Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

‘Congratulations. To you both.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he responds with a grin he understandably can’t hide. ‘But I had other plans for today, beginning with this.’ He lifts the bottle, glasses gripped tight between two fingers and the malt itself. ‘And ending in a pretty fucking special room up there.’ Tipping his head in the direction of the hotel, I finally understand.

  ‘Gotcha.’ My expression twists. His problems are no concern of mine, yet he’s here with me. Is he here as a distraction, or are these words of advice meant to help?

  ‘Aye, exactly.’ He sighs, his face still harbouring the remains of his smile. ‘But there’s time yet.’

  Maybe to conceal? ‘Time for them to take Ivy off the island—time to hide her, you mean?’

  He laughs off my dark words. ‘No one’s going anywhere. No’ for hours. The tide’s gone out. Rory,’ he then announces, holding out his hand.

  ‘Dylan.’ We shake, though my eyes are scanning the windows of the building in front. Where will she be? How will I find her next?

  ‘Away inside for now, at least until she’s calmed down. We can have a wee a dram to christen my news—and yours? The debrief will take a while, I imagine,’ he says, now following the path of my gaze. ‘I should like to be doing just the same.’ The last he almost he mutters to himself.

  I snort involuntarily. Rory laughs, and despite how shite I feel, I find myself chuckling, too.

  ‘So long as my briefs stay on my ass, I’m up for a drink.’

  ‘You’re safe with me.’ His reply is accompanied by a rumbling laugh. ‘Can’t say the same for my brother, though.’

  Chapter 34

  Ivy

  ‘You’re supposed to give whisky for shock, aren’t you?’

  My eyelids feel like they’ve been glued together with porridge as I attempt to peel them open, Nat’s hushed tones disturbing my slumber from the other side of the bedroom door. Although I’m not sure slumber quite covers a cried-my-body-weight-in-water coma, I realise, as my heart hits the floor once more.

  He hates you.

  Nothing to be done about it, I try to tell myself. The cards have been dealt or, rather, chucked at your head. You just have to get on with it now.

  Christ, my mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage. One a pterodactyl lives in.

  Rolling onto my back, I shield my eyes from the slice of late afternoon sun blinding me through a gap in the drawn drapes. I’m lying on top of the plush cover in nothing more than a tank top and my underwear, though someone has covered me with a light blanket at some point.

  ‘It’s tea with lots of sugar,’ Fin scolds quietly through the bedroom door. I’m relieved they’re still here with me, even if it’s on the other side of the door. Not that they’re standing in the hallway as Rory had insisted on booking each of us into a suite. Mine has a small sitting room plus a bedroom with en suite. ‘Because, contrary to local custom, a glass of whisky does not cure all ills,’ Fin continues.

  ‘It makes you feel better, at any rate.’

  ‘She can’t have whisky—not in her condition!’ Fin whisper-hisses back.

  ‘I was talkin’ about for me, not her!’ Ah, regular service has been resumed, at least with regards to volume.

  I stretch out along the bed, my shoulders stiff. Yuck. Froggy porridge-glued eyes, sore shoulders, and drool.

  ‘Why are you in a state of shock? Ivy’s the one who’s been through the mill.’

  ‘Through the mill is right. And hammered a bit, too. God, my head feels like it’s been hammered, at least.’ Great; so now, I’m talking to myself.

  Pulling myself upright, no mean feat when you’ve a beach ball shoved under your clothes, I catch the tail end of Nat’s reasoning.

  ‘Like how I’ve only just realised that not only has my boss—’

  ‘Friend, Natasha,’ Fin asserts. ‘I think in this instance the correct title is friend. She’s going to need them.’

  I swallow a small sob as my feet touch the floor in my attempt to reach the bathroom to guzzle mouthwash.

  ‘I know that—I know! I’m just in a state of shock, that’s why—whisky!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘For one, I’ve just found out my boss and friend humped a real live movie star—and then . . . then married him!’

  Tears prick at my lids as I pause at the bathroom door because yes, yes I did. And now, he’s turned up fuzzy of face and shaggy of hair and he still looks like the sexiest thing ever, and I want him still.

