Hard

by Donna Alam

  ‘Agnes. I need you to pack Sorcha a few things. And while you’re on, pack a few things for yourself.’ It’s a perfect plan. We’ll be away when whatever Jayne has to say goes to print. Plus, there’s something else I’d like to do. Like get Paisley naked. See her tan without lines. Live with her—have her live with us. Enjoy her in our alone time. Give her so many orgasms she can’t help but promise to move in permanently.

  It’s mad and it’s out of character, sure, but I think it’s a fucking fantastic plan.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ Agnes demands.

  ‘We’re going on holiday,’ I announce, suddenly feeling incredibly light. Or maybe insane. ‘You’d better dig out your passport.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ She sounds aggrieved, but she can’t hide the accompanying smile.

  ‘Wherever he books for us,’ I say, pointing at Flynn as I walk backwards out of the room.’

  ‘I’m not looking after the cat,’ he calls back.

  ‘Yes, you are. And you’re staying here. In the guest room.’ When he smiles, I see exactly where his thoughts are going. ‘Alone.’ I fill the words with so much meaning, his expression falls. ‘And if you book us somewhere shitty, I’ll have your balls.’

  ‘And they said working for you would be an opportunity.’

  ‘It is. Ask Agnes,’ I crow.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Sorcha as I reach the hallway. ‘And can Princess come?’

  ‘Ah. No. She can’t.’ Before she begins to give me a hard time, I add, ‘Flynn’s going to stay here, plus you’re getting time off school.’

  She seems to have decided that’s a fair trade-off as I open the door into the garage.

  Chapter 27

  PAISLEY

  I spend most of Monday in bed in a bad mood and heavy funk.

  According to Max, the photographers have gone, and the calls requesting interviews have stopped mainly because the world has moved on. Apparently, today the trolls are hounding a member of the British Parliament who got caught with his pecker in a glory hole in some Amsterdam sleaze pit. It puts a new slant on European relations, I suppose.

  While I sort of feel sorry for the man—and his wife—I’m also glad I’m no longer a source of scrutiny. One man’s misery is another girl’s . . . well, not exactly pleasure. Freedom, maybe? Whatever. Either way, it is nice to be able to switch my phone back on. I’d used it exactly once yesterday to speak to someone from Robin’s management team, who’d basically blew me off. He’d said he’d get back to me once Robin had been released from rehab, and that was that. He wasn’t interested in the slightest that Robin might’ve been stalking me. And of course, they couldn’t trace the source of the lies the press had been told. Or sold. I guess I’ll never know. The official line is that it’s all hearsay, and they can’t do anything about it.

  So I switch my phone on and delete the million alerts and the voice messages requesting interviews. There’s nothing from Keir. Not a text. Not a missed call. Not a voicemail.

  I know I told him he couldn’t fix this yesterday, but I didn’t expect him to drop me like a hot stone. Being painted to the world as the woman who tore apart Robin’s heart is bad enough—a whore and a cheat—but I can cope with it. It smarts, sure. It makes the blood sizzle in my veins with maximum rage. Set against an inherent kind of impotency. But not hearing from Keir for over twenty-four hours? It does sting. Quite a bit actually. Maybe even more than the stuff on the internet.

  I swing my legs out of bed while listening to the last two voicemails. The second to last one is a bit of a given—I didn’t get the job with the midmorning TV show. No one wants a makeup girl who stars in porn, even allegedly. It’s with a sigh of resignation that I listen to the final call. And when the beep sounds at the end, I find myself bursting into a flood of tears.

  It’s another hour before I make it downstairs. Still in my old robe. Still with a tear-stained face.

  ‘Where’s Chas?’ I ask Max as I slide two slices of white toast into Chas’s space-age toaster.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, he barely looks up before answering. ‘In her office, I think. Probably editing.’

  A dark chuckle sounds from my chest as I open the silverware drawer. ‘I’m sad, not suicidal,’ I mutter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are no knives in the silverware drawer,’ I announce a little louder, gesturing at the drawer. ‘How am I supposed to butter my toast?’ Is that a touch of hysteria I hear?

