Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  I purse my lips and blow out a burst of air.

  ‘Too early?’

  I nod. ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Give you a day or two to get over it? Aye,’ she adds when I don’t answer. ‘That’s what I’ll do but food first. Fin says you’ve barely eaten all weekend.’

  ‘I can’t eat when I’m not hungry,’ I reply, tightening my grip on my bag as Nat grabs the handle. I frown, giving it a slight pull. ‘And I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘You will be if you din’nae let go.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck—’ I stop. When did I start to swear as a matter of course? Yesterday? Last week? When I came back from L.A. for the second time, alone?

  Nat tsks. ‘It’s become as easy as God bless you,’ she admonishes, teasingly referring to my language as she gives the handle a final yank. Placing it on the step behind her and out of my reach, she produces a small brown envelope from the pocket of her sprayed-on jeans. It’s the kind of envelope my mum used to put my school dinner money in.

  ‘That’ll be a pound,’ she says, holding out her palm. ‘It’s retaliation, and I was gonna call it Ivy’s Fuck-Up Fund, but that was before I found out you’d actually . . . ’

  ‘Been fucked? Fucked up?’

  ‘Ha! And another two!’ she adds, delightedly. ‘I was tryin’ to think of something a little less sweary, like up the duff.’ I don’t answer, though I think I huff. ‘Seeing as how I’m all lovely and stuff, I’ll let you off for now. I reckon I’ll have enough to get my lips done before the end of summer, either way. I might even have enough to buy a car once you’re in the delivery room.’ With that, she turns, picks up my bag, and climbs the stairs.

  ‘Trout pout,’ I respond, not allowing the words delivery and room any space in my head. ‘Big lips to match your big mouth.’

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she says as she reaches the top. ‘Kettle’s on.’

  Pulling out my phone, I text Fin as I begin to trudge up the stairs in her wake.

  Remind me never to tell you anything ever again, I type. EVER!!!

  Not sorry, comes Fin’s immediate response.

  The day passes, and thankfully, Nat doesn’t once mention the revelations of Sunday evening. No hints, no baby jokes—in fact, she makes no comment or reference at all. And she doesn’t so much as blink when I announce in the salon that I’ve an appointment to keep Wednesday afternoon. I’m certain she thinks I’m going to the doctor’s by the way she reassures me she’ll hold down the fort. But she’d be mistaken because I’m going to see my lawyer. Besides, I had my pregnancy confirmed by the doctor in a late afternoon appointment earlier in the week. I’ve been given an ETA, or due date, I think it’s called, and a list as long as my arm of things I should and should not be doing—bye-bye wine and brie—along with the promise of a referral to the midwifery team.

  The offices of McKenzie, McCadwell, & Bell aren’t the only legal representation in the village, but they are the oldest. Their offices are situated in a red brick Victorian terrace on a quiet street behind the salon, the final fact being one of my reasons for choosing them. Being out of the way means fewer lang-nebbits are about, as June might say, and therefore, no one prying into my business. Christ knows you can’t sneeze in this village without someone reporting you’re coming down with a cold.

  And I’ve still got plenty of sneezes to hide.

  My second reason for choosing these offices is a little more sensible. Mr. McKenzie has handled many legal transactions for my family, so I turned to him when I needed advice. For both the setting up business and the divorce kind.

  Despite the trio of names emblazoned on the old-fashioned brass plate on the front of the building, there isn’t a McCadwell or a Bell. At least, not inside these offices, though you’d probably find them in the local cemetery. Because when I say McKenzie isn’t the only legal representative in the village, but the oldest, I wasn’t just referring to their offices. I was referring to the man himself.

  ‘I’ve got a four o’clock appointment with Mr. McKenzie?’ My nerves turn the statement into a question as Margie, his grey-haired administrator-cum-receptionist-cum-elderly-auntie-type, gestures for me to take a seat.

  ‘He’ll be along shortly, hen.’ Hen is a Scots endearment, sort of. A one-word-fits-all.

  I sit in one of the high-backed chairs and pick up a travel magazine from the smoky glass table in front of me and begin flicking absently through pages extolling the many virtues of a holiday in the Highlands. This appointment is a follow-up to the one I’d made eight weeks or so ago, just after I’d returned from LA. At that point, I was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d gone to Dylan determined to secure a divorce, convinced that’s what I wanted, yet returned a few days later having had my chest opened up, my heart yanked out, stepped on, and subsequently rammed back into the empty cavity. I’d ended up crying in Mr. Mac’s office as he’d sympathetically patted my shoulder before sending me, tearful and breathless, on my way. He told me to make another appointment when I was feeling up to it. I probably looked like I’d never be okay, but here I sit again.

  Am I feeling up to it? To ending my marriage. Probably not, though my current predicament—no, my pregnancy—has provided me with clarity on two points:

  Our divorce is inevitable.

  It’s time for me to be a grown-up.

  ‘Ms. Adams?’

  I jump from my seat as my name is called, but when I look up, Mr. McKenzie isn’t standing at the door as I’d imagined he would. No, it’s someone much younger. Much taller. Broad shoulders and a tailored grey suit. Good looking, too.

  ‘Come on through,’ the sandy-haired suit says, turning without waiting for me to follow. ‘Ms. Adams,’ he repeats, once inside . . . while I stand in the reception like a dumb not-blonde, my brain somehow stuck on pause.

