Hard

by Donna Alam

Robin, allegedly under the influence of an illegal substance, was seen being placed in the back of a police vehicle to be taken to Wembley Station for further questioning.

  According to management sources, Robin has been suffering from stress and anxiety after recently splitting with his American fiancée of two years, Paisley Byrne. In a further twist to the story, it’s understood Byrne reportedly had an affair with London property magnate, Keir McLain, which allegedly led to the breakdown of their engagement.

  As I scroll down, there’s a photograph—a photograph of me taken at Sorcha’s school, which is bad enough. But I’m not the only one in the frame; Sorcha is, too. I’m helping her out of the car, and though her face is distorted, it’d be easy enough to tell what school she attends given she’s in her uniform. A distinctive, private school uniform. The thought makes me feel ill. Some fucker has been following me—following me while I was with my child. And this image predates the ginger bastard wrapping his car around a lamppost yesterday, so what’s it all about?

  Sources close to the pair are said to be “saddened” and “dismayed” that the bubbly twenty-five-year-old makeup artist has begun to work in the adult entertainment industry since the split.

  Fuck off. Now they’re trying to paint Paisley as someone working in porn? What the fuck! The back of my office chair creaks as I scrub my hands through my hair. How did I not know her surname? It’s a strange thought, a little abstract even, as I struggle to get a fucking handle on the rest. I know a lot about her, I remind myself. Small things. Personal and ridiculous things. I know she has an aversion to fruit. Loses her shoes. That she’s kind and caring and great with kittens and little girls

  I don’t read anymore. Because it’s bullshit—pure and simple. What I do instead is pull up the online edition of each Sunday newspaper’s front page. The story is on every. Fucking. One. What’s worse, the tale seems to get more lurid and phony with each telling. It’s like a game of Chinese fucking whispers.

  She wasn’t still with him when he grabbed her that night—she couldn’t have been. Could she? He wouldn’t have given up because I threatened him. . . no. Think, Keir. The rest is bullshit. So she works for a porn company, but the bastards made it sound like she was selling her arse—that she was having sex on screen.

  I’m not the reason for their breakup—that was because the twat couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I run my hands through my hair, pulling at the ends. None of this is right or sane. But what must she be feeling, having her character torn apart like this? I don’t have long to wait before I find out. As I pick up my phone to call her, the thing starts to buzz in my hand, her name flashing up on screen.

  ‘Paisley, where are you?’

  I don’t hear her voice immediately. Instead, there’s static and a lot of swearing coming from a woman who isn’t her.

  ‘Fuck off! Get away from my front door! You bastards are trespassing! I shall call the police.’

  I hear Paisley cry out, my heart tightening like a fist. I push up from my chair and start to pace around the room.

  ‘Paisley? Paisley, darlin’? Are you okay?’ A lot more scuffling and shuffling follows, indistinct questions being shouted over the noise.

  ‘Paisley! Over ’ere!’

  ‘Have you heard from Robin, Paisley?’

  ‘Is he an addict?’

  ‘Have you sent your apologies to the inhabitants of the other cars?’

  ‘Paisley, who’s your favourite co-star in porn?’

  ‘Is it true you’ll be starring in the remake of Taken Hard Two?’

  I’m literally pulling out all of my hair here when the call cuts out.

  ‘Fuck!’ I bounce my phone off the palm of my free hand. ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ Then I hit her number again, whispering a small prayer as the call connects.

  ‘No, give it to me,’ Paisley calls out. ‘It’s Keir. I can see his name!’

  A man grumbles, and a minute later, I hear her voice.

  ‘Keir? Are you there?’

  The fist around my heart eases immediately. ‘Aye, it’s me. Are you okay? Who was that?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Max, Chastity’s brother. But the tabloids, they’re outside like a pack of rabid dogs out for blood.’ Her breath hitches. Is it a sob? ‘We were just out for coffee, and then on our way home, they pounced! They said something about Robin having an accident. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘I’ve just read about it. He’s okay.’ The absolute fucker. ‘But . . . ’ I don’t know how to say it. How to tell her. ‘They’re not saying very nice things about you.’