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Max asks, his expression clouded with confusion as he finally looks up from his iPad. The fact that he’s looking makes matters worse as I pull open the dishwasher and find the cutlery basket jam-packed.

  ‘Obviously, I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘Oh, sweets,’ Max says. ‘I hate to tell you, but you’ve always been a little crazy But you know what would make you feel better right now?’

  ‘If you say sex, I will disembowel you with this melon baller,’ I say, grasping the thing in my fist.

  ‘But sex makes everything better.’

  ‘Chickenpox?’ I sort of screech. ‘Can it cure chickenpox?’ And now I want to cry again as I think of Sorcha. And then Keir. And what might’ve been if not for, ‘Robin fucking Reed!’ I launch one of the recently popped slices of toast across the room. Max ducks as it sails past his head, and I continue my rant. ‘He’s a bastard, and I’m going to kill him before drugs ever get the chance!’

  ‘Okay!’ Max calls back, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘Want to hear some good news?’

  ‘Yes!’ I fold my arms and throw my ass against the deep butler’s sink. ‘Good news would be welcome right about now.’

  ‘The portal for Fast Girl Media almost crashed with the sheer volume of new subscriptions yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’

  ‘And Chas thought it might, so she cancelled all weekly and monthly options, meaning anyone looking for you has to pay for a year’s membership.’

  ‘Oh. Ew. People are looking for me? Searching for me on the internet?’

  ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t they? You’re hot. I keep telling you—’

  ‘Don’t.’ I hold my hand up, palm out. ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘Would it make you feel better if I said people are probably looking for a connection to Robin Reed?’

  ‘The Robin Reed experience?’ I giggle at the thought of someone doing him on screen. It’s not a pleasant sight, as I recall. And not the best of experiences. ‘They’d all want their money back.’

  ‘Think of it this way,’ he says, pushing back his chair. ‘People are looking for whatever, but being exposed to amazing, tasteful pornography. They’re not being duped, but maybe educated. They might spend a little while looking for you but will eventually find something else they like. And all the while? Chas is raking in the subscription coin.’ He deposits my abandoned toast in the garbage.

  ‘You really ought to try to go back to being a venture capitalist.’ He’d gotten a job with a big city company, leaving after only a few weeks. ‘You could probably sell snow to the Eskimos.’

  ‘Venture capitalists invest in ideas, not sell them,’ he says with an air of benevolent patience, patting my head as he passes. ‘We’ll both find our way. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say to the empty room. ‘But mine is a one-way ticket back to the States.’

  The doorbell rings, shortly followed by Max’s voice as he makes his way up the stairs. ‘You’ll get it!’ he sings.

  ‘Sure,’ I grumble. ‘Why not? It’s not like I have a new job or anything.’

  I trudge up to the front door, making sure to look through the peephole.

  ‘You have no business to react like that,’ I whisper to my heart, placing my hand over it to stop it from dancing. Then I pull open the door to Keir.

  ‘Hey.’ I paint on a smile that feels all wrong. ‘How are you?’

  ‘About as well as you feel,’ he replies, smiling as he look
s my stained robe up and down.

  ‘It’s not dirty, just old.’

  ‘It’s . . . unexpected,’ he answers, still smiling. Like a total loon.

  ‘We can’t all be pulled together every minute of every day,’ I snipe, regretting my tone immediately as his smile falls.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he says, his expression sobering. ‘How are you?’ His throat moves as he swallows, his hands sort of fidgety by his sides before he slides them into the pockets of his slacks.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I answer honestly, folding my arms across my chest and giving a one-shoulder shrug. ‘And you?’

  ‘Well, I spent an hour or so with my ex-wife, so I’m sure you can guess exactly how I’m feeling.’

  ‘How could I guess, given that you’ve barely mentioned her?’

  ‘I imagine most people don’t enjoy spending time with their ex,’ he says, slightly annoyed. ‘Are you going to invite me inside?’

  ‘Nope.’ I pop the p loudly. ‘Unless you do a better job of explaining.’

