Survival (Twisted Book 1)

by Rebecca Sherwin

  I fell to my knees and cried.

  She had taken everything from me. More importantly, more painful than that, she had stolen from Oliver. It opened a fresh cut, split open the scar tissue and the tears bled from my eyes with every beat of my heart. I couldn’t believe she had done it.

  I should have hidden the money somewhere else. I should have known she would do it. How could I have been so stupid?

  I scrambled to my feet, picked up the money and left the flat. I stood outside as the spring air whipped my hair around my face and called for a cab.

  I got fifty pence change from the cab fare to Geoff’s and went straight inside. My mind was numb. My head was silent, except for my own voice telling me I had failed again. I let myself into the hallway and up the stairs that led to the flat. I stepped over the threshold before reality hit me. I covered my eyes and stood at the door, listening for Curtis and another woman. I shouldn’t have gone to the gym. He was going to think I was crazy.

  “What are you doing?”

  I heard his voice and a calm washed over me. But the gut-wrenching ache wouldn’t dissipate.

  “What?” I peered through my fingers, but he was alone. Thank God.

  “What are you doing?” I heard the humour in his voice, the bastard. He knew exactly what I was doing. “I’m alone.”

  “I see that,” my voice was shaky as I approached him and he turned on the sofa.

  He knew.

  “What happened? I was about to come and get you.”

  “You were?” I slumped onto the sofa and fell into his embrace.

  “Yeah. The TV is no fun without you attempting to imitate every voice.”

  “You missed me. You can't deny it.”

  “To the grave.”

  That halted the almost light conversation. Grave. Death. Oliver. My mother. I felt my bottom lip tremble. I tried to control it. I tried to hold it in. I couldn’t.

  The floodgates opened and I cried. I cried for my brother, for my screwed up life of loneliness. I cried for the rejection and I cried because everyone in my life, everyone who was once part of who I was, had left me. And I cried because my ridiculous excuse for a mother stole from the most important person in my life. She threw everything away, halted my plans of getting out, moving on, learning to live without the man who was born mere minutes before me. She had ruined everything.

  “Hey,” Curtis comforted, but his tightened hold only made me cry harder. “What happened?”

  “She left,” I sniffed. “She stole our savings and she left.”

  “Your mother?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t think of her as a mother. Mothers don’t do that. Mothers love their children unconditionally, support them no matter what, and put them first. My mother had never done that and now…Now, I no longer had one.

  “What did I do?” The tears continued to fall and I let them. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  Curtis stroked my hair and rocked me gently. I couldn’t stop the crying. I couldn’t make the pain go away. People left, one after the other, but the pain stayed.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands and sat up on my knees.

  “Make me forget,” I met Curtis’ gaze and saw the hesitation in his eyes. “Please. Make me forget.”

  He stared at me and I saw him going over the decision. I couldn’t wait. I needed him. For a while, I needed to forget who I was and how I got there. I needed to forget everything I felt, because it was crippling. It was eating me alive. I waited for his answer, and what came took my breath away.

  He leaned towards me and I prepared my lips for his, but they touched my cheek; a whisper of a touch that didn’t feel real. His kiss took away the lingering moisture from my tears.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered, pressing his lips to every spot where the tears still laid.

  I could feel a new supply building as he took care of me. I’d never been looked after before. I’d never felt intimacy or compassion from another person.

  “Give me your pain,” he continued to transfer my tears to him. It worked. I felt lighter every time he touched me. “I’ll take it away.”

  Finally his lips met mine, removing the final tear that had settled on my mouth. As his tongue traced the seam where my lips met and I let him in, we shared the pain. We shared the salty taste of my breakdown and he took everything away. He left me with nothing but a fluttering heart and a gentle heat moving through my body. He edged closer as his tongue danced with mine, like the choreographed routine in a ballet; the part where the prince would swoop in and save the damsel in distress, and he laid me back on the sofa. His lips never left mine. Not for a second.

  “What would you say if I told you I could give you a new life?”

  I was tired, emotionally strung out, physically exhausted and had no urge to move my head from where it lay on Curtis’ chest.

  “A new life sounds good.”

  “I can give it to you,” he moved so I had to look at him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It isn’t really mine, it’s Ollie’s. I was waiting for the right time and this might be it.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  He shifted and rolled over me to climb off the sofa. I watched as he disappeared into the bedroom and re-emerged dressed in boxers and carrying a sports bag.

  Oliver’s sports bag.

  I hadn’t even thought of collecting his things after he…

  “I knew this would be the last thing you’d think about, so I took it for you,” he knelt in front of me and began opening the bag.

  “Please don’t. I can't,” the tears returned as he ignored me and opened up the bag.

  “It isn’t about moving on. It’s just about learning to live with it. You’re strong. I know it hurts now, but you’re a survivor. You’ve been doing it your whole life and you can't give up now,” I quickly glanced down at the bag, and then back to Curtis.

  “Everything Ollie did was for you, including the fight. The stakes were high, he knew he had a shot and he wanted to take it.”

