CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STRUAN
The phone rings out. Again.
I stare at the screen like it’s personally betrayed me, then hit redial.
Pick up. Come on, Ainsley. Just pick up.
Nothing.
I’m pacing the length of my living room, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the hollow drone of the ringtone. Four rings. Five. Then her voicemail kicks in. “You’ve reached Ainsley Reid. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Ainsley, it’s me. Struan.” I drag a hand through my hair—my newly short hair—and try to sound calm. Reassuring. “Please come back. Or at least let me know you’re okay, aye? I just... I want to know you’re all right.”
I hang up and collapse onto the sofa.
Immediately my leg starts bouncing. Nope. Sitting still isn’t happening. Not right now.
I stand again. Need to keep busy. Need to do something. Anything.
The kitchen. Right. There’s still hair all over the floor.
I head through, grab the dustpan, and sweep up the clippings. It doesn’t take long—a minute, maybe two—and then I’m back to having absolutely nothing to do to occupy myself.
Hmm... the kettle. Tea. Don’t really fancy one, but it’ll keep my hands busy for a few moments.
I fill the kettle and click it on, then lean against the worktop and stare at my phone, willing it to light up.
It does.
My heart lurches—for a second. But it’s not Ainsley’s name on the screen.
Mum
Just bumped into Moira at the seafront. Didn’t tell her ANYTHING
I stare at the message. At that bloody winking emoji. At the way she’s written “ANYTHING” in capitals like she deserves a medal for basic discretion.
Shit.
The way she says it—so pleased with herself—tells me everything I need to know. She’sdyingto tell someone.
Ainsley was right. Our mums aren’t going to be able to keep this to themselves.
No wonder Ainsley panicked. After what she went through with her ex, of course she’s more sensitive to tongues wagging. I should have realised that.Idiot.
The kettle clicks off. I pour water over a teabag and watch the colour bleed into the mug.
Of all the days our mothers could have picked to pop round for an impromptu kitchen viewing. Seriously, just my fucking luck.
I ditch the teabag, add milk, stir, then leave the mug on the worktop and go back to pacing again. Not in the mood for it.
It’s long gone cold when my phone pings again.
Ainsley
