‘Uh huh.’ I took some deep breaths. Whether it was the fear, or the cold, talking to Oliver was giving me a much needed distraction from all of it.
‘Stay warm.’ The line went dead.
I kept the phone to my ear, not believing that he had hungup on me. He wouldn’t have. No one wasthatmuch of an arsehole.
Apparently Oliver-motherfucking-Blake was. Why did I call him? What could he have done even if he wasn’t a class A dipshit? I shouldn’t have called him—when I clearly meant so little to him.
Feeling more pathetic than I had done in quite some time, I burrowed deeper under the duvet, practically hot boxing myself underneath the heavy blanket.
An hour—or maybe it was only five minutes—passed. The radiator hadn’t turned itself on, neither had my lights, but I passed the time trying not to let my panic swallow me whole, by watching Bake Off on my laptop.
A show where the biggest stress people had was making sure they timed their cakes right, and didn’t over whip the batter. It sucked me in, almost, but not quite, letting me forget about the pitch black state of my flat.
Paul Hollywood was giving a contestant a handshake for a well made tray of mini cheesecakes when someone pounded hard on my front door.
I bolted upright. Fear strangling me.
I’m going to die. Right now, in my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas is how I’m going to die.
The pounding continued.
I slipped out from under my haven of warmth, wincing as the cold floor seeped through my socks turning my toes numb.
‘Fallon,’The potential murderer called from the other side of the door.
My heart leapt into my throat.
Trust my luck that the person who was going to kill me was someone I know. Isn’t that a statistic though? You’re more likely to be killed by someone you know than a stranger.
‘Fallon, open the door.’ The voice came again, louder.
Wait.
I turned the torchlight on my phone and directed it at the door.
‘Oliver?’ I called in a wobbly voice.
‘Yes, it’s me for God's sake.’
Perhaps not a murderer then, but after his abrupt ending to our phone call, my feelings of civility towards him were on thin ice.
I shuffled to the door and peered through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t just someone calling themselves Oliver.
Through the distorted lens I saw… nothing. The hallway was completely dark, all I could make out was the vague movements of someone out there.
I twisted the four locks on my door and cracked the door open, deciding that even if I died at least I wouldn’t feel this bloody cold anymore.
Through the strip of light coming from my phone, I saw the outline of him.
Oliver, stood with his hands burrowed deep in his pockets, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a huge black coat on that touched his calves. He looked blissfully warm.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed, keeping the door open only enough to see the vague silhouette of his features.
He stepped closer, presumably so he could see me better. His hair stuck up in all directions and his face was creased in a look of supreme concern.
‘You called me,’ he said.
‘You hung up,’ I snapped back.
