‘But I asked for it,’ I say, raising my watery gaze to him. ‘Literally—I called him. Alluded toit. What was he supposed to think?’
‘That you’d changed your mind. That you’re entitled to say no, like any decent man would.’
‘He was just a kid. We both were.’
‘His ears were old enough to hear no. That’s the bottom line. It’s not your fault this happened to you.’
17
Archer
I spentmuch of the rest of the night watching her, rearranging all the puzzle pieces of a girl named Heather. The puzzle I thought I’d solved when, in reality, I’d been trying to force the pieces together without the benefit of the box. Without the context, I suppose.
Life is unfair. We all know that, just as we all personally know someone who’s been dealt a shitty hand. I don’t want to feel sorry for her. I know she wouldn’t want me to feel any kind of pity. I understand that intrinsically. But I also know that we can’t always command our emotions. And I went through a range of them before the sun came up. I’m glad she slept on oblivious because many of my reactions weren’t very pretty.
As the sky turned from indigo to grey, and the light began to creep across the floor like a thief, I realised it all made sense because Heather doesn’t truly self-deprecate; her comments about herself are not light-hearted or blithe. They’re not things she accepts about herself but deals with humorously. What she does is self-denigrate. She vilifies herself for her choices. Punishes herself for her past mistakes. From the choices others have taken away.
She blames herself.
And that I can’t take.
It’s no fucking wonder I barely slept a wink.
But she slept on soundly, the pillows on the other side of the room, and the red tones of her hair spread across the white sheets instead. Sheets strewn with breadcrumbs and smudged with cheese, harbouring a wine stain or two. And yes, other things. She finally came awake, she did so abruptly, with a snort, in fact, bolting upright like she’d forgotten something. Judging by the way she looked at me, things came back into focus pretty quick.
And that’s when things began to disintegrate.
18
Heather
‘At least letme give you a lift home.’
‘That’s not necessary. I already have a train ticket.’ I wave my purse as though to prove it, and in doing so, I only manage to glance at him. I’m finding it so difficult to look at him, not because of what we did last night, though ohmygod, that should be reason enough. Because the places that man touched, the things he whispered in my ear, I’m not sure I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror ever again, never mind look at him.
But again, that isn’t the reason. And I think we both know that. Earlier, Archer had tried to bring the conversation back around to that night, but I’d pretended not to hear, bustling myself into the bathroom instead. I’d sat on the toilet with my hands over my eyes, and when I’d judged I’d been in there long enough for the thread of conversation to have been lost, I had a little freak when I realised I’d been in there so long he probably thought I was doing something else.
Yes,that.
‘It seems silly when we’re heading the same way. If nothing else, it’ll stop you from getting soaked.’
I glance at the window and the torrent of rain that started half an hour ago. I didn’t bring an umbrella or my big coat. But those aren’t the bigger of my concerns. As I turn from the window, I’m already shaking my head.
‘No, really. It’s fine. I’d still have to get the tube from Shoreditch.’ Shoreditch, where he lives. Unless he’s suggesting—
‘I’m offering a door to door service. You can’t get better than that.’
‘But I can get a coffee on the train,’ I babble ridiculously.
‘Or, revolutionary idea here, we could stop at the services, and I could treat you to a god-awful Starbucks. Maybe even a spot of breakfast.’ We’d already decided to pass on a breakfast here at the hotel, mainly because it will probably be full of hungover E11even staff shovelling down restorative sausage, bacon, and eggs.Bleurgh.
‘Of course, you don’t like Starbucks.’ Why does this sound like an insult?
‘I think I like overpriced froth as much as the next man.’
‘Urgh.’ I find my nose scrunching. ‘A coffee snob.’ Another example of how this would never work between us—not that this is what he’s offering. It’s just a lift, stupid.
‘Oh, I forgot. You’re probably more a grande mocha-choca-caramel macchiato, hold the milk, right?’