  Shuffling into the bathroom, I leave the door open to their squabbling. God, my hair. It looks like a load of crows has nested in it.

  ‘Yes, a real live movie star as opposed to a real dead one?’ Fin asks, deadpan.

  ‘Two,’ Nat says, absolutely ignoring Fin’s snarky response. ‘He’s just turned up with a beard I could f—fondle all day, and I took a maddy on him.’

  ‘Please don’t say that’s as bad as it sounds, and you can’t fondle the beard of a friend’s husband, no matter how secret he is.’

  ‘I know that!’ she says, incredulous. ‘But I just lost my rag with a film star. Come on—I went mental! I was really rude to him. Then I flipped him the bird—my favourite movie man and with a beard, and I flipped him the bird!’

  Fin sets off laughing as Natasha begins to complain about the workings of the universe.

  Rinse. Spit. Wipe away Listerine and more tears. I probably won’t need to pee for the next fortnight.

  ‘It gets worse,’ Nat cries, sounding a little distraught. ‘Because I might have also watched him getting it on with another girl. More than once!’ Fin’s laughter halts. ‘In my defence, it was really hot. Like—off the charts. I can’t even explain.’

  ‘When? Here, at the hotel? You saw him? I don’t think I quite understand.’

  As Nat’s voice lowers to just above a whisper, I tiptoe over to the door. ‘There were no faces or anything, but I could tell it was him.’

  ‘Start from the beginning,’ my sensible friend says, her words heavy with concern.

  ‘It was a video; I haven’t been spying on him or anything.’

  ‘Thank the Lord.’

  ‘Pfft! Like any girl wouldn’t, given half the chance. Anyway, it didn’t show faces, just the good stuff.’

  ‘Please don’t explain, except to say how you know it was him.’

  ‘He has that voice, doesn’t he? Like it’d get you to do things you might not ordinarily do.’

  ‘Kinda sexy,’ Fin agrees. ‘Sexy and gravelly.’

  ‘Aye, an accent with a whole load of sex butter thrown in.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is, but yeah.’

  ‘I showed Ivy the video ages ago, and she did her ‘narna. Jesus, did she go mental . . . But the rest of the interwebz, well, they went a different kind of nuts for it. But her reaction . . . I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Oh, God. You think it might have been Ivy with him?’ Fin’s question is pitched so quietly that if my ear weren’t pressed to the wood of the door, I wouldn’t have heard. ‘How awful—if it were me, I’d be pretty pissed.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Not if you’d seen the length of his—Aye, okay! Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t gonnae say cock; I was gonnae say his goods. Ah, look, you’ve made me say it anyway.’

  ‘Ivy probably has enough for a new car with the contents of the salon swear-box.’

  Nat snorts. ‘Like I’m the only one filling it these days; Ivy swears like a sailor if she thinks we’re not listening, cursing and muttering under her breath.’

  ‘Regardless, I don’t think now is the time to ask if she’s starred in any videos lately.’

  ‘Agreed. Not after this afternoon. But it can’t really have been her. That’s like incest, or something, and surely, I woulda known. Christ, it makes me feel grubby just thinking about it.’

  It makes Nat feel grubby. If only she knew that clip is the very tip of our dirty iceberg. It’s not nice knowing the world has access to your private li
fe, but I’ve tried not to think about it, mainly because I couldn’t do anything about it. But hearing her words—her tone and knowing how liberal her attitude to sex is—well, it makes me feel dirty. Makes me feel all wrong.

  And now, I’m crying again. Bloody hell.

  ‘The thing is, there’s supposed to be new content releasing soon.’

  ‘She’s not a video game, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Look, it’s not likely to be her because it’s being released by a company that makes porn. It’s likely to be an actress, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you think he’s doing porn?’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’

  ‘How can this not shock you? Finding out Ivy’s married and—and all that stuff, but then that her baby daddy might—’

  ‘Calm your tits! If you can find them.’ Nat sniggers.

  ‘Hey, I have tits. They’re just a little on the modest side.’

  ‘Anything Rory can’nae get in his mouth is surplus? Is that what he’s been telling you? Aye, and the wee folk live at the bottom of my garden.’

