‘It was just Flynn, Daddy,’ she answers with an unconcerned flip of her hand. ‘I checked before I opened it.’
‘That’s not the point. When I ask you not to do something, I expect you to pay attention. Do you hear me?’ With each word, my tone becomes louder. Fiercer. ‘You don’t know who could be lurking on the other side of the door. There are bad people out there!’ Like newspaper reporters and her nut of a mother.
I don’t often yell, and when I do so, Sorcha’s expression fills me with remorse immediately. Her wee eyes brim with tears, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Come on now, chicken hen,’ Agnes says softly, providing us all with something else to focus on. ‘Let’s get a wriggle on, or we’ll be late for school.’
Flynn adds his own brand of specialness to the moment, exaggeratedly wiggling his arse as he leaves the kitchen. ‘I’ll be wriggling on out this way. See you in the car, Princess Scorcher.’
Grabbing Sorcha’s school branded bag from the worktop, Agnes levels me with a look full of censure before she follows, leaving Sorcha and I alone.
‘I promise I’ll try to remember next time,’ my daughter says, directing her words to her black shiny Mary Janes.
‘I know you will. I’m sorry I’m in such a bad mood.’ My words are rough as I bend to place a kiss on her head. It’s been a mindfuck of a night, but she doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my worries and fears. I fucking hate telling her off at the best of times, though I do so, for her own good mostly. But this is different. This is me lashing out because of my fear she’ll be taken away from me. Before I realise I’ve even done it, I’ve pulled her wee body up against me, my arms wrapped around her so tight.
‘Ew, Daddy! You’re all wet,’ she complains, struggling against me. ‘Wet and icky.’
‘Sorry, darlin’.’ I set her back on her feet again. ‘And sorry I can’t take you to school this mornin’.’
‘Are you okay?’ Her blue eyes stare up at me as though trying to decipher my thoughts. ‘You’re not sick or anything, are you? Because—’
‘I’m fine,’ I answer, cutting her off. ‘I’m just very busy this morning. Lots to do. Sorry I can’t take you to school.’
‘That’s okay,’ she says, swinging on her wee heel before skipping out of the kitchen. The rest of her words are chucked over her shoulder, her thoughts already on other things. ‘Flynn says he’ll stop and get me a hot chocolate before school.’
‘Only if Agnes says,’ I call back as the door to the garage slams shut. Then I realise I haven’t braided her hair.
I grab a glass, filling it with water from the dispenser on the fridge, then pull open the fridge door to contemplate the contents. Close it again. Drink the water. Then do the thing I’ve been avoiding all morning. I open my phone and answer the message I’d received late last night.
Arriving at Gatwick on the 10:50 from LA. Pick me up, or shall I go straight to the offices of the Daily Mail?
In answer, I type out,I’ll be there.
Chapter 25
KEIR
She arrives in a cloud of perfume and animosity. It’s unsettling to see her walk towards me, almost like going back in time. From a distance, she looks like the same woman I fell in love with all those years ago, yet she’s also the same woman who walked away. There are so many memories, and the bad far outweigh the good. Yet as she draws nearer, I can’t help but acknowledge she’s still beautiful, and she draws attention to herself like she could be on film.And likely is, though not the way she feels she deserves to be.
I imagine she’s seen a few casting couches in her time. That’s why she left, supposedly. She decided she was too young to be a mother and a wife.
Her impulsiveness once endeared her to me. She was fun and spontaneous in the beginning, but she’s as ruthless as she is charming. Reckless and immoral. She thinks of no one but herself.
‘Darling.’ Her nails are pink talons she rests on my shoulder as she leans in to kiss my cheek. And I let her, while hating myself. But we’re playing a game here. It’s been two years since I saw her last. Two years since she walked into my office, trying to sweet-talk money out of me while threatening me with court. Today, I hate to say it, but she has the upper hand.
‘Jayne.’ I feel nothing in her embrace—feel nothing but her countenance stiffen with displeasure as she pulls away.Plain Jayne.She hates her name and changed it to Gianna years ago, shortly after she left for the US, I think. And though I can see the changes in her now that she’s in front of me, she’s still anything but plain. She certainly doesn’t look thirty-two years old, let alone old enough to have borne a child Sorcha age.
She’s tall and lithe. Dressed from head to toe in high fashion, she carries a designer purse in hand. These things remain a constant in her life. Appearances mean everything, and she is always flawless. But all the same, I hate myself for noticing the differences in her. Her long hair, an expensively tended-to shade of blonde, is a little darker, her mouth a little fuller. Her tits a little larger. She makes me think of one of those wee dolls Sorcha played with for about five minutes. She’s never been a doll kind of girl. She likes animals. Games. A wee bit of science.
‘Shall we?’
Before I turn to make my way to the exit, I take the handle of her case from her grip, and after a slight incline of her head, she follows me to the car. We don’t speak until we’re at the hotel.Centrally located, five stars.I usually find myself footing the bill, but this time, she asks me to wait while she checks herself in.
A new boyfriend? Maybe a wealthy or jealous one. Maybe both. It’s a novel experience for her not to expect me to pick up the bill. I often feel like I’m the one getting fucked, but instead, it looks like she’s screwing some other idiot for a change.
A liveried member of the concierge team walks by the coffee shop with her luggage.Her Louis Vuitton trolley case.Small enough for her to take herself. A case that indicates she doesn’t intend to stay in London long.Thankfully.
‘Are you coming up?’ She’s suddenly standing in front of me, all but batting her lashes, her voice a sultry purr.