  ‘Seeing her was about as pleasant as I expected, but it has complicated matters somewhat. And I’d really prefer not to stand at the front door telling you about it.’ The end of his sentence ends a little loudly. A little commanding. And I like it. Like that he’s a little fiery. A little pissed off. And I’d keep him at the door for a little longer if it wasn’t for Chastity’s sudden appearance.

  ‘So this is Keir,’ she says, bumping me with her hip, like that’s some secret signal of approval.

  ‘And you must be Chastity.’ Chas doesn’t answer, though she eyes him critically. ‘I imagine this is what it must feel like to be a horse on a stud farm,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry,’ she replies, looking anything but sorry. ‘It’s a professional hazard. Plus, Paisley didn’t mention you were funny. Come on in.’

  ‘Something tells me you like them best when they don’t talk.’ We follow her and her tinkling laughter to the kitchen. But this isn’t fair; flirty Keir is winning over the toughest woman I know.

  I take a seat at the head of the kitchen table. ‘Right, so,’ I begin sharply, ‘you saw your ex?’

  Suddenly, Chas’s expression could sour milk.

  ‘Yeah, she lives in the States. But I suppose I’m here to say a couple of things to say. One good, or at least I think so. And one not so good.’

  I open my mouth to complain—to say something like, and here I was thinking you’d come to see how I am. But I don’t get a chance as Chas cuts me off.

  ‘The bad first?’ she asks, mistaking my inhalation of breath as an indication I’m about to choose. But what the hell; I shrug in acquiesce.

  ‘The bad news is she’s in the UK at the invitation of a tabloid newspaper. She’s come to add fuel to the Robin Reed fire.’

  ‘How is that bad news for me?’

  ‘Well, it’s not me the public is interested in, except maybe as the Joker to his Batman. Same with you, I expect. We’re both just a means to an end where there’s news of the ginger git—pawns in the media game. And I know—I could do without it just the same as you. Which brings me to my second, happier point.’

  ‘Which is?’ Chas asks, just a curious as me, it seems.

  ‘We’re going on holiday.’ He looks very pleased with himself while I’m equal amounts pissed off. So much so, that I don’t quite hear what he says next. It’s all right for some, I think, all right for those who can just . . . ‘And I’d like you to come.’

  ‘What? Why do you want me to come?’ I place my clasped hands on the table.

  ‘Have you heard the saying, today’s news is tomorrow’s chip wrappings?’

  Fish and chips are traditionally wrapped in newspaper in the UK, I recall. Today’s new is tomorrow’s garbage.

  ‘I get the reference,’ I say, ‘but I’m not sure it’s possible.’ After my complaints and my anger, now I’m just plain disappointed. Because I’d go with him, wouldn’t I? If he’d asked me yesterday to go away with him for a few days, I’d have jumped at the chance.

  ‘You don’t want to?’ he asks carefully. ‘Or is it something else?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘To me, it does. Look, Paisley,’ he says, engulfing my clasped hands with his larger ones. ‘I know it’s early days, and I know you’ve just gotten out of a relationship, but I can really see this working.’

  My heart misses a beat as my mouth speaks without the permission of my brain. ‘Why? Why can you?’

  The intensity in his answer almost knocks me from my chair. ‘Because I’ve never felt this way about anyone.’

  I’m slayed. Just slayed. Suddenly destroyed by what could’ve been as I pull one hand from his and reach into the pocket of my grubby robe. I place my phone on the table between us and play back the message I’d received earlier for all to hear.

  ‘Miss Byrne, my name is Elaine Crosby. I’m ringing from Immigration and Border Control in respect of your application for a spousal visa. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you to speak with a colleague and myself on Thursday of this week at two o’clock. If this appointment is inconvenient, could you contact me on—’

  I hit end.

  ‘They’re going to send me home,’ I say simply as tears begin running down my face.

  ‘Can they do that?’ Keir is out of his chair in an instant. Kneeling before me, he rubs one hand over my cold fingers, his thumb swiping away the wetness from my cheeks as his gaze, greener than usual, never leaves mine.

  ‘I guess so. My visa was conditional on being in a relationship with him. As that’s no longer the case . . . ’

  ‘Then I guess we’ll have to find you a new fiancé.’

