bad person. My actions won’t define me. I’m not a bad person—I love my family and friends. I try to live my life without doing harm; Try being the operative word. But I’m not a bad person. I’m just a regular one, striving to be good, and sometimes getting it wrong.

  I’m not a bad person. Maybe just a stupid one.

  It’s not regret or remorse that keeps me awake some nights. Well, not always. It’s what comes next. Am I destined to live my life in Auchkeld? Is this it for me now? Will I remain alone? If what June says is right, we’re deserving of more than one great love in our life. While I don’t think she’s necessarily wrong, I find it hard to believe I’ll ever love anyone the way I loved Dylan.

  The way I love him still.

  Fin is waiting for me on the platform as I arrive, all hugs and beaming smile.

  ‘There’s my girl!’ she yells, pulling me from the train.

  ‘I thought the south was supposed to have milder weather. It’s bloody freezing out here,’ I complain as she loosens her hold on me.

  ‘London hasn’t quite agreed with the April calendar.’ She looks thinner and a little pinched around the edges. Brittle, maybe? Her smile fragile. ‘We can catch a cab?’

  ‘What?’ I pull the handle up on my weekend bag as I link my other arm through hers. ‘And forgo the big city experience? Take me to the tube!’ I demand. ‘I need to roll this baby over plenty of toes!’

  Twenty-five minutes and two damp, packed tubes later, we’re out in the cold London air again.

  ‘We could’ve done with some lube on that tube.’

  ‘Try riding them at peak times,’ Fin replies.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick to my little Fiat. I’m no longer a big city girl.’ Fin’s response is little more than a puff of white air. ‘What? It’s Auchkeld all the way for me now,’ I add, ruefully.

  ‘You’ll move on.’

  ‘Like you, you mean.’ Her eyes fall to the grey pavement at her feet, and I’m immediately sorry for opening my big, fat mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.’ Harsh. Definitely harsh. With a side serve of bitter, too. ‘I’m pleased you’re moving on even if I do miss you every day.’

  Her eyes are a little shiny once she lifts her head again. ‘It’s move or get trampled on. It’s a little like June says, I suppose. You survive. You get out of bed every morning and slide your knickers on because giving up isn’t an option.’

  ‘And we won’t give the twastards the satisfaction of anything else.’

  ‘True story,’ she says, squeezing my arm.

  ‘Oh, look. An offie.’ I point at the liquor store across the busy road. ‘I say we go get ourselves a bottle or three for before and after dinner.’

  Fin now lives on a tree-lined street just a few minutes’ walk from Waterloo Tube Station. She’d stayed at her friend Soraya’s place for the first couple of weeks but said the maid service was getting a little old. Soraya’s loaded, and her townhouse is more like Kensington Palace than an actual house, but that was where she was living last time I visited. This place—the flat she’s renting now—is almost perfect for her. I’d already had the grand tour last time. The only thing wrong, as far as I can tell, is the fact she has to share the space. Last time I visited, her roomie was away for the weekend, so I’m not sure what she’s—

  ‘Donkey kont!’

  I’m not sure what she’s like.

  As the front door clicks closed, another closes somewhere deeper inside the flat, reaching its frame at speed with a bang! Muffled now, the angry female voice still carries through the walls.

  ‘The roomie?’

  Fin laughs, chucking her keys on a console table. ‘That’s Bea. She’s fine. Except when she’s arguing with
her long-distance boyfriend. Not that I see her often. She spends most of the week at the hospital.’ Bea is a doctor, I recall Fin saying. ‘She must work eighty hours a week, and the rest of them are spent dead to the world in her bed or arguing with said long-distance boyfriend.’

  ‘And was that what I think it was? What she said?’

  ‘Swearing?’ Fin nods. ‘In Afrikaans. They argue so often I think I’m picking the language up.’

  ‘That didn’t need the help of a translator. Donkey kont. Sounds . . . charming.’

  ‘You know, you’re swearing now,’ she taunts. ‘Cursing in other languages still counts. But Nat tells me you’ve a potty mouth these days. Maybe I should instigate a swear jar, too? It might fund my next holiday.’

  Bloody Nat. ‘I’m not that bad,’ I grumble. ‘She caught me swearing once.’ Or maybe twice, but Fin doesn’t answer as the door to the living area swings open.

  ‘Ladies,’ announces the dramatic, willowy blonde I assume is Bea. ‘I’ve just been dumped!’

  We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a week working and the train journey down, I’m more than happy to stay in and veg out. Bea has something bluesy playing quietly on a Bose stereo in the corner, and little boxes of Tanzanian food stand half empty on the low table in the middle of the room. I’m nursing a coffee with a slug of amaretto, trying hard to stay awake, while Fin and Bea are halfway through their second bottle of Pinot noir.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be back,’ says the leggy blonde in response to Fin. ‘This is how we are, yar?’ As the evening has progressed, Bea’s South African accent has deepened.

  ‘You sure fight plenty.’ Fin smiles as she brings the glass to her mouth. ‘What’s the deal with that?’

  ‘The story, it’s old,’ Bea responds enigmatically.

  ‘Yeah, but the night is young. Okay, maybe not too young.’ She squints at the watch on her wrist. ‘Lord, am I getting old? Ten o’clock used to be the beginning of a good night, not the end,’ she groans.