Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  And with that, he manoeuvres his manic cargo through the open door.

  ‘Hey, Malady. TripAdvisor called!’ yells Nat and her parting shot. ‘They want you to know your vag won first place as the most visited place in Scotland award!’

  ‘I’ll fuck you up!’ she yells, her voice moving away down the hall.

  ‘And I’m gonna tell everyone you’ve got ginger pubes!’

  ‘Not helpful,’ I say, the distant protests of Melody still calling out.

  ‘It’s making me feel better,’ Nat retorts. ‘She gets on my tits. She’s a real cock pocket—a fucking cunt canoe.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘And what did tall, dark and fuck me mean by find him?’

  ‘He’s not dark.’ Not terribly.

  ‘His fucking mood was,’ she says, carrying on. ‘So does he mean find him now, or when he’s sorted his head out?’

  Oh, hell. ‘He means find him—over at the house.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Fin

  ‘The world is a-fucking-gainst me.’

  ‘What? What’s gone on? Who do I need to open a can of I’ll-fuck-you-up on?’

  ‘No one.’ At least not yet. In Ivy’s tiny Fiat, I sit at the entrance to the rapidly flooding causeway, the rain pounding against the windscreen so hard the wipers can barely cope with the downpour. I’d be risking it crossing in a SUV. In this tiny Italian tin can I’d be afloat in no time.

  I’d followed Rory out of the salon; he’d had maybe a half hour head-start at best. I should have followed him straight away but I’d panicked and second guessed. Would he still want me? Was I going to him only to be spurned? But there was only one course of action; I needed to find him. To explain. To tell him how much he means to me.

  Time and tide wait for no one? Fuck Nature. The only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out is Nat on the other end of the line.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah. Yes, I am. But I’m not where I want to be, because the fucking tide has fucking well come in.’ I’m not going to cry or sob, but I didn’t say I wasn’t going to wail.

  ‘Ah, no way. What’s to do?’

  ‘I’m just going to sit here and stare at the ocean until it goes the other way.’ Sit here and stare over the small stretch while thinking about what a fuck up I am.

  ‘Don’t be an arse. It’ll be hours before it’s safe to cross. Come back and we’ll make some sort of a plan.’

  ‘There’s no planning my way out of this one. And what if Malady turns up again?’

  ‘That’s not likely. She’ll no’ show her face again for a while, not after showing her real one today.’

  ‘I’m such a dumb—’

  ‘If you say fuck again June says to tell you she’ll wash out your mouth.’

  ‘I’m on speaker phone?’ My question is more groan than actual words.

  ‘That you are, dearie,’ comes June’s cheery tone. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were so keen on the young man?’

  ‘I don’t think I realised myself until today. I told myself it was just, well, sex.’

  ‘There’s no such thing, hen.’

  ‘Unless your name is Natasha,’ the woman herself scoffs.

  ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that,’ says June dryly. ‘You might not have mentioned him, but I could tell the minute you walked in he meant a lot to you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I guess I just wanted to keep him—it all—to myself.’

  ‘Apart from that first time.’ Nat chuckles. ‘You know, when Ivy got shit-faced drunk? You shared plenty then.’

  ‘Oh, did she kiss and tell?’ asks June, a kind of starry-eyed thrilled.

  ‘There wasnae much talk about kissing, but her skirt was full of tells.’

  I brace my free arm on the steering wheel. Then bang my head on it repeatedly.

  ‘What was that?’ June sounds startled, so I stop.

  ‘She’s probably head-butting the steering wheel.’

  ‘Young lady,’ June chastises. ‘You come home.’

  So I do.

  Crossing, take two, is much later. It’s dark and still wet. Actually, the weather is wet enough to put anyone off travelling over an already ocean swept road. Not that I’m completely alone, it seems, as a silver van follows me. The winding roads aren’t the easiest to navigate in the dry or daytime; wet and at night they’re almost frightening, my hands grasping the wheel so tight that I have to keep flexing my fingers to ease the strain. The trailing van doesn’t help, sitting on my tail, its lights bright enough to make me anxious.