  ‘Me?’ She sounds shocked, pained, incredulous. ‘What have I got to do with his accident?’

  ‘They’re saying you left him.’

  ‘Hell yeah, I did!’

  ‘That he was under the influence of drugs because he’s depressed.’

  ‘And that . . . that it’s my fault?’

  ‘Darlin’, they’re making it sound like you’re starring in Chastity’s shoots.’

  ‘That I star in porn?’ She sounds saddened, her voice small. And I have neither the heart nor the balls to tell her it’s worse than that. To tell her that one paper in particular made it sound like she’s a high-class prostitute.

  ‘Oh, my Lord. What am I going to do?’

  Already, my mind is working in overdrive. ‘Do you have a solicitor . . . a lawyer, I mean?’

  ‘No, I . . . wait.’ There’s conversation on the other side of the phone, words I don’t quite catch before she’s back. ‘Chas says she can consult her family guy.’

  ‘I feel like I should come over there.’ My heart does, at least. My head, not so much.

  ‘No, don’t,’ she advises softly. ‘It’s not necessary. Besides, this isn’t your problem.’

  ‘I might not be the root cause, but I can see how I can’t have helped. I smashed his nose, for a start.’

  ‘Bones and cartilage heal, Keir. Hearts, too.’ I don’t know what she means by that, but I don’t get a chance to protest or question as she carries on. ‘Look, you have your own reputation to protect. A child to think about.’

  She’s right, of course, and when I look up, said child is at the door to my office, the ball of calico kitten cradled in her arms. My head immediately swings to the window behind me as though I could sense the black presence of the press lurking there. Loitering in the hedgerows, hiding in the flowerbeds, just waiting to spring out and embroil my child in this mess. Ridiculous.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Aye. I am.’

  ‘Look, give it a few days. Let things cool down.’

  ‘That sounds . . . ’ Like a relief. A huge relief. And a copout and everything in between. I want to be there for her, hold her in my arms, protect her with my being. I’m a big lad—I can take care of myself—but can I protect Paisley and Sorcha at the same time? Probably not.

  Which makes me feel like a total shit.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come over? Or maybe you could pack a bag and come stay here?’ As much as the thought appeals to me— all the people I want to take care of, safe and under one roof—I’m not sure it would be for the best. But I want to do something—I want to help.

  ‘This isn’t your fight,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I know this is hard for you to hear, but you said it yourself; I’m trouble, Keir. You can’t fix this.’

  Chapter 24

  KEIR

  ‘You’re not dressed for work? Turning from the pantry with a loaf of bread in hand, Agnes looks a little startled when I appear in the kitchen. She frowns as she takes in my appearance; my running shoes, shorts, and t-shirt, sweat causing the fabric of the latter to stick my skin. ‘You’ll be late to take the bairn to school.’

  ‘Flynn’s coming to take her. I’ve got a few calls I need to make.’ I keep my expression impassive despite experiencing what it must feel like to be a volcano internally. I thought the run would help. Thought I might be able to run off the steam, or maybe exhaust myself, especiall
y as I’ve barely slept all night.

  ‘Can you go with them and walk her to class?’ I feel a bit of a shit for asking because I’ve made the school run my thing. I might not always be here to tuck Sorcha into bed, but if I can, I’ll always be there to take her to school. If I’m ever travelling, Flynn and Agnes step in. I do have a car service I can rely on, but I prefer to trust the people closest to me if I can.

  ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear,’ Agnes says as Flynn enters the kitchen.

  ‘Agnes, babe,’ he says, clutching his heart. ‘You wound me.’ He swipes a shiny red apple from the large fruit bowl on the breakfast bar, polishing it on the lapel of his blue suit.

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t,’ she answers, taking the apple out of his hand and depositing it back. ‘But it can be arranged, y’ken.’

  ‘He promised not to curse at the traffic this morning. Didn’t you, Flynn?’

  ‘That’s right, Scorcher,’ he answers using his silly nickname for her, picking her up and spinning her in his arms. ‘I’ll try my very best.’

  ‘It’s Sorcha,’ my daughter answers, giggling as she pulls on his arm.

