by Donna Alam
Chapter Thirty-One
Dylan
I’m just going to do it—going to rip off that Band-Aid.
There’s no easy way to say this, Ivy . . . Yeah, sure, you’re surprised to see me here. No, I know you’re not pleased but put down the scissors—I can explain.
Note to self: make sure Ivy’s nowhere near sharp implements before beginning this discussion.
‘I’m so screwed,’ I say to the empty rental, slotting the key into the ignition of the pristine though basic car. I suppose this is what happens when you don’t call ahead or ask your assistant to book you some decent wheels. Yeah, I have an assistant now. I couldn’t afford to do that in this instance because questions would be asked. Questions I’ve no intentions of flagging, much less answering. I’ve just switched off my phone and slipped quietly away, but while a bad-boy image may sell movies, it’ll only get me so far in real life. Especially if I start pissing off the wrong people—specifically my new management—because then I’ll be fucked. Bye-bye movies. So long career. But I figure I’m good for a day—it’s not like I’m in the middle of filming. I’m due on location in a few days, so I should be okay for one fuckin’ day. I hope.
At least, they had a full size available, I think, as I less-than-smoothly pull away from the curb.
Christ, she’s gonna hate me. Or hate me even more, if that’s even possible. And it’s not like I haven’t given her plenty of cause. But this is something I need to do for both our sakes.
But I was such a prick to her.
I’ve just got to do it like the ad says. Man up and tell her before the whole world she’s built comes tumbling to the ground.
How about I start with . . . Ivy, baby.
Nah, that’s a pretty shite start. And one that might earn me a swift kick in the nuts.
I need to start honestly.
Cutz, I’m so sorry, but video footage of us fucking is about to be leaked to the internet . . .
I can’t say that because it’s not true. The footage won’t be leaked—it’ll be available on pay-per-view. But at least her family won’t stumble across it accidentally, I suppose.
Ivy, I’m sorry, and I don’t know where to start. The thing is someone stole something from me. Something precious to me. Something that involves you. Something of a very personal nature.
Fuck it—I’ll just say it. I have to.
‘I’ve been hacked, Ivy,’ I say aloud to the car. ‘No—robbed. Someone had access to our videos. Our fucking videos . . . yeah, our fucking videos. It’ll go live with a porn network if I can’t get it stopped, and I’m worried my legal team is gonna fail.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to do other than to say I had to come tell you in person. To assure you this wasn’t my idea or plan. Not this time.’
And this time, the clip will show your face alongside mine even if that’s not what they’re really paying to see. But if the rumours are true . . .
Is it really him?
Is his dick really that big?
I blow out a long and hard breath as I slide the steering wheel through my fingers, the navigation system directing me to make the next left.
This is going to break her. And I don’t want that. Not anymore.
I’ve only my stupidity to blame.
‘Trust the wrong fucking people,’ I mumble, unfolding myself from the car. I slam the door with a muffled thunk, point the fob to engage the lock, and pull down the bill of my ball cap. It’s not much of a disguise, but it served on the plane up from London. Flying from the States to Heathrow was easy to do incognito because first class offers privacy and cabin mates who either don’t give a fuck who you are or else feign not to. However, making my way through the airport in London was another thing. But they have security and spaces VIPs can slip through, and I never do the sunglasses thing in public areas because you’re just asking people to stare. Besides, wearing sunglasses indoors is a sure sign of a person being an asshole.
So I’ve gone AWOL, but it’s not like they won’t know where I’ve gone thanks to the internet. They’ll know I arrived in London at least, but the rest? I was pretty sneaky, even beyond the cap pulled low and the laying on thick of my grandmother’s accent. I’d boarded my second plane to Edinburgh without so much as a second glance, scoring again at the rental desk with my disguise; I guess the old guy working there isn’t a fan of my work and didn’t pay attention to the name on my credit card.
The sidewalk . . . pavement . . . is peppered with wet leaves forced to the ground in the latest Scottish summer downfall. As I cross the road to Ivy’s salon, I’m struck by how much she has achieved since leaving me.
Leaving us.
