by Mandy Lee
And as I wait, I listen. And as I listen, the song seems to bury itself inside me, the words tugging at every particle of my being. It’s Eva Cassidy, singing her version of ‘True Colors’, and the lyric says everything I want to say. I can see into the heart of him now. I know him, accept him and love him for exactly who he is.
When the song comes to an end, I know he’s behind me. I turn slowly and find him standing close by, dressed in a pair of joggers and black T-shirt, his hair still ruffled, his features uncertain. Without hesitation, I step into his arms and feel them close around me. He nuzzles his head into my neck, and says nothing.
‘I love you.’ Reaching up, I run my fingers through his hair. ‘No matter what. I love everything about you.’
‘And I love you too.’ He pulls back, completely serious, securing his gaze on mine. ‘Yesterday was pretty fucked up.’
‘For both of us.’
But it seems to have done the trick. This morning, he’s calm again. Still tired, but definitely more under control.
‘We’ll get there,’ he whispers with a smile. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’
‘I know you will.’
He closes his eyes. ‘What happened last night …’
I lay a finger on his lips. His eyes open.
‘It won’t happen again,’ I inform him. ‘From now on, we deal with our shit in different ways.’
I remove the finger and he takes his chance.
‘But what I said … about you.’
‘Was right,’ I interrupt. ‘Don’t apologise for making me see the truth.’ My bottom lip begins to quiver. I’d better push out my confession quickly, before I crack. ‘I wanted pain for all the wrong reasons. You get me.’
He smiles tenderly. ‘And you certainly get me.’ The smile deepens and I know he’s about to try his luck. ‘We should get married.’
‘Is that a proposal?’
‘Could be.’
‘But it’s not Saturday.’
‘Bollocks. What day is it?’
‘Tuesday.’
He sighs, and before he can complain, I grab hold of the back of his head and tug him in for a kiss. When I finally release him, he spends a few seconds studying me.
‘I need to go into work,’ he says at last.
And my brain kicks into life, digging up Clive’s words from yesterday: I have a mission.
‘You’re too tired. Take the day off.’
He sighs again.
‘I’d love nothing more, but there are things I need to sort out.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing, sweet pea. If I’m going to sell Fosters, it needs to be in a fit state. Trust me, I don’t have a choice about this.’
I’m simply not going to win this battle. If he stays at home, he’ll only end up an agitated mess. Realising that I’ve just got to let him go, I cup his face in my hands.
‘Then promise you’ll be nice to your employees.’
‘Of course.’ He grins.
‘And promise you won’t work too late.’
‘Promise.’ He nods. ‘And promise me you’ll behave with your bodyguard.’
‘Promise.’ And seeing as I’ve got Beefy back, that won’t be too difficult. ‘I’m just going to paint. There’ll be no drama today.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’ He lands a gentle kiss on my lips. ‘Get on with that triptych. It’s going to be something else.’
***
I’ve started on the right hand side now, gradually luring the face of pleasure out of the shadows, linking it to the left hand panel with undertones of gold and bronze, the occasional touch of red. Stepping back every now and then to check the overall effect, I’m engrossed in a world of colour and form and angles, determined for the symmetry to flow, the light to reflect across all three canvases. I’m musing over the centre panel when my mobile snaps me out of my trance. Putting down the palette and brush, I pick up the phone, disappointed to find that it’s my sister. I’m half tempted to let it ring off, but my old friend, guilt, rears its ugly head. I still haven’t spoken to her since she last met Dan.
‘Sara.’
‘How’s things?’ she asks, her words slightly slurred, her tone overly-chirpy.
‘Fine.’ Wishing that I could just dive back into my own little world, I stare at the canvas.
‘I’m in London,’ she announces.
Oh great. And she’s already had one too many by the sounds of things, and that can only mean one thing: she’ll be wanting to meet up for a sisterly chat.
‘What are you doing down here?’
