‘I make people think badly of you, Gregory. I make you angry. I make you do things you shouldn’t have to do. And you make me— I just don’t know how I got here. I don’t know who I was or who I am any more. I’m outside a bar in Chelsea cryingand wasted. Since when do I behave like this? I… I don’t know anything any more.’
‘You know you love me.’ His words are calm and quiet. A test.
‘I do love you, Gregory. But I don’t know who you are either because you won’t let me in.’
‘You do know me, Scarlett. You do.’ The panic is back in his voice, despite knowing I’m safe. ‘No one has ever known me like you, understood me when I can’t say the things I think and feel. No one has ever come close to breaking down my walls. Only you, baby.’
‘You say these things and it makes me think— Gregory, I don’t even know if you love me.’
I pause, waiting, but he doesn’t say a word. His heavy breath comes down the line and my heart aches in my chest.
‘How can you do and say things like I’m yours and I’m your purpose and not know if you love me?’
His silence gives me the obvious answer. He tells me what I need to hear for now, until this whole mess is over. He wants me to be able to move on. That’s why the police: so when we’re over, I’ll be able to accept his plea of self-defence as my own, if it works. He doesn’t want me. I won’t keep waiting, humiliating myself. He’s been forced to stay with me and that’s not what I want.
‘Gregory?’
‘Yes.’
I take a deep breath, my shoulders chugging back against the cold brick wall. ‘I’ve been asked to move to Dubai with work. For six months. On secondment.’
Silence.
‘I’m going to go, Gregory. I’m going to go to Dubai. So if you love me, tell me now.’
‘Scarlett!’ Amanda shouts as she lands in front of my face, making me drop my phone. ‘I was looking for you. Ed’s come to pick me up. We’ll drop you home.’
I shake my head and press the heel of my hand against my brow as it begins to throb. I look up and try to focus on Amanda but she just won’t stand still.
‘Oh, God, Scarlett, are you going to be sick?’
I nod my head then somehow stand and take two steps towards the corner and throw up. I heave as it just keeps coming.
‘Scarlett, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for us to fight,’ Amanda says as she holds my hair back.
Then my legs give way and I’m being lifted through the smoking area, back inside and along the corridor to the front of the bar.
‘I’ll get the door,’ Amanda says.
‘I’ve got it,’ Gregory snaps. He opens the door, still holding me against his chest, then sits me down into the passenger seat of his Lamborghini and buckles me in.
‘Look after her.’ I can’t open my eyes but I know if I could, Gregory would be glaring at Amanda. ‘I don’t like you, Gregory; you’ve broken her. But I want my best friend back and it seems like you’re the only person who can fix her.’
The car door is closed and I lean my head against the cold window before the driver door is opened and shut and the car is moving.
18
My head feels like concrete. Actually, it feels like it’s been bashed by concrete. Concrete that’s been dropped from the top of a skyscraper and landed sharp edge down, perfectly in the centre of my skull. I don’t dare move. Opening my eyes seems like an impossible feat, one which should be attempted with extreme caution. Despite my effort, my lids are just too heavy to peel back and expose my no doubt bloodshot whites and constricted pupils to the world.
My mouth is dry but strangely tastes of mint. With monumental effort, I roll from my foetal position to my back and straighten my legs. That small act alone sets off a bass drum in my temples and at the bottom of my skull. Groaning, I move my hands to my face and slowly, very slowly, behind the safety of my fingers, I open my eyes. They feel sore, bruised even, as I rub life into them with my fingertips. When I’ve amassed the courage I need, I drop my hands to the duck feather pillow above my head and expose myself to the sunlight creeping through the sides of the crushed silk curtains. It comes to meslowly, my brain reacting to each new detail as I turn my head around the bedroom. The large, Georgian sash bay window with soft beige cushions turning the ledge into a seat is hidden by the teal curtains. The abstract art on the walls. The large, gothic hanging mirror. The familiar, soft brown-black leather sofa in one corner of the room and the matching ottoman at the bottom of the king bed I’m lying in. Gregory is perched on the end of the bed resting his elbows on his spread legs.
I push myself up to sit, holding onto my head with one hand to stop it from falling off, and groaning under the strain of the small movement. I’m wearing a silk nightdress that I don’t recall putting on.
‘There’s isotonic water on the side table,’ he grumbles without looking at me.
There are also two white pills. I assume they’re paracetamol but right now, I don’t care what they are; I’ll try anything. I pop them on my tongue and wash them down with the disgusting, pink isotonic drink.
‘You brought me to the farm?’ I ask, once my twisted face has returned to normal. The same twisted face I pulled after those lethal shots of tequila.