I push the door open, and a bell jingles above my head. Despite the apparent stylishness of the space, the bell is pure mom and pop store. And strangely enough, that’s who it looks like is watching the storefront. Did Ivy ever mention a grandma? Hadn’t she passed?
‘Hi—excuse me.’ A pink twinset and neat, white curls. Is that a purple stripe in the bangs? ‘Is Ivy available?’
‘Who will I say is calling?’ She returns with a polite smile.
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . he’s . . .’ From behind the counter and farther into the salon, a guy with a beard points a pair of scissors my way. There’s a kid in the chair in front of him; a boy of maybe eight or nine, and a teenage girl with a sweeping brush in her hand.
‘Spit it out, dear.’
The old lady tsks, her powdered brow furrowing in annoyance. It quickly clears as she turns back to me. ‘If I’d known the boy had a speech impediment, I would’ve advised Ivy no’ to employ him.’ I breathe out, relief, I think, when she mentions Ivy. I’m in the right place, at least. Her place. If I’d tried to imagine a space designed by Ivy, this would be it. It’s stylish, without being pretentious, and full of warmth. It’s . . . authentic. Authentic? What the fuck. I’ve been living in L.A. too long.
The old lady harrumphs in the direction of said boy, though judging by his sizeable beard, I’d say he’s anything but. But I’m not here to discuss him. And strangely, somewhere in this exchange, she must’ve held out her hand, and I must’ve taken it. Because why else would she be still holding it and patting it as she speaks?
‘Still, it’s good to help those less able, isn’t it, deary?’
I nod along with her sentiments; meanwhile, the guy holding the scissors, and if I’m not mistaken, a large chunk of the kid’s hair, is still trying to say what I’ve no time to hear. And the teenager? I’m gonna say the pot she’s been smokin’ is good because she’s just swept a pile of nothing through a door at the back of the room. Ignored by my demographic. My people would have a fit.
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . ’
Doubly annoyed, she turns her head again. ‘Ocht, get it out; I’ve got a business to run. Can you no’ see?’ She turns, smiling conspiratorially. ‘My goodness, it’s like managing care in the community.’
‘I-I-don’tbelieveit!’ he says his words falling in a rush. ‘I can see DylanDeliciousDuffy!’ His hands fall to the back of the chair, his shoulders in a sudden slump, as if it’s a relief to have the words finally out.
For once, I’m unconcerned. He might have outed me, but the kid in the chair hardly falls into my demographic and is more interested in his game. I’m pretty sure I can manage one man and one old lady. A few words. Maybe an autograph and a photograph or two? Unconcerned and in a hurry, I open my mouth to speak, beaten to it by the old dear.
‘Dylan Duffy?’ She says my name in that melodic way that Ivy has, and a beat later, her grip tightens on my hand. ‘Oh!’ She releases it just as quick, clapping both palms to her mouth, though not before she exclaims, ‘I’ve seen your boabie!’
‘I’m sorry?’ I bend a little closer, not truly sure what I’ve heard. I have the accent, sure, but it’s Scots-lite. I’ve been out of Scotland so long, I’m out of touch. ‘You’ve seen my what?’ I’m unfamiliar with the word, though I thought I�
�d heard plenty of slang and colloquial turns of phrase. Even the more risqué and sometimes hilarious stuff. All the kinds of things I’d persuade Ivy to repeat.
Boabie? Is that some kind of scone?
Granny doesn’t respond beyond a girlish titter. Unable to hold my gaze for more than a second or two now, she flicks her eyes to mine before darting her gaze quickly away.
‘You never have!’ the beard announces, flouncing across the room to hook his arm through hers. He sounds scandalised. Or maybe more salacious—it’s kinda hard to tell, and I don’t have the bandwidth right now. The nuances of a language are proving hard to read. His expression, though, that I read. Drool city.
‘Bo—’ I begin to ask again before shaking my head and the enquiry away. ‘Ivy,’ I repeat again. ‘Is she here?’
‘She is not, dear,’ the old lady answers. How come her cheeks are so pink?
‘Any idea where I can find her, darlin’?’
It’s not often I dig out my sexy drawl for anyone over the age of forty. Seems old chicks dig it, too, because it seems to have the desired effect. Desire being the operative word. There’s life in this old dear yet. Her eyes are all a flutter as she presses her hands to her chest.