  I finally slow as my headlights sweep the weather-worn sandstone lions; the gatekeepers of Tremaine House. Rubbing my temples, I make the tight turn almost one handed, the beginnings of a stellar headache kicking in.

  ‘Asshole,’ I mumble as the van passes the end of driveway slowly. For a moment, I thought it might follow me.

  At the back of the house, I park near the stables, right next to Rory’s truck. The cottage is empty, I can tell. It looks kind of abandoned, though that could be my anxieties speaking here. I don’t get out of the car, not right away. The prospect of seeing him, of explaining my idiocy, is all too terrifying. But I’ve come this far, and some might see it as some sort of kismet that we’ve met a second time. Hit it off a second time.

  I’ve been broken and damaged, but I feel none of those things when I’m with him.

  Get out of the car. You can only try. I don’t bother locking it, wary that I might be making a journey back again.

  The scullery door is unlocked, the kitchen door beyond also. As my boots echo on the flagstone floor, I suddenly realise I haven’t changed since this morning; leggings and, what were once, a high shine pair of riding boots. Gucci, of course. A teal fine knit sweater and a parka swiped from Ivy. I run my hand through my hair in an attempt to tidy it and realise I don’t have any makeup on, and haven’t all day.

  I’m not going to win any award for most pulled together today.

  The winding narrow service hallways feel excruciatingly long. It’s almost like they’ve grown and lengthened since yesterday, but as I begin to climb the stairs to the first floor, I hear his voice and think he must be on the phone . . . until I hear another voice, this one with a much higher pitch.

  ‘Rory, darling,’ the voice purrs seductively. ‘Look at the picture. Does it look like a lie?’

  I stop in my tracks, my heart taking up residence in my throat. Though it’s hard to make out Rory’s words, hers I hear just fine. I don’t like her tone. No, her tone frightens me. Makes me want to run away, because I don’t want to be involved with another man of this ilk. A philanderer. A cheat. Instead of listening to my fear, I edge my way closer, my feet taking me to the entrance of the room earmarked for the cocktail bar, where my body practically hugs the wall.

  ‘Looks authentic, sure.’ He sounds almost casual, but for the touch of something more tense in his tone. ‘I’ll give you that and my congratulations, but I’ve no idea what you’re doing here, Beth.’

  Beth. She doesn’t sound like a Beth. More like a Clarissa or a Simone. Someone’s spoiled little princess.

  ‘I told you, I flew up in the jet with Kit, though I had to beg him to give us a little time alone. I have to tell you,’ she adds with a tinkling laugh, ‘he isn’t terribly impressed.’

  ‘You told him,’ Rory states rather flatly.

  ‘There’s no hiding, silly. I’m bursting out of my clothes!’

  ‘You look the same to me.’

  ‘What a delicious compliment. Come closer,’ she coaxes. ‘I’ll let you feel. Give me your hand.’

  Nervous before, but just plain sick now, I begin to feel the pinch of my nails against the skin of my palms. The only thing keeping me upright and here is the need to know conclusively, to know that I’m not hearing things. To be sure. But my fear is there in Rory’s words.

  ‘And you told him it was mine,’ he says now angrily.

  My heart plunges from my t
hroat to the pit of my gut, but still I can’t move.

  ‘But of course, and I reinstated the building contracts. We’re going to be family after all.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he grates out. ‘No wonder he left me that fucking voicemail—he said he was going to tear off my balls. This is your doing,’ Rory spits. ‘You crazy—’

  ‘Don’t be mad, darling. I had to tell him. You weren’t listening. You said you’d come home. But don’t worry, I told him you’d proposed.’

  I inhale a sharp breath, the string holding together the fragments of my fragile heart with an audible snap.

  ‘You really are full of shite, Beth.’ He laughs then, though he sounds far from happy. ‘There’s no fucking way it’s mine, and I’m for sure not marrying your crazy arse.’

  My feet begin to move, but not in the direction I expect them to. I’m not leaving. Instead, I’m suddenly on the threshold of the room, where Rory stands, a sonagram image in hand.