  From the other side of the kitchen, Chas gasps. Meanwhile, I try to pull my hands from his. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I begin. ‘I’m almost certain you can go to jail for faking a fiancée. And they don’t wear makeup in jail.’ I shiver at the thought of that horrific indignity. ‘I couldn’t do it. I’d be better off in bumfuck-nowheres-ville.’ Marginally. There’s no Sephora near my hometown, and the nearest thing to a department store is more likely to stock equine fly repellent than Chanel.

  ‘Who said anything about—’

  ‘Seriously, Keir. I’m so not getting engaged to Flynn or any of your employees just so we can . . . ’ do the things we do so well. Just so I can fall a little more for you. ‘Just so we can—’

  ‘Woman, hauld yer whesht!’ he almost yells. ‘Jesus wept. Is she always like this?’ he asks, turning to Chastity.

  ‘She’s had a trying couple of days.’ He nods just once, as though suddenly understanding or empathising. But he can’t—not really.

  ‘Keir, I’m serious—’ I begin.

  ‘Sweets!’ Chas interrupts loudly. ‘For goodness’ sakes. The man on his knees in front of you is trying to propose.’

  My head swings from Chastity to the gorgeous man on is kn—on his knees! I jump up from the chair, my hands suddenly on my cheeks.

  ‘No. No, no, no, noooo.’ I back away from him, finding my spine pressed up against the fridge. ‘No. You don’t mean it. B-because you can’t fix this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, rising and stalking towards me. ‘I can’t fix it because it’s not broken. It’s lovely, and it’s new, and it’s special; so special. But darlin’, it’s also real.’

  And then he kisses me, my face in his hands, his body curved around mine.

  He kisses me like he’s trying to kiss some sense into me—like he’d kiss me into submission, if he could. And I imagine he could, especially as his hands fall to my hips where he pulls me against him. Against his hardness. My knees almost give way, and I moan into his mouth. But I can’t do this, can I? Not even I’m that gullible.

  ‘Say yes,’ he growls. ‘And I’ll make you the happiest woman alive.’

  For a moment, I don’t doubt it. He could keep me on my back each day, and I expect I’d be happy—compliant, even—for the rest of my life.

  ‘But . . . wh
at’s that?’ From somewhere beyond the kitchen, Chastity’s voice gets a little posher, if that’s possible.

  ‘If you don’t move away from that door, I’m going to knee you in your balls. Shortly following, I expect a doctor in the emergency room will tell you that you’ll never father children. On account of said testicles being lodged next to your tonsils.’

  ‘Come one step closer and these balls will be in your face. And not in a good way.’

  ‘Is that Flynn?’ I whisper. ‘She must think he’s the press.’

  Keir nods, ducking his head to my ear. ‘I hate to say it, but she sounds like his kind of foreplay.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Chastity calls back, her cut glass accent sharp enough to draw blood. ‘I spend my day with men, not little boys like you. In fact, I expect I eat balls bigger than yours for breakfast.’

  ‘Lady, I don’t give a flying fuck who you eat, or who eats you, or what you do to get your rocks off, I need to speak to Keir—’

  ‘If you’re a journalist, I swear, I’ll stick this very expensive Burberry umbrella up your backside and wave you around like a Guy Fawkes toffee apple!’

  ‘You sound like you’ve done that before.’ There’s a distinct change in Flynn’s tone. Less angry and more amused. ‘And enjoyed it.’

  ‘See?’ Keir whispers, his lips travelling down my neck as his hands gripping my butt.

  ‘Perhaps not an umbrella,’ Chas says.

  ‘Is this little anecdote going to make me puke?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replies evenly. ‘Are you homophobic, or can you enjoy a little gay porn?’

  ‘I know it’s early,’ Keir whispers, ‘and you might not feel the same way as I do, but come away with me, darlin’.

  ‘Just you and me?’

  He tilts his head to the side as though weighing his words. ‘Sorcha and Agnes, too.’

  ‘You want me to marry into the family?’

  ‘We’re sort of a package deal.’

  ‘I will . . . come away with you on vacation, but that’s all.’ He looks like he doesn’t believe me—like I’ve already said yes—but we’ll see who wins in the end. ‘Where are we going?’