‘Weel . . .’. She draws the word out until it resembles anything but well as she narrows her gaze. Maybe I’m not quite as irresistible as I’d thought.
‘Go on—she’ll no’ be annoyed,’ Beard-boy exclaims, turning ally. Excitable, drooling ally. ‘At least, I wouldn’t. You can come for me suddenly, any day of the week. And I mean that . . . literally.’ Is he winking at me or fluttering his lids?
Either way, I’m being hit on . . .
I’ll take it if it’ll help.
‘Sure. I’ll make a note of that.’ I shoot him the same smile I used on the granny, though to a greater effect. Fuck, don’t swoon, man.
‘Aye, you do. If you’re ever headin’ the gay way, gimme a shout.’
‘Get away with you!’ the old lady chastises, smacking his arm.
‘I was just sayin’,’ I think he responds. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell.’ His eyes flick over me again. At least, I understand the look. The words, not so much, as his mouth turns up in one corner and he shrugs. ‘Shame.’
‘I’ll thank you to mind your neb,’ the old biddy responds, tapping her nose.
‘Ivy,’ I repeat, hoping to redirect their attention from what looks like the beginnings of a squabble. ‘I’ve come an awful long way to see her. All the way from LA.’
‘Go on,’ Beard-boy cajoles, but her expression just pinches further.
Fuck. It’s not a good sign as she straightens, pulling her arm from him and the edges of her cardigan closer across her thin chest.
‘If you’re here to upset her—’
‘Why would you think that?’ Smile, Dylan. Don’t be the asshole she can sense you are.
‘She was in an awful state after her last trip back to that place, not to mention—’ Whatever she was about to say is forced back by pursed lips. ‘Aye, well, least said soonest mended is all I’ll say about that. I’ll no’ have anyone upset her again. Not in her con—’
‘Current state of mind!’ the beard cuts in.
‘Yes, her current state of . . . of mind,’ she repeats, her gaze seeming to weigh me.
I frown, trying to make sense of what the hell’s going on here before pushing it away. We’re going around in circles. I’ll be here for a fortnight at this rate.
‘She’ll want to see me, I swear.’ Maybe not initially. Maybe not at all—not when she hears what I have to say. But it’s better than her seeing me—lots of me and lots of her—on Dynamic Entertainment’s site or Porn Hamster. Fuck, please don’t let it come to that. I don’t want to be the cause of her hurt again.
‘If I learn otherwise . . . ’ Along with one pointed finger, the implied threat lingers in the air. She reminds me of my own granny quite suddenly. I feel guilt I haven’t thought of her in a while. They don’t look remotely alike—Nonna was round, not like the frail wee thing standing before me—but she was fierce when she had need. Grandmothers come in all shapes and sizes; some might be made from rosewater and cannoli and from twinsets and pearl, but they all seem to have a steel rod for a backbone when it comes to those they love.
‘Please.’ If I sound desperate, it’s because I am. ‘I just need to see her.’
She regards me for a few seconds more, seconds that draw out into an age, even as the hairy barber nods his encouragement. Her hands slip under the counter, returning with a card pressed between fingers and thumb. It looks like an invitation as she passes it into my hands. An invitation with a stag’s head embossed in gold on the front of the thick card.
Suddenly, she snatches it back. ‘That’s mine, y’ken?’
‘But Ivy—I can find her here?’
She peers at me for a moment longer, her thin lips firm. ‘Weel, I suppose I can always take you along as my plus one.’
Until that moment, I hadn’t realised I was holding in a breath. ‘You will? Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘But you’ll have to be prepared to bide there a while, and you’ll have a car?’
Was that a question? Maybe? ‘Yeah, I have a car.’ I raise my eyes from the card open in her thin hand. From what I could gather during my brief look, it’s a hotel opening.
‘Or you can go later; watch the tide times. I can make my own way there.’ Tide times? We’re going on a ferry or causeway? I shake my head at the suggestion because any kind of time is something I don’t have. ‘So long as you also know you’ll have to mind the tide times.’