‘The kids are at Mum’s for a few days. I needed some space. I’m staying in a hotel. Can we meet up?’
And there we go. Completely as expected. My brain stirs into action, desperate to find an excuse, but it doesn’t get far. My better side quickly takes the helm.
‘Of course. Where are you?’
‘In the hotel bar, getting pissed. Come and join me. We’ll have fun.’
I seriously doubt that. I’m just not in the mood for a shed load of wine and a protracted session. The painting’s calling to me and if I get no more done today, then I want to be in a decent state to crack on with it tomorrow. A hangover’s out of the question.
‘Come down to the apartment,’ I suggest.
‘What apartment?’
‘Dan’s apartment.’ I hesitate. ‘Well, it’s mine too … sort of. I mean, I’ve moved in with him.’
There’s a silence.
‘Moved in?’ she asks, perplexed. ‘Isn’t that a bit quick?’
‘Maybe. But it’s what I want. Get a taxi down here.’
Another silence.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?
‘You know our history.’
Of course I know their history. There’s no way of telling what’s going to kick off between these two when they get together again. But it’s not going to happen. At least not yet. I’ll see to that.
‘He’s at work. He won’t be back for ages.’
I listen to the sound of my sister’s breathing. It’s shallow, uneven.
‘I can’t,’ she mutters at last. ‘I just can’t. I haven’t got enough money. And besides, I’m on my … er … second bottle of wine. Come and see me here. Please. I want to talk.’
At this point, I could simply say ‘no’. I could put her firmly in her place. ‘You can’t just turn up out of the blue, get wasted in a hotel bar and demand that I join you.’ But then again, I remind myself, this is my sister all over: always wanting her own way, and usually getting it. I’m about to give in to her demands, and I know it. After all, why change the habit of a lifetime?
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘Some dive in Bayswater. Seaton’s. It’s just off the Queensway.’
And by the sound of it, she’s more than halfway through the second bottle.
‘Stay where you are. I’m on my way.’
With a resigned sigh, I say goodbye to painting for the day. Grabbing a quick shower, I change into a pair of jeans and a Harrods blouse, ruffle my hair, apply a smattering of make-up and I’m ready.
I find Beefy in the lobby.
‘Come on.’ I wave my handbag as I close the front door.
He rises to his feet, a look of pure terror in his eyes. ‘Not another drive?’ he asks.
‘No, even worse.’ I take in a deep breath. ‘We’re going to meet my sister.’
Deciding that it’s best to leave the Jag in the garage, I ask the concierge to call a taxi and before long, we’re taking a ride in the back of a black cab. Under a blanket of cloud, we cross the river and thread our way past Whitehall, Trafalgar Square and Hyde Park, eventually slowing to a crawl in a litter-strewn back street and pulling up outside what seems to be nothing more than a dilapidated townhouse.
‘Jesus.’ I hand over a twenty to the taxi driver. ‘She’s gone really up-market this time.’
With Beefy following on behind, I get out of the taxi, take the steps, o
pen the front door and find myself in a musty hallway. Straight ahead, there’s nothing more than a deserted reception desk, crammed into a space under the stair case, while to the left a set of glass doors lead into the bar.
‘Beefy, can you just wait outside?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.’
He glances round and nods. I watch him go before I make my way through the doors into a ramshackle, neglected mess of a place, crammed with a jumble of mismatched stools and tables. It’s empty … apart from my sister. Perched on a stool at the end of the room, she’s sitting at a table by an unmanned bar. Drawing up another stool, I sit next to her.
She looks up, her hair a tangle, her eyes unfocussed.
‘You’re here,’ she smiles. ‘I’m on my third bottle now.’
‘So, you can afford wine in a hotel, but you can’t afford a taxi?’
‘I don’t want to go to Dan’s place,’ she slurs. ‘And now I can’t walk very far.’ She lets off a thick, drunken laugh. ‘Have a drink.’ She nudges the bottle towards me.