  ‘It’s not mine. I always wear a condom and I check . . . ’

  Oh, Rory. That’s not true.

  It’s a strange thing to watch his emotions turn: anger to confusion, confusion to shock, shock to fear, and as the grand finale, fear to regret. It’s all there in his gaze; a gaze now pleading with mine, each emotion having flickered momentarily to life. And then died. Much like my insides.

  ‘Fin.’ From the other side of the room, Rory’s neck moves as he swallows past the weight of his lie.

  ‘How wonderful—I’m so pleased you’re coming around to the idea, Daddy. Fin is a darling name for a boy!’

  She looks like her voice; even from her back, I can tell. A spoiled city princess. Like the one I used to be. Rory stands rigid—stunned. I suppose I might be heartened by the lack of response his fiancé shows; she doesn’t notice, doesn’t see the nuances of this man. As she steps closer, sliding her arms around his neck, those thoughts turn to ash.

  I can’t help the sound that escapes my mouth, past a fist that holds back gut wrenching sobs. I don’t hear his response as I stumble away, the parquet tiles slippery beneath my feet.

  I can hear him shouting my name, but I don’t wait. Unlike Lot’s wife, I won’t look back at what once was.

  Stumbling, fumbling, running; I have one hand against the wall, the other clapped to my lips. I need to be outside.

  I’m going to vomit. Please don’t let it be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be near him ever again.

  The pain in my chest is sharp, but I’m at the front door without even realising, not registering that Ivy’s car is out back.

  I don’t care. I’ll walk home. I’ll swim. I’ll hide. I’ll crawl under a bush and fucking die.

  My shoulder registers his fingertips as I jerk away, pulling hard on the heavy front door. I know I’m crying, sobbing, mumbling words that aren’t wholly sentient, as I duck under his outstretched arms and into the cold, dark night . . .

  . . . and into the flash of a camera.

  Finola, how does it feel to have your husband back?

  Fin, did you know he’d faked his own death? Did you help him?

  Fi—do you know where he hid the millions he stole? Has your staff been paid?

  Mrs. Pettyfer, how does Kit Tremaine feel about this? Were you lovers before?

  Does your new bloke know his fiancée is already married?

  Lights flash so brightly, it’s like being reborn. Into hell. I’ve been photographed before, some red carpet affairs, and always felt like meat then. This. This right now, I have no words for. I can’t really comprehend their questions, my mind still back in that room watching her slide her arms around him.

  Is it true your husband encouraged you to sleep with Sheikh Ahmed to distract him from his theft?

  Fifi, is it true you were once a high class call girl?

  A hand catches my elbow from behind; despite the chaos in front of me, I jerk from it as I turn and hiss. ‘Stay away from me.’

  I step on the first stair, shielding my eyes from the glare of lights, faltering and awkward as I stumble again. It’s with instinct, rather than gratitude, that I grasp the hand reaching out for me again, catching my forearm and pulling me up from my temporary collapse. In one smooth movement, I’m tucked into his side. My heart sighs Rory, even as, instinctually, I know it isn’t him.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ he murmurs in a deep baritone. ‘Keep your head down.’

  I don’t need the instruction, like I don’t need to know him, even as my body responds, pressing closer to his side.

  I peek up from under my lashes, and while he looks so much like Rory, his touch feels all wrong.

  Kit—Kit! What’s your take on the husband?

  Will you be expecting a cut of his stolen millions?

  Kit—did you pay her?

  His body draws tight as we reach the bottom step, surrounded by questions, cameras, and flashing lights. Kit opens the door to something low and sleek—I know instantly it’s a Mercedes—buffering his body between the door and the crush. Arms still around my shoulders, he pushes me into the passenger seat, a moment later sliding into the opposite side.

  ‘Fin, I presume?’ In the absence of words, I nod my head. ‘Fucking Anna,’ he mutters to himself, as the engine purrs to life.

  ‘What?’ My head snaps up.