  ‘And I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Agnes grumbles, but I barely hear as I turn my attention to my daughter.

  ‘What have I told you about opening the front door without telling Agnes or me first?’ Despite trying to keep a tight rein on my temper, both adults in the room look surprised by my tone. In contrast, my daughter, it appears, couldn’t be less concerned.

  ‘It was just Flynn, Daddy,’ she answers with an unconcerned flip of her hand. ‘I checked before I opened it.’

  ‘That’s not the point. When I ask you not to do something, I expect you to pay attention. Do you hear me?’ With each word, my tone becomes louder. Fiercer. ‘You don’t know who could be lurking on the other side of the door. There are bad people out there!’ Like newspaper reporters and her nut of a mother.

  I don’t often yell, and when I do so, Sorcha’s expression fills me with remorse immediately. Her wee eyes brim with tears, her bottom lip quivering.

  ‘Come on now, chicken hen,’ Agnes says softly, providing us all with something else to focus on. ‘Let’s get a wriggle on, or we’ll be late for school.’

  Flynn adds his own brand of specialness to the moment, exaggeratedly wiggling his arse as he leaves the kitchen. ‘I’ll be wriggling on out this way. See you in the car, Princess Scorcher.’

  Grabbing Sorcha’s school branded bag from the worktop, Agnes levels me with a look full of censure before she follows, leaving Sorcha and I alone.

  ‘I promise I’ll try to remember next time,’ my daughter says, directing her words to her black shiny Mary Janes.

  ‘I know you will. I’m sorry I’m in such a bad mood.’ My words are rough as I bend to place a kiss on her head. It’s been a mindfuck of a night, but she doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my worries and fears. I fucking hate telling her off at the best of times, though I do so, for her own good mostly. But this is different. This is me lashing out because of my fear she’ll be taken away from me. Before I realise I’ve even done it, I’ve pulled her wee body up against me, my arms wrapped around her so tight.

  ‘Ew, Daddy! You’re all wet,’ she complains, struggling against me. ‘Wet and icky.’

  ‘Sorry, darlin’.’ I set her back on her feet again. ‘And sorry I can’t take you to school this mornin’.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her blue eyes stare up at me as though trying to decipher my thoughts. ‘You’re not sick or anything, are you? Because—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I answer, cutting her off. ‘I’m just very busy this morning. Lots to do. Sorry I can’t take you to school.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she says, swinging on her wee heel before skipping out of the kitchen. The rest of her words are chucked over her shoulder, her thoughts already on other things. ‘Flynn says he’ll stop and get me a hot chocolate before school.’

  ‘Only if Agnes says,’ I call back as the door to the garage slams shut. Then I realise I haven’t braided her hair.

  I grab a glass, filling it with water from the dispenser on the fridge, then pull open the fridge door to contemplate the contents. Close it again. Drink the water. Then do the thing I’ve been avoiding all morning. I open my phone and answer the message I’d received late last night.

  Arriving at Gatwick on the 10:50 from LA. Pick me up, or shall I go straight to the offices of the Daily Mail?

  In answer, I type out, I’ll be there.

  Chapter 25

  KEIR

  She arrives in a cloud of perfume and animosity. It’s unsettling to see her walk towards me, almost like going back in time. From a distance, she looks like the same woman I fell in love with all those years ago, yet she’s also the same woman who walked away. There are so many memories, and the bad far outweigh the good. Yet as she draws nearer, I can’t help but acknowledge she’s still beautiful, and she draws attention to herself like she could be on film. And likely is, though not the way she feels she deserves to be.

  I imagine she’s seen a few casting couches in her time. That’s why she left, supposedly. She decided she was too young to be a mother and a wife.

  Her impulsiveness once endeared her to me. She was fun and spontaneous in the beginning, but she’s as ruthless as she is charming. Reckless and immoral. She thinks of no one but herself.

  ‘Darling.’ Her nails are pink talons she rests on my shoulder as she leans in to kiss my cheek. And I let her, while hating myself. But we’re playing a game here. It’s been two years since I saw her last. Two years since she walked into my office, trying to sweet-talk money out of me while threatening me with court. Today, I hate to say it, but she has the upper hand.