  “Why?”

  “What’s in this bag is what will give you a new life,” he opened the bag wide and I had to look down. “Thirty thousand pounds.”

  I stood up and began pulling my clothes on in a panic. There was no way I was accepting that money. I was so angry that Curtis thought I would, I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t know where I planned to go, but I had to get out. Away from that money.

  “Skye, it’s what Ollie wanted. If he was here you’d be doing this with him.”

  “So we’re supposed to take my brother’s money and run off into the sunset?”

  “No,” he dropped his head and turned away from me. “It’s your money. I’m not coming.”

  “What?” The blade twisted again, but no tears fell this time. I knew, eventually, it would happen. It always did.

  “I can't go with you. Take the money and go. Go and have a career, make friends, do stupid things. Put a deposit down on a flat, or travel for a while. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Fall in love again. But whatever you do, do it for you.”

  “This is your escape clause,” I got it then. Why he’d been keeping the money from me. When he’d had enough or I’d got too close, he had the money to buy his way out.

  “No. It’s yours. I would have broken your heart anyway. At least, this time, you get to be the one who leaves.”

  Fourteen

  I’m a survivor, I’m gonna make it, I will survive, I’m a survivor. Thank you, Destiny’s Child. Thank you.

  May, 2004.

  I set the final cushion on the sofa and turned it on its point. I looked at my watch. Forty-five minutes. My brand new outfit was set out on my brand new bed, in my brand new room, in my almost new flat. I had forty-five minutes to prepare and didn’t know what to do with myself, so I looked aimlessly around my new home, fifty miles from my old one. I had been up all night circling what I wanted from the Ikea magazine; I hopped in my six hundred
pound Ford Fiesta as soon as the clock struck nine, and filled it to the brim with good, cheap Swedish furniture. The tin can was bursting at the seams with accessories for the flat, boxes stacked tightly, bags squashed in the gaps and a curtain pole that slid under my headrest so I had to sit millimetres from the steering wheel. I had no hope of seeing in the rear-view mirror. I had lived in the flat for a week and it finally looked how I wanted it. How Oliver and I had discussed. I had taken the pictures of us from my mother’s room, given them new frames and they lined the walls in every room in the flat. Oliver was moving in with me, just like we had planned. No would else would be there; I had no friends. I changed my number as soon as I figured out where I was going and only gave my new number to Beth. She hadn’t yet called to see where I was living or asked to come and visit. I was alone and I was determined to get used to it. I had already had a year.

  I tried not to think of Curtis, but he met me in my dreams. If we weren’t on a deserted tropical island holding hands and making love, we were in the gym and Oliver was with us. We laughed and joked and none of the past sixteen months had happened. When I woke up, I was quickly reminded that reality was exactly that; the painful realisation that, in fact, I had no one.

  Half an hour moved quickly and I had to rush to be ready. I caught the bus from my ghetto-like suburb and rode it to the city. I went there often, just to surround myself with people and watch them go about their lives. But today I had a mission. I had read and read and read about the company whose building I was about to step into. Poise. A new, yet established women’s magazine. I was the underdog. I had no experience, limited knowledge and nothing to offer; but I had nothing to lose. I had nothing.

  “Can I help you?” The man at reception asked with a wide smile plastered on his face. A smile that would make your face ache, no doubt.

  “I’ve got an interview with Nina Bertolli,” it took everything not to smile whenever I thought about her name. I wondered if she was related to the olive oil family. “I’m Skye Jones.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Jones,” he handed me a journal. “Sign in while I get you a card.”

  I filled in the details and swapped him the journal for a visitor’s badge.

  “Eighth floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  I looked back as I pushed the button for the lift to see him massaging his cheeks.

  “Hi,” a little woman with the most flawless mocha skin I’d ever seen greeted me as I stepped out. She was beautiful, with a tiny waist wrapped in a pinstripe pencil skirt.

  “Skye Jones,” I took her proffered hand and she led me through a bare hallway, stark white with polished black doors. She offered me a seat in the waiting room and a glass of water, but I declined.

  “Don’t be nervous. It’s just a casual chat.”

  I took a seat then, feeling deflated. I had done my research; Poise already had half a million subscribers. Whether I worked for Nina Bertolli or not would not be decided during a casual chat. They had already written me off. I transported myself back to Geoff’s Gym all those months ago and sat up straight. I relaxed my shoulders, took a deep breath and gave my fists a quick clench. I was prepared to fight.

  “Miss Jones?” Mocha Lady called from over her computer screen, “Ms Bertolli will see you now.”

  She pointed to a white door at the end of the corridor. I smoothed my dress down and headed for the office. I wore a red dress because it made a statement; I was there to prove a point.

  “Help me, Oliver,” I looked up to the spotlights on the ceiling and prayed to my brother before opening the door. No, I didn’t knock; she knew I was coming.

  “Miss Jones,” Nina stood from her chair and held out her hand as I entered the room.