I shake my head.
‘No thanks. And you need to slow down.’
While Sara wobbles about on her seat, I move the glass away from her, noting in the process that it’s smeared with lipstick that belongs to someone else.
‘I can’t stay long,’ I announce. ‘Have you got a room here tonight?’
She nods: a child-like, over-exaggerated nod.
‘Maybe you should just go upstairs and sleep it off.’
‘Nah, I’m enjoying myself too much.’
‘You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘So, what do I look like then?’ Narrowing her eyes until they’re nothing more than tiny slits, she scowls at me.
‘Do you want me to be honest?’
‘Yes please, Mrs look-at-me-in-my-posh-clothes.’
‘Don’t start.’
She leans forwards and tugs at the top. ‘Did he buy you that? Mr Money Bags?’
‘What’s got into you?’
Leaning back again, she almost falls off the stool. Saving herself just in time, she swipes her hand across the table, grabs the glass of wine and takes a huge swig.
‘It’s alright for some.’
‘It’s been alright for you for the past ten years,’ I sneer.
‘And now it isn’t,’ she sneers back. ‘Did you know Geoff’s buggered off with another woman?’
‘Already?’
‘Already. And he’s not having anything to do with the kids.’
‘Then slam him for maintenance and be done with it.’
She lets off a laugh, and I’m glad there’s no one else around because it’s a bloody loud one.
‘Maintenance?’ she cackles. ‘He hasn’t got any fucking money. His sodding business went down the pan months ago. And did he tell me that?’ She taps her chest, swaying again. ‘No. And the house? That’s being … what’s the word?’
‘Repossessed?’
‘That’s the one.’ She laughs again. ‘I’m up shit creek without a …’ She looks at the ceiling for inspiration.
‘Paddle,’ I help her out.
‘So, things are crap,’ she drawls, ‘and I thought I could see my little sister and have a nice chat, and I could tell her all my crap, and she could listen and be all sympathetic and help me out.’ She slams to a halt, trying her best to sit up straight. ‘And anyway, where have you been? You’ve not been answering your phone.’
‘I’ve been away for a couple of days. Out of the country.’
‘Ooh, anywhere nice?’
‘Bermuda.’
Her eyes widen. She leans forwards again, smiling almost benignly.
‘Look at little Maya, falling right on her feet with a rich, sexy man.’ And now her expression morphs, any hint of kindness banished from the grin. ‘It’s just a shame he lied to you.’
‘Knock it on the head,’ I snarl, eyeing up the doorway. I’ve been here for less than five minutes and I’m already thinking about leaving. ‘That’s all sorted, so you can drop it. Focus on your own car crash of a life and leave me alone.’
‘My life isn’t a car crash,’ she hisses. ‘I’ve met someone.’
Thoroughly stunned, I sit bolt upright.
‘Have you?’
‘Yeah.’ Self-satisfaction staggers briefly across her face. ‘He’s lovely.’
‘But you’ve only just split up with Geoff.’
‘And?’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In Oxford.’ She shrugs, turning the glass on the table, leaving a dribble of wine in its wake. ‘Supermarket. Car park. He bumped into my car and asked me out.’
Immediately, I’m on guard. For a start, it’s not every day Sara gets chatted up in a supermarket car park. And what with everything else that’s happened recently, I’m not about to simply fob it off as coincidence.
‘What’s he like?’ I demand.
‘Tall.’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘Meaty, lovely dark hair. Brown eyes. Really nice brown eyes.’ She giggles. ‘And he’s probably got a massive cock, but I haven’t seen it yet.’
I shift about on my seat and glance at the door. Sara’s description of her mystery man is far too familiar for comfort.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Name?’
‘Name. Tell me.’
Confusion creeps into her eyes. ‘James. He’s got a lovely voice.’
‘Scottish?’
‘What?’
‘Is he Scottish?’ I snap.