Definitely a water crossing of some kind, but I don’t answer her. At least, not verbally as I lean over the high counter and plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘When do we go?’ Because I’ll swim there if I have to.
She turns a pink sort of flustered, her hand touching a pink powdered cheek. ‘I’ll go get my coat. You’ll bring the car to the door? These old legs aren’t so good.’
‘Sure. Car. I’ll go get it now.’
‘What a gent,’ crows the beard as I turn. Pulling on the door handle, I anticipate the quaint jingling sound, my heart light for the first time since I’d stepped off the plane.
‘What d’you suppose all that means?’ the beard all but screeches as I step outside.
‘That she’s a lucky girl,’ answers the granny. ‘I saw a video of him, and that man’s boabie is like a baby’s arm.’
Surely . . . Nah. I couldn’t have understood that right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ivy
The room is nothing short of beautiful. In fact, the whole room is beyond swanky, and to think Fin had a hand in the design of the place after some sort of trouble with the interior designer. I’m not surprised she has an eye for this sort of stuff; she’s always been super stylish and amazingly clever. For sure that girl isn’t only a pretty face. She’s more—more than even a beautiful face. She has a beautiful heart to match. A heart big enough to forgive my mistakes. God, I feel humbled . . . is that the right word? I’m not sure, but I definitely feel something. Something that leaves me feeling lighter and grateful, pushing away the film of guilt. Thankful with a twinge of discomfort, maybe, every time I look at him? Not that I see him often, but it’s there, even now as I look at the mirror image of him, standing at the front of the room in the form of his twin brother, Kit.
Is it any wonder I feel so awful?
Especially with Fin by my side staring, absolutely besotted by the sight of him.
‘You okay?’ In the periphery of my vision, I see Fin’s question accompanied by the cock of a quizzical head.
‘I didn’t say anything,’
‘You didn’t have to.’ Her eyes glide to the front of the room as though the presence of Rory has them magnetized. ‘Stop with the self-flagellation.’ Her hand finds mine, grasping it tightly. ‘No more apologies, okay?’
‘But I’m so good at them.’
Because I am
sorry—seriously so. Sorry I let the bitterness over my own circumstances colour my perception of Rory. Of his sincerity. Of her love for him.
In the weeks since Fin and Rory have been back together, I have taken it upon myself to apologise approximately six million times. Though not always in person because that would seriously damage our relationship. And I don’t have the time or the cashflow to make the journey to London that often. And the closer I’d stood to her while making these apologies, the higher the chance she’d have slapped me. Instead, I’ve settled for saying it in other ways. I’ve cried it down a phone line. I’ve sent texts scattered with crying emojis and broken hearts. I’ve sent lengthy emails; lots of heartfelt words that post-pregnancy Ivy might live to regret. After the last one, Fin threatened to block my number and email address, but so far, I’ve escaped. My most successfully apology to date has been the delivery of I’m sorry balloons along with a box of cupcakes spelling out the same. I’d had them delivered to Rory’s cottage after the pair had travelled up to view the restoration works on Tremaine House. It was Fin’s first time in the village since she’d left, and the first time I’d seen Rory, post-reconciliation, face to face. Talk about awkward. Unsurprisingly, Mac made himself scarce that weekend.
‘I mean it. No more.’ Fin’s head doesn’t move, and though her gaze may be only for Rory, the quirked brow? That’s all mine.
I sigh, a little long and a little loud, but struggle to pour it into my words, my grousing response bubbling up half huff, half snotty sob. ‘You spoil all my bloody misery.’ My vision immediately blurs. ‘Christ, Nat’s right. I really should never need to pee these days.’ Fin laughs softly in response. ‘Hormones are not funny,’ I continue. ‘You’ll find that out yourself one day.’ Her laughter stops, her hand tightening on mine.
‘Think that’s true?’
‘Er, yeah. Why not?’ My eyes follow the path of hers, and the look that passes between both her and Rory is almost pornographic. No, that’s not right—it’s intimate. So intimate I feel like I’m trespassing. ‘Anyway.’ I clear my throat. ‘Little Vlad will need a playmate, so do me a favour and get on that quick.’
