Her poor baby. Flora took a few steps forwards, her breath ragged, still clutching her side, trying to press the stitch away. ‘Dylan!’ she called.
‘Dylan!’ a woman’s voice echoed.
Flora’s voice was drowned by another. A woman, running up toherboyfriend,her love, and jumping into his arms, wrapping her long, brown legs around his waist, her copper curls cascading down her back.
Flora bent over, in physical pain, feeling as though she might throw up as the woman leaned forward, kissingherDylan deeply on the lips.
She had lost him. And it was all Heather’s fault.
35
My brain feels woozy. The images of that day are still all jumbled up so that nothing is clear. I just wish I could remember more. Everything aches, my head, my limbs, and I never feel warm.
Underneath all the fear and the guilt, I know that Dylan is to blame. He was the one who caused a rift between us. He’s the one with the secrets.
Unfortunately he’s not the only one. Uncle Leo. My mind keeps going back to him yet I can’t quite figure out why. I only know that he’s an important piece in the puzzle I’m trying to work out in my chemically fogged brain.
36
Jess
When my alarm goes off the next morning I’m surprised to find myself lying on top of the duvet, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Rory isn’t next to me. I touch his side of the bed, the covers still pristine and wrinkle-free. Did he come home last night? I feel a stab of fear and sit up, blinking in the early-morning light that seeps around the edges of the bedroom curtains, my mouth dry.
Despite my self-enforced rule not to drink during the week I’d been so freaked out by discovering someone had been outside my front door that I opened a bottle of wine and drank the lot. I must have staggered in here and collapsed in a heap on the bed. I’d wanted to blot everything out: the fear, the loneliness, the fact someone’s watching me.
I get up and go into the kitchen, hoping that maybe Rory fell asleep on the sofa. But it’s all just as I left it yesterday.
I check my phone, but nothing from Rory. What if something’s happened to him?
I click the kettle on, then stand in the kitchen and call Rory on my mobile. Eventually I hear a raspy ‘Hello?’
‘Rory. It’s me. Where are you? Are you okay?’
There’s a rustling sound, as though he’s getting out of bed. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Ian said I could stay at his so that I could have a few drinks.’
My stomach lurches. We’ve been together for nearly three years and he’s never stayed out without letting me know. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ It’s not like Rory to play games.
He sighs. ‘I thought you’d be busy. We never see each other much anyway. You’re always out.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, hurt. My mobile feels hot against my ear.
‘You’re in Tilby a lot …’ The words ‘with Margot’ are left unsaid but I know he’s thinking them. He clears his throat. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I should have called. I’m angry with you and I’m trying to punish you.’
Typical Rory, telling me how it is. Despite myself I can’t help a small sad smile. I nod, even though he can’t see me.
‘But that’s not going to get us anywhere, is it?’ His voice is tinged with regret.
‘No,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m teaching all week in Hanham. But I’ll be home at six. Okay. Then we can talk. Properly.’ This is more like the Rory I know and love. The Rory who always has to find a solution, who hates going to bed on an argument, who prefers to clear the air. He’s not the type to mooch about for a week in a mood, refusing to discuss our problems. Unlike me.
‘Okay, that would be good,’ I say, closing my eyes, relief flooding through me. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’ Thephone goes dead, but I leave it pressed to my ear for a couple of seconds anyway, listening to nothing.
I met Rory at a party in Hammersmith. I had just turned twenty-nine and was still reeling from the breakdown of my first serious long-term relationship. I hadn’t planned on meeting anyone that night. I had sworn off men.
I’d been sitting on the sticky threadbare carpet, my back against the woodchip wallpaper, nursing a beer and wondering why I’d bothered to come. My friend and colleague Anita, from theStandard– where I was working at the time – was dancing in the middle of the room with a group of people I’d never seen before, jumping up and down to the Strokes with an abandon I wish I’d felt.
‘You look like you need cheering up,’ a voice said, and a guy with floppy dark hair, striking navy-blue eyes and an impish grin sat down next to me. He had on flares and a retro 1970s shirt with a swirly orange print. Even though it was hideous he managed to carry it off. He must have noticed me staring at it because he’d blushed a little and glanced down at his clothes. ‘Yeah. Sorry about the get-up. I’ve just come from a seventies party. It was shite.’
