Ash pokes his head around the door frame from the direction of the kitchen. ‘No, I said I only kept what I needed.’
‘You needed my bike gear?’
He shrugs. ‘When you left, I took you at your word. Doesn’t mean I didn’t also sometimes dream that you’d come back.’
I frown. ‘But if you knew there was a chance of that happening, why didn’t you reach out to me yourself? And why were you so hateful towards me when Ididcome on Saturday?’
He sighs and walks towards me. I back up so he can sit down at the end of the bed and then I take a seat next to him.
‘By that point, I’d convinced myself that I genuinely never wanted to see you again, fully talked myself into hating you.’
Pain lances my heart. ‘You did seem to detest me.’
‘It was better than the alternative.’
‘Which was?’
‘Giving up.’
His words stay with me all day. They plague me as we ride to Kington to pick up my boots. It’s hard to connect to the journey, to enjoy being his passenger again, the rush of air, the freedom. Even as we cross back over the English border into Cymru – the Welsh name for Wales – I can’t shed the darkness. There’s still so much he doesn’t understand.
When he suggests that we go out for dinner, I agree, thinking that this conversation might best be had in a public setting where I can’t crumble.
I’m not just worried about my reaction. I’m worried about his.
When we’re seated opposite each other at the pub afterordering, I take a ragged breath, bracing myself. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘What is it?’ he asks warily, his previously relaxed posture growing tense.
‘The counselling I’ve been doing this year … I’ve been looking back at my childhood, trying to get to grips with the way I was raised, unpicking the past and making sense of things.’
His brows draw together and he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
‘I know I gave you no chance to talk me out of leaving that day—’
‘You didn’t have a choice,’ he interrupts. ‘My father had fucked you over with your job.’
‘That’s true. But you must have felt so hurt and abandoned. You were going through a lot too.’
He swallows, giving me the slightest nod.
‘My need to escape was overwhelmingly powerful. I wasterrifiedof your father.’ His grip on my hand tightens. ‘I used to know someone just like him. They were uncannily similar, from the way they spoke to the way they talked, even down to the way they smiled.’
I take a shuddering breath, steeling myself. Ash is beginning to look freaked out, but I try not to let his expression put me off saying what needs to be said.
‘When I was thirteen, my parents pulled me out of the state school I’d attended for two years with Stella and put me in private school. I hated it. I was so out of my comfort zone. I didn’t fit in and I missed Stella, but if I expressed any pain,my parents, especially my mum, came down on me like a ton of bricks.’
Ash squeezes my hand again, concerned.
‘The thing is, they didn’t put me into private school for my own benefit,’ I continue. ‘They did it for theirs. They used me to make connections with wealthy clients. It’s how they built their business.’ I swallow. ‘But I was a fish out of water. My mum made me join clubs and audition for plays, even though the thought of being up on a stage in front of strangers made me break out in a cold sweat. I didn’t get a part in either the Christmas play or the spring one, but we all went as a family to watch them anyway so that Mum and Dad could mingle with other parents. My mum had done her research before the spring play – she knew that the boy starring in it had a father who was a newspaper editor and a mother who worked at a style magazine. He was also one of the many kids who had not bothered to show up to the excruciating fourteenth birthday party my parents threw for me. When Mum realised after the play that she had another opportunity to make a connection, she insisted that I go up to congratulate him on his performance.’ My breathing feels constricted even now. ‘But when this boy saw me coming, he point-blank ignored me. My parents swooped in with a charm offensive on his mum and dad, and he got told off for not being more polite. It wasmortifying. But as we were leaving—’ I break off to swallow. My throat feels so dry. ‘His father shook my hand. But he didn’t just shake it, he ran his thumb over my wrist and pressed down. It sounds like nothing.’
I reach for my drink and take a sip, trying to swallow thebile creeping up my throat. Ash’s expression has become very apprehensive.
‘But he did it with meaning, and the look in his eyes …’ I take another shaky breath. ‘My parents felt like they’d nailed it because he and his wife commissioned them to design a bespoke sofa range. A couple of weeks later, we were invited to go to their house for dinner, to talk about a colour palette and inspiration for the range and to see the space where the sofas would sit. I didn’t want to go. I had a bad feeling about that father, but when I confided in my mum that he creeped me out, she told me not to be ridiculous. She insisted that I join them. I kept feeling his eyes on me, and he kept asking me questions, trying to come off as polite and interested. My mum in particular lapped it up. I wanted to leave, but the night wore on and on. Their son disappeared upstairs to his room, making it clear I wasn’t welcome, so I had to stay at the table with the adults. I don’t know if you remember me telling you that when they drink, my mum gets meaner and my dad gets louder?’
Ash nods. He’s looking gravely concerned.
‘Well, my mum started making belittling comments about my dad and me, and Dad was getting louder and louder, and it was embarrassing. I just wanted a hole in the ground to swallow me up. Eventually, I escaped to the toilet, and when I came out, the father was there.’