‘No, silly.’ She chortles. ‘Why are you asking that? He’s English. He lives in Oxford. But …’ She touches the side of her nose. ‘He’s married. I’m his fancy woman. Or I would have been if he’d turned up.’ She waves a hand at the bar.
‘Turned up here?’
Suddenly, things just don’t seem right. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle with electricity. I scan the empty room.
‘Here.’ She prods the table with her index finger. ‘He was supposed to meet me here. We’ve got a room together so we can … you know.’ She smiles, a sugary sweet, drunk as a skunk smile. And then the sweetness dissolves. ‘But he’s chickened out, the bastard. Left me a message.’ She goes on in a false upper class accent, drunkenly trying to mimic him. ‘Something’s come up. Have a drink on me. I’ll pay for it all. Why don’t you just see your sister?’
I freeze. Now why would he say that? Again, I glance at the door. A shaft of sunlight falls through the glass panes. A pair of flies dance in it.
‘How does he know about me?’ I demand.
‘We talked. That’s what you do when you go on a date. I told him about my family. He told me about his.’
No, this isn’t right at all. Fishing my mobile out of my handbag, I hold it on my lap.
‘I don’t like this, Sara.’
‘What don’t you like?’
‘This place. You need to come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to Dan’s flat.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I can’t talk to him.’
‘You don’t have to. I can’t leave you here. Just go and pack your things.’
‘But I’ve had …’ She squints at the wine glass.
I lean across the table. Things have gone far enough. It’s time to bring out my evil twin.
‘I don’t care if you can’t see straight or string a sentence together or walk in a straight line,’ I snarl. ‘Now, go and get your stuff. You can crawl up the fucking stairs for all I care. Just do it.’
Stunned by the force of my own voice, I sit back, silently amazed that my little outburst seems to have done the job. With a distinct wobble, she staggers to her feet, pushes back her stool and zig-zags towards the door. As soon as she disappears from view, I call Dan.
He answers on the first ring.
‘Maya? Is everything alright?’
I close my eyes. Just hearing his voice makes me feel safe.
‘No,�
� I murmur. ‘I’m scared. I think …’
The phone is snatched right out of my hand. Startled, I open my eyes and look up.
Straight into the face of Ian Boyd.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I hear Dan’s voice, faint, shouting my name. Ian Boyd smiles at me and raises the mobile to his ear.
‘It’s okay, Daniel. I’ve got her. She’s fine.’
He ends the call and places the phone on the table. It begins to ring. I see Dan’s name. Boyd hits the ignore call icon.
‘That’s going to get on my nerves,’ he says, his tone light-hearted.
The phone begins to ring again. This time he answers it.
‘Listen here, Daniel, old boy. Like I said, I’ve got her. Maya’s fine. Don’t worry. And I wouldn’t bother with the police if I were you. Things can happen. Know what I mean? Now would you be a good little man and stop bothering me?’ He ends the call with a smile and drops the phone back onto the table. ‘Now. Where was I? Do you think they’ve got crisps behind that bar? I’m a bit peckish.’
I can barely believe what’s happening. I’m sitting in some tawdry dive of a back street bar with Ian Boyd, and he’s chatting away as though we’re old friends meeting up for a drink. I’m retreating, withdrawing inside my head. This isn’t really happening to me. I’m not here. I stare at the carpet, noticing that it’s stained, threadbare in places.
‘I’ve got a bodyguard,’ I inform him. But really, what’s the point? Boyd’s sitting right next to me and unless he came down from a bedroom, it’s a sure-fire certainty that Beefy’s already out of the picture. I just hope he’s okay.
‘Have you?’ He points towards the door. ‘Oh, that big idiot out there? No.’ He shakes his head contemptuously. ‘He’s gone.’
In one fell swoop, my bubble bursts. Denial gives way to fear, and fear to panic. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t mean what I think he means.
‘What have you done to him?’