  I took it nervously and sat opposite her. She was exactly what I expected, although the bright red hair pouring to her shoulders in soft waves surprised me. I expected her to be blonde. I guessed she was in her forties, with a smile that seemed to reach both ears, accessorised with two rows of perfect pearly whites. There was no doubt in my mind that Ms Bertolli could charm the birds out of a tree.

  “How are you?” She asked, her voice chirpy and sweet.

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Great,” she pulled out some paperwork and scanned my CV. “So, why Poise?”

  “I’m a huge fan of the magazine. I had subscribed before I knew the position was open and I couldn’t not go for it. Your company has a great reputation and I’d like to be a part of upholding it.”

  “But you have no experience in this industry,” she popped her glasses on and studied the paper. “Or any industry, really.”

  Round one to Nina? No.

  “I understand that,” I replied. “But I have life experience and intuition that means I’d be an integral part of the team.”

  “Is that so?” She peered over her glasses, but I didn’t respond. “I’m looking for someone with experience. A degree, at least. You’re not a journalist, your clerical skills are limited and I have a perfectly good working coffee machine.”

  “It’s about what is on the paper?” I wasn’t allowing her words to sting. I had no part of me left to hurt. “Someone can be tardy, lazy and rude, but because they’ve got a certificate in a frame on a wall, that makes them worthy?”

  She pursed her lips in an attempt to remain professional, but it looked like a wince. I knew then that I had blown it.

  “We’ll call you if you qualify for the next stage of recruitment.”

  She looked down at the papers again and crossed my name off the list.

  I stood and moved to the door, but rested my hand on the handle and turned to face her.

  “I have nothing to lose. I have no friends, no family, no children. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke and I’m allergic to cats. I won't be rushing off to feed a feline instead of focussing on my career. And I don’t own a passport,” I opened the door as she looked up at me in shock. “But what I do have is fight. That’s all I have. Determination, guts and loyalty. That’s the stuff you can't see by looking at a sheet of paper. That’s the stuff that matters.”

  I left her office with my head held high. I hadn’t lost. I was proud of myself.

  “Miss Jones?” She called, summoning me like the headmistress. I turned to see almost six feet of her standing at her door. “Do not wear the same thing twice in a two week cycle. I don’t tolerate chipped nail polish or unwashed hair. I will not stand for hangovers or needing a day off because your boyfriend stubbed his toe. You have one week to prove yourself to me. One week.”

  She slammed her door and Mocha Lady stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “She’s been recruiting for months. She must see something special in you, Skye.”

  “I burn,” I smiled with triumph. “Like a skillet.”

  Fifteen

  Oh, Margarita Monday, what have you done to me?

  July 26th, 2006.

  “Seriously? Michael was hot!”

  I poured us another glass of wine and took a huge mouthful. Mocha Lady and I had been friends for two years, although I stopped calling her Mocha Lady when I found out she had a much more exotic name. Penelope Anastas. Her mother, Clarisse, was from the West Indies and her father, Christos, was Greek. It gave her a complexion meant for the camera. She only had to sit by a window for two minutes and she would turn a golden brown. I would have to sit under the sun, soaked in vegetable oil; and even then I’d only turn a painful-looking shade of pink. Penelope was the first person I let into the flat and she had kind of become part of the furniture; we would go back to my place every Monday for a glass of wine before we went out.

  “There are lots of hot guys out there. We had a few dates, he was nice, but it wasn’t going anywhere.”

  Michael. I had met him at a charity event a few months back. He was fun, funny in a laugh at him kind of way, but he got too close. He wanted to spend every night at my place and asked one too many questions about the pictures on the walls, or why I couldn’t go to bed
until the dishes had been washed and the cushions arranged in the right way. Clarke was the same. And George…and Steven before that. I met them all the same way; through work. Steven even took me to Paris for the weekend when he had to go on business. Being in the city of love and romance only cemented the fact that I was never going to fall for him. There had been a few before that, too, but I hadn’t felt that connection; the one that told me we wouldn’t part ways eventually, one way or another. I was content with casually dating, keeping to myself and keeping an even playing field so I wouldn’t feel like I owed anyone anything; enjoying their company until we came to the crossroads where I had to make a choice, to take the risk or protect myself. The decision was never a difficult one. I always protected myself.

  “So, you’re looking for perfection.”

  “Nope,” I spoke with confidence. “I’m looking for magic. He can have flaws that surpass any list of negatives ever compiled. As long as he’s…just…magic.”

  “You know that crap doesn’t exist, right?”

  “Yep. Now you see why I do what I do,” I clinked my glass with hers. “Come on, drink up or we’ll be late.”

  I didn’t know it didn’t exist, not really. I believed it did. My mother – the pain and confusion halted my breath every time I thought about her – used to care. It was a memory I knew was real. She used to tell me stories; the fairy tales that all little girls believed. Good. Evil. Love. Hate. Salvation.

  I had to believe in something when I had nothing and I chose to believe in love. One day I would find someone who loved me as much as the prince loved the princess in every fairy tale ever written. I just had to fight to find it and if I had to date a few frogs, so be it.