  ‘You’re all kinds of wrong. Stay on track, Nat, please. Porn!’

  ‘One of my favourite topics.’ She sniffs. ‘It looks like Dylan has tried to get this film stopped legally, according to DMZ, so it’s not likely to be new. Maybe he recorded it before he hit the big time? I saw one or two stills this morning on the net, but the signal’s pretty crappy over here. And it’s gonna be pay-per-view, so I won’t be buying it. I like my wank bank material for free.’

  ‘Christ on a cracker, you can’t watch!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  As the pair bicker, my heart begins beating out of my chest. Another video, one Dylan is trying to stop. Maybe that’s why he’s here because I would’ve known if he’d done porn before we were married so that only leaves . . .

  ‘Ivy.’

  Exactly. More of my bum plastered across the internet.

  Oh, God. And my face? My parents! Mac—my friends! The village—the fucking world!

  ‘What are we going to tell her?’

  ‘Nothing. That has to be a dickalicious job.’

  ‘Dick—you’re going to have to come up with another nickname. Apart from that one being inappropriate, it’s a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘And that’s what she said.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She didn’t have to. I’ve seen the video; I can show you if you like.’

  ‘No—just no!’

  ‘I’m gonna delete it!’

  The pair goes quiet, and for a moment, I’m convinced they’re listening to the sound of my beating heart through the wood.

  ‘He’s going to want to see her.’ Fin sounds worried.

  ‘Aye.’ One word, but so hard, Nat’s earlier devotion to the man she knows as a movie star melting away. Yeah, it’s only one word, but it sounds so resolute like she’d protect me from the devil, if I had a need. But Dylan isn’t a devil. He’s just a man who has made some mistakes. Big mistakes, but mistakes all the same. And he’s not alone in this. Only, some mistakes can’t be soothed or made better, no matter how sincere the balm. But maybe they can be moved past. For the sake of an unborn child.

  See, you have more important things going on in your life. You survived leaving the love of your life; you’ll survive this.

  I step away from the door, Fin’s answer barely registering—something about Rory’s aims at getting Dylan shit-faced drunk. As though recognising my inner turmoil, Vlad begins to move along with my steps; a flip or a turn, followed by a heel poking through my thinned and veined skin. I pull the cotton tank I’m wearing to the top of the bump, rubbing the full roundness as I make my way silently back to the bed.

  Almost silently.

  ‘Ooof! You wee bugger, what are you doing in there?’

  I turn as the door creaks open, and Nat’s head pokes through.

  ‘What are you up to in here?’

  ‘Vlad’s awake, so that means I am,’ I reply, climbing onto the bed.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  I pause for a second, considering those most magic of words. ‘Does a pope poop in the woods?’

  ‘Aye,’ she responds immediately, stepping into the room. ‘I expect he would if he were caught short. His cassock would give him plenty privacy, I suppose.’ Flopping against the snowy white pillows, I frown, playing back what I’ve just said. ‘It’s bear, daft arse,’ Nat corrects. ‘Does a bear shit in the woods.’

  ‘I swear this baby’s stealing my brain cells.’

  ‘Let’s get him fed then. Fin’s just popped along to my room to ask June if she’s ready for a cuppa and a bite to eat. We’ll get it delivered to the room.’

  The look that passes between us says all the words. I’m not ready to step into the real world, and I’m not ready to see Dylan, drunk or not.

  ‘Tea and toast.’

  ‘You’re staying in a five-star boutique hotel, and you want tea and toast?’ she asks incredulously.

  ‘With lashings of butter.’ I think I must be drooling because Nat looks at me like I’m a loon as she picks up the phone from the nightstand.

  ‘Bampot.’ She shakes her head ruefully, unable to hide the smile on her face.

  ‘I want half a loaf.’

  ‘Ivy, why didn’t you tell us?’

  My gaze falls away, my fingers toying with the hem of my shirt.

  ‘I couldn’t—not until I’d told my mum. And I couldn’t tell her until I came home—and I was going to, really. But it was all over before I was due to come back for Christmas.’

