Allegra sagged into my side with silent relief.
“So that’s a yes on Allegra transferring?”
Mamma sniffled dramatically. “I suppose so.”
Dad grinned. “It’s yes from me. Let me know if you need me to make any calls, sweetheart,” he said to Allegra. “I gotta get back on set. Love you, girls.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Ti amo, Wes.”
I hung up before my mother could start in on my paleness again. Turning to Allegra, I gave her a reassuring smile. “This will all work out.”
She nodded slowly, still not entirely convinced. “Yeah. I’m sure it will.”
My little sister had locked me in a library all night with a guy I barely knew at my place of work, and yet somehow, I ended up feeling like the bad guy. While she promised we were okay, she disappeared into her room and didn’t come back out.
The guilt worsened the next morning when I got ready for work, only to discover that Allegra was already up and packed. She’d booked a flight from Inverness to London to catch an afternoon flight back to LA. She’d also already called for a car on the estate. Even though we hugged and said we loved each other, things felt strained.
Pulling back from the hug, she looked me in the eye and said, “I hope you wake up, Ari. I hope you wake up and start living again.”
I knew she hadn’t meant to hurt me with the words, but still, they stung. Watching her get into the SUV to head home, I worried I’d made the wrong decision by suggesting she stay in college. And as I walked into the house, it echoed with emptiness again. Striding through, I noticed the absence of her belongings. Her sketch pad, tablet, phone cables, makeup, jewelry. She was so messy.
I missed the mess.
Grabbing a coffee and yogurt, I sat down at the breakfast nook and stared out at the gray sea beyond. Then I looked back into the open-plan living space.
To all the emptiness.
My vision blurred as tears quietly fell down my cheeks.
Eleven
NORTH
Just checking you’re doing OK. Haven’t heard from you in a while.
The text from Emma, my ex-foster mum, made me feel both grateful and guilty. She’d sent it an hour ago. Emma and her husband Nick were two of the first people to reach out to me when the tabloids got hold of the story about Gil MacDonald. Considering they knew the truth, they were concerned about me. I’d assured them I was fine and staying at the club for a while, but that was the last I’d spoken to them. A look at the texts above this new one from Emma reminded me she’d texted while I was in my drunken stupor phase. And I hadn’t responded.
Shit.
I was on my way to collect mail. Usually, the underbutlers brought us our mail, but security had requested I pick it up from them and I was trying not to overanalyze why.
The inquiry from Emma was a pleasant distraction. I tried calling her as I made my way downstairs from where I’d been playing my guitar in the castle turret. The turret was as you’d expect—a small, cylindrical room with narrow, medieval-stylewindows. It had been transformed into a snug library with built-in bookshelves and a comfortable armchair. Carpeted, it didn’t have the best acoustics, but the walls were thick and it was built up and out from the rest of the building, so I knew I wouldn’t disturb anyone with my music.
I’d written a song about Aria.
The call to Emma would distract me from the woman who was currently tormenting my every waking thought. Unfortunately, it went to her voicemail.
“Hi, Emma, it’s North. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I was … aye, admittedly I wasn’t in a very good place when you texted a few weeks ago, but that’s no excuse. I’m doing better now, though. We’re just sitting tight, hoping the studio might change its mind about the Blake Forster movie. I’ll keep you posted. I promise. And I hope you and Nick and the kids are all well. Let me know. Love to you all.” Hanging up, I felt mildly less guilty.
This morning I’d locked myself in the turret to avoid several emails from different members of what I called my management team. Charlie, the bloke in charge of the houses I’d invested my money in, wanted me to let out my London apartment. I let out my loft in Brooklyn because maintenance costs were so high that it only made sense to rent it when I wasn’t using it. But my London flat was a place I liked to know I could go whenever I needed it. It was my home base, if you will.
Fuck.
I didn’t want to rent it out, but with the future so uncertain, I might just have to. Even with the discount Lachlan Adair had offered me for the week in recompense for Allegra Howard’s prank, Ardnoch was costing a small fortune.