  ‘Jayne.’ I feel nothing in her embrace—feel nothing but her countenance stiffen with displeasure as she pulls away. Plain Jayne. She hates her name and changed it to Gianna years ago, shortly after she left for the US, I think. And though I can see the changes in her now that she’s in front of me, she’s still anything but plain. She certainly doesn’t look thirty-two years old, let alone old enough to have borne a child Sorcha age.

  She’s tall and lithe. Dressed from head to toe in high fashion, she carries a designer purse in hand. These things remain a constant in her life. Appearances mean everything, and she is always flawless. But all the same, I hate myself for noticing the differences in her. Her long hair, an expensively tended-to shade of blonde, is a little darker, her mouth a little fuller. Her tits a little larger. She makes me think of one of those wee dolls Sorcha played with for about five minutes. She’s never been a doll kind of girl. She likes animals. Games. A wee bit of science.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Before I turn to make my way to the exit, I take the handle of her case from her grip, and after a slight incline of her head, she follows me to the car. We don’t speak until we’re at the hotel. Centrally located, five stars. I usually find myself footing the bill, but this time, she asks me to wait while she checks herself in.

  A new boyfriend? Maybe a wealthy or jealous one. Maybe both. It’s a novel experience for her not to expect me to pick up the bill. I often feel like I’m the one getting fucked, but instead, it looks like she’s screwing some other idiot for a change.

  A liveried member of the concierge team walks by the coffee shop with her luggage. Her Louis Vuitton trolley case. Small enough for her to take herself. A case that indicates she doesn’t intend to stay in London long. Thankfully.

  ‘Are you coming up?’ She’s suddenly standing in front of me, all but batting her lashes, her voice a sultry purr.

  I almost laugh in answer. If she wants me in her hotel room, it’s not because she has plans for my body or my cock. She’s definitely planning to fuck me, but I doubt it’s in the physical sense.

  ‘We can discuss what it is you want here, Jayne.’

  ‘It’s Gianna.’ She narrows her eyes, and I decide not to point out the tiny crow’s feet her Botox nurse seem
s to have missed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Keir? It’s Gianna. And this is too public a venue for what I have to say.’

  ‘Not for me, it isn’t,’ I retort.

  ‘Trust me, Keir, it is.’

  I don’t trust her, not one bit, but something in her tone has the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up. So I take her advice but not for my sake. I do it for the daughter she has yet to ask about.

  We don’t speak in the lift, nor in the corridor. And I don’t look at her as we reach her room. Instead, I stare at the green light on the door.

  ‘Come in, sweetie.’ Says the spider to the fly. But the fly isn’t buying what she’s selling today. And the spider? She’s got herself a hotel suite, not a room. Maybe a sugar daddy to boot.

  ‘What is it you want, Jayne? I’ve got other shit to do today. How much?’ Because it always boils down to cash—money to fund her lifestyle. She left to become an actress, and though I’ve yet to see her in anything of note, I think she must live like Hollywood royalty. She received a hefty settlement when we split and has since been back for more. Several times.

  ‘Who said anything about money, Keir? Why do you have to be like this?’ she whimpers, looking for the world like she’s about to cry.

  ‘Call it a sixth sense. Or better still, experience.’ Because this is what it always comes down to. ‘I’m not in the mood for your games, and I’m too busy to bend over for you today. How much do you want?’

  ‘Oh, you wish you could get rid of me that easily,’ she taunts. ‘No, Keir. This is much better. Perfect, in fact. A friend sent me a links to the articles. So of course, I got on the next flight home. Who would’ve thought the mighty Keir—Keir, the upstanding; Keir, the moral; the man I’d entrusted my baby’s care to—could be fucking Robin Reed’s fiancée?’

  ‘She’s not his fiancée,’ I reply in a bored tone. I sit in the seat by the window. ‘They weren’t even together when we met.’

  ‘But darlin’,’ she says, laying on the transatlantic twang. ‘It’s better than that. The newspapers say she’s now doing porn. Of course, I think, especially after seeing pictures of her, it’s probably the homemade stuff. You always were a little kinky, though, right?’