  ‘Anna’s my assistant.’ He frowns as he pulls away, narrowly avoiding one of the more persistent yelling figures. ‘She led me to believe you were a man.’

  I’m not exactly sure what he could mean by that, and ask instead, ‘And you’re . . .’ I swallow his name. Will I ever be able to speak it without a sob?

  ‘Kit,’ he confirms, his gaze sliding my way. Expression unreadable. ‘His twin.’ There’s no need to ask how he currently feels about that.

  ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘I gather they were tipped off by someone in the village. Something about your husband,’ he adds questioningly. But he doesn’t push and he doesn’t speak again, camera flashes following us along the driveway until we turn right on to the road.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Where ever you’d like. It’s just, the way you shot out of the house, I thought the car might be best.’

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ I say—sob—as an explanation, it seems to suffice, and yet he still answers softly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why would you help me? Why would they think—you and I?’

  ‘Are an item?’ In the dark car, I think I see a glimmer of humour in his gaze. ‘They were at the house when I arrived. Apparently, no comment and helping you into the car is enough to their mind. Fishing, no doubt. Do you know what this is all about?’

  ‘They said my husband isn’t dead, I think. I don’t know, but if he isn’t he owes an awful lot of people a great deal of money.’

  Kit’s eyes flick back to the road again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, wiping a hand down his face. ‘Why is nothing simple with him?’ Then, after a beat, ‘We should decide where you’re going. Do you have a friend who can stay with you? Somewhere quiet?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ I answer without really hearing, because fine is something way beyond the horizon right now.

  ‘Best for you to not be alone.’ This time his eyes find mine briefly, the suggestion of pity there. Pity I don’t want, even as I turn my head to the window and begin to quietly sob.

  Thirty-Eight

  Fin

  Run. Work. Home. Sleep. Run. Work. Home. Sleep.

  My life in brief. The way I like it; no complications. No lies to discover or tell.

  In Waterloo, I live peacefully in less than salubrious surrounds, along with a roommate, because on my level of salary, that’s just how things work out. I’d thought I’d never settle, not sharing such an intimate space with a stranger, but really, it’s okay. Suze is a junior doctor and our apartment within walking distance of St Thomas’ hospital. We’re poles apart in both our lives and backgrounds, but it works for
us. Secretly, I think what I like best is we’re on such different schedules we’re rarely together. It’s not that I don’t like her, it just that I like to keep myself to myself. And I don’t like being pressured into going out, because out is something I don’t do, unless you count work or the pizza place on the corner.

  I’m not hiding. At least, not anymore, because the journalists that found and followed me are history. Long gone. I’m yesterday’s news, and thanks to my husband, my reputation is somewhat restored.

  Yes, my husband. I’m still married to him.

  Marcus resurfaced on the day I decided to give my heart to Rory. I’m still not sure which was the bigger shock, truthfully, though his timing sucked. The idiot was picked up in Australian waters by a naval maritime patrol. After faking his own death, it seems he bought a one-way ticket with a bunch of people traffickers. With the amount of money he’d stolen, I find it hard to understand why he scrimped on his escape plan, but I’m sure he’ll have ample opportunity to reflect while in prison. Canberra currently, I believe, while several countries fight over his extradition. I’m not certain what will happen to him, though I like to think he won’t end up losing a hand in Dubai. Or worse.

  I don’t love him and have come to terms with the fact that I hadn’t for some time, even before he faked his death. And while I haven’t forgiven him for what he did, I am glad that he cleared me of any kind of blame. I think this had something to do with Soraya, rather than out of love for me. She won’t say, but I guess she has something she’s holding over his head. He was a good actor, probably for the whole period of our marriage, but I refuse to dwell. It’s a scab that doesn’t itch to be picked. I think it’s accurate to say I feel nothing for him, not even hate, which is kinda perplexing to Ivy and Nat, but not to me. I have no space in my heart for any kind of Marcus related emotion, because that space is inhabited by Rory.

  But I’m glad the intrusive reporters are no more, that our story is yesterday’s news. And I’m more than happy our divorce is progressing rapidly.