  ‘Because he cheated on you?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Life usually is, but you could’ve confided in us, Ivy. You didn’t have to suffer this alone, especially after going back to see him. I mean it doesn’t take much to work out what went on there.’ She glances pointedly at the bump escaping my tank. What was that even about? I want to say closure, but even I don’t believe that. ‘And you didn’t tell him about the baby, did you?’

  ‘I-I couldn’t. I couldn’t say any of it. Ever, not out loud. Only in my head. ‘I wanted to—I wanted to tell you about him, about us. And I wanted to tell him about the baby, too! But he was supposed to have fallen in love again, and I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t—’ I begin to cry, great heaving sobs. I love him, and I’ve hurt him, and I’m having this baby alone.

  And he hates me for it.

  ‘Hey, now, shush.’ Nat drops the phone receiver back, perching herself on the end of the bed. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she insists quietly, taking my hand in both of hers. ‘You’ll get through this. You have us; you’ll always have us, and your parents and Mac, too.’ What she doesn’t say fills the room anyway. You’ll have us even if you don’t have Dylan.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So silly, more like. Bottling stuff up is unhealthy, and the stress can’t be good for the baby.’ She leans over and pats my stomach, which she knows I’m not fond of, but I’m not in a state to make a fuss. ‘You know why people think it’s okay to rub a pregnant woman’s bump?’

  ‘Because we look like lucky Buddhas?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ she answers. ‘That’s why I asked.’

  ‘I’ve already screwed things up for him before he’s born, haven’t I?’

  ‘You?’ She pauses, seeming to formulate her reply. ‘Yeah, you have, but don’t worry, with me as his godmother, he’ll be fine.’ I huff a watery laugh. She’s such a loop and lovely with it. She’s also slightly deluded. ‘Because I’ll steer that moral compass like a motherfucking Titan.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a ship that sank?’

  ‘And I’m supposed to be the uncouth, uncultured one,’ she says with a theatrical sigh. ‘Looks like I’ll also have to teach wee Vlad the classics. The Titans were Greek, philistine.’

  ‘The only Greek you know is your order from the kebab shop.’

  ‘I’m deep, me,’ she re
sponds, reaching for the phone again. ‘Half a loaf and a gallon of tea?’

  ‘Oh, at least.’ But she doesn’t get as far as a connection before Fin explodes into the room.

  ‘Come quick. Something’s wrong with June.’

  Chapter 35

  Ivy

  We’ve all heard stories or recounts, I suppose, of how during accidents and medical emergencies—matters of life and death—time slows. As I stand on the periphery of a room newly decorated and with the faint scent of paint lingering in the air, I experience this in real time. For the first time. And I’m struggling, my grip on this reality fragile and questioning. Why June? Why now?

  ‘June! June! For the love of Christ, open your eyes, you bloody stubborn woman!’

  Nat bends over the bed, her hands wrapped around her grandmother’s shoulders, the expression on her face something frightening and pitiful. But me? I feel as though I’m watching this through a cloud, and the whole thing is a haze. My heart aches for my friend and weeps for June as she lies prone on the bed, her breathing laboured and something ancient.

  ‘Ambulance is on its way,’ Rory says, appearing in the doorway. A couple of long strides and he has his arms wrapped around Fin as she begins murmuring. ‘How will it get here during the high tide?’ His reply is by helicopter. The air ambulance; the hotel has a newly installed helipad.

  I don’t partake in the conversation; I’m on the outside looking in as his strong arms wrap around her waist, offering her his comfort and strength.

  I tighten the belt on the plush hotel robe I’d grabbed at Fin’s distressed entrance and glance down at my bare feet and pink painted toes. I can’t seem to find tears. Numbness overload.

  ‘June,’ Nat cries—not a yell. A soft, terrified plea but she’s not responding, and I’ve no idea what actions to take.

  Words and questions and we all stand, hovering around the edges of the bed, unsure of what to say or what to do.

  ‘Do we have aspirin?’ Fin asks.

  I half expect Nat to complain that June’s suffering from more than just a headache.

  ‘Might she have had a stroke?’ she questions, but I can read what she doesn’t say. That it might be too late. How would she swallow? What can we do? How can we help? Murmurs and mutterings. Words hanging heavy in the air with hope and desperation.