“Nothing, Mum. I thought I owed you a conversation.”
“Oh, you owe me more than that.”
I close my eyes, questioning why I've even bothered. I knew it would be like this, but that word family hasn't left my head since Ivy started saying it. “Are you well, Mother?” I persist.
“And if I wasn’t?” Her question jolts me. Even though there's been little contact over the past years, I’ve assumed everything with Mum has been okay.
“Then I’d hope you’d have told me.” That's the truth. Although the silence on the end of the phone has me thinking the worst. Have I let things get so bad that she won’t even tell me if she’s sick?
“And what would you have done if I had got in contact with you? Half the time, I haven’t known where you were or if you were safe. You’ve spent so many years chasing war or action as a distraction from life, I gave up trying to contact you or hoping you might come home.”
Her words paint a stark reality, and worse, I know it’s all true. I wouldn’t have gone home. And it’s only thanks to a ballsy reporter, who happens to be sexy as sin, that I’m even having this conversation. Perhaps Ivy's been just the impetus I need to start making amends for some of the wrongs in my past.
“I’m coming back. That’s the other reason I’m calling.” Hearing Mum has all but given up is also what I need. This is something I need to repair before it's too late. I can arrange a flight out easily enough. Hotel or Airbnb will suffice until I know what the next step of this plan is.
“For good?”
That isn’t a question I know the answer to right now. “I’d like to visit Mum. You’re right. It’s been too long.”
“Where in the world are you, anyway?”
“Right now, Afghanistan.”
The pause on the other line is pregnant with a hundred words I know she wants to say. “Haven’t you spent enough time in that place? Why, after everything, you would want to-”
“Mum, it’s fine. Look, I have a few things to arrange, but I’ll be out to visit once I’ve got settled. A couple of days tops.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
The line goes dead.
“Shit.”
I’ve spent so long focused on what's next—my next photo, my next assignment—I’ve ignored the past and who I might be hurting by shutting them out. But I never considered that door would be closed forever. Perhaps I’ve taken more than just Dan’s continued friendship for granted.
I look around the room—nothing more than a carry-on bag of luggage. I can’t even come up with something I’ll miss from being in this hellhole. My mind churns over the things to organise, but the list is damn short. The SUV will go to Manny, but after I arrange a flight and book somewhere to stay in London, I’m set.
Easy.
If I am going back, it will allow me to look a particular journalist up. After all, it’s Ivy Broderick who started all of this.
Chapter Six
IVY
After the delayed disaster that was my flight home yesterday from Istanbul, I just about made it into bed without falling up the stairs to my apartment. I stir a little more, gently opening my eyes in the hope that the bright light doesn’t kill me. It did at six a.m. when I landed in Heathrow, so it’s likely it still could. Luckily for me, the curtains seem to be doing something valuable, and I only get a slight slice of the sun streaming in through the crack in them.
Home.
I stare around sluggishly at all the familiarity, taking in the dark blue wallpaper and the heavy art deco features the apartment reflects. Dressing table in place, wardrobes and drawers all set up just like I left them. It’s comforting. If comforting can be considered something I’m ever that bothered about. Maybe all that aggravation with Blake and the team and Asif is bedded into my guts more than I thought it was. I feel safe here. Quietly at ease with myself again.
Time passes slowly for a while, and I end up showering at my own leisure and making some breakfast come lunch with what little is in the fridge. I need to order something in. I should shop, but I rarely do. Mainly because I’m barely here other than skipping in and out. I eat out, drink out, and if not that, then sometimes I go back to Earlwood and raid the cupboards there. This is simply a base. A base I love, and one I spent a lot of money on, but there’s no passion for it—no longevity. I don’t know where that longevity will eventually be, but it won’t be here, that’s for sure.
I slump on my huge, blue sofa as my gaze casts out to the other Art Deco mansion complex opposite this one. The dimmer screens grey the view, but it’s nice in here. Perfectly presented. Modernistic. Sleek. All the things I wanted when I redesigned it, but it’s missing something. I’ve never known what. All my trinkets are here from travelling, and all the expensive things a single girl about town should own. It’s just—bare. Maybe I need another redesign.
The image of Seffi’s new life in Paris comes into my mind after a while, and I stand to go and get dressed. The phone gets switched to loud-speaker, and I’m tossing it on the bed and rifling through my drawers while it rings.
“Hi Ivy,” she says, answering the call. “Where are you?” I chuckle and shirk into my skinny jeans, grabbing a bra in the next breath.