  ‘You’re not Mr. McKenzie,’ I state needlessly, belatedly following him into his office as Margie nods from behind her reception perch encouragingly. He can’t be unless the auld bugger has discovered a fountain of youth somewhere. And grown a wee bit taller. And a full head of hair. Still, he does look a little like the old man.

  ‘No, you’re right, of course,’ he answers, gesturing to the chair on the door side of the room as he lowers himself to another on the opposite side of the dark monstrosity of a desk. ‘I’m not the McKenzie, though I am a McKenzie. Alex McKenzie. I also happen to be a solicitor and the person taking over my uncle’s practice.’ I can tell from the tone this isn’t the first time he’s had to repeat this statement, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested in its effect as he begins to shuffle papers from a file.

  ‘Oh.’ Oh.

  ‘I’ve had a chance to look at—’

  ‘Mr. McKenzie—no offence, but I’d rather come back another day and speak with your uncle. There’s no sense in me spending time repeating all I need to say. Not when we’re both busy people.’ Get me; all professional. ‘I’ve a business to run.’

  I begin to stand, keen to just get away. I’d already handed over the papers to the senior McKenzie without telling him exactly who my husband was. This guy? I don’t know. He could be a movie buff. Might he have heard of Dylan? I know there’s not much chance of him divulging our marriage to anyone—client confidentiality and all that—but fuck it, I don’t want to be judged.

  ‘Ms. Adams, I’m sorry to say that my uncle won’t be returning. He’s retired,’ he adds rather gruffly. ‘Quite suddenly.’

  I lower myself into my chair again, surprise tears teetering against my lids. Why the hell am I crying now? I mean, it’s sad and all, but it’s not like I really know the old man—not beyond our business dealings. I don’t realise I’m really crying until I find a box of tissues being edged from the corner of the desk.

  Maybe I need more than time.

  ‘It seems very sudden.’

  ‘Yes, it is a . . . sudden decision. A sudden retirement.’ His eyes dart away, his posture agitated. Stressed.

  ‘Is he okay? Your
uncle, I mean.’

  Young Mr. McKenzie seems taken aback, his expression freezing before softening suddenly. ‘I’d like to think he will be. It’s not as though he isn’t already a few years past retirement age.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ I try a smile on for size, finding I’m not quite ready.

  ‘However, this—’ He taps the blue folder with his index finger.

  What happens if Dylan fights me for custody? Out of spite?

  ‘Yes, that.’ I swallow as I cut him off, my tongue suddenly twice as thick. ‘I’m ready to go ahead—go ahead with the divorce, I mean.’ I’d opted for a simplified divorce as they call it in Scotland; a sort of DIY deal, though Mr. Mac was helping me out with the details. ‘I became . . . a little upset during our last appointment and left the paperwork with him.’ I was going to discuss the pregnancy and what it might mean, implication-wise, but I’m not now. Not with him.

  The younger McKenzie smiles, less warm and more satisfied as he flips the cover of the folder open. Not quite as avuncular as, well, his uncle, he outlines the paperwork ready to file.

  ‘I have the notes. As you’re no doubt aware, your domicile in Scotland gives the Scottish law courts jurisdiction . . . ’ My attention trails off, and what I hear is blah, blah, blah coloured by a load of legalese. Mr. Mac explained it to me before; one of us needs to have lived in Scotland for six months prior to an application for a quickie divorce, and even given the international nature of our marriage, because adultery was listed as cause of our union’s irretrievable breakdown, I was good to go—good to file the paperwork—there would be no cause to wait the usual twelve-month period before doing so. He’d also said, as I was uninterested in financial support or property splits, it would be a straightforward case. Of course, he also said the matter was simplified as we had no children. I suppose, technically, we still haven’t, and the ink will be well and truly dried on our decree by the time we have.

  Or rather, I will have. I can’t see into the future, but just because I want this baby doesn’t mean Dylan will. Maybe it’s fortunate I haven’t spilled the beans. Maybe I really will be going it all alone. Maybe he’ll hate me . . .

  I’m not really listening to McKenzie the younger as my mind now works overtime, stressing over the distant possibility of Dylan wanting custody out of spite, when my brain seems to snag on something he says; something in his phrasing, really.

  ‘Mr. McKenzie,’ I cut in. ‘When you said the defender had agreed to the terms of our divorce—’

  ‘This is what I’m trying to explain. Mr. Duffy has made an admission to adultery.’ He taps the papers in front of him. ‘But under Scottish law, more evidence is needed beyond an acknowledgment. For instance, the co-respondent should be named.’

  ‘What co-respondent? I think you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘I assure you I have not.’ He isn’t offended; in fact, his tone is almost wry. ‘But there are several things wrong with this paperwork, I’m afraid. I—’

  ‘You mean, in those papers, my husband has admitted to . . . an infidelity?’

  ‘But the admission in itself isn’t enough. Also—’

  ‘He doesn’t say I was unfaithful?’

  Frustrated now, and with reason, he flicks a sheet of paper over on the desk. My gaze dips briefly, following his. ‘Here.’ His index finger taps the letterheaded document in front of him. ‘Here, you can see—’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ I reply, adamant.

  ‘He wasn’t what?’ Frustration leaks from his tone.

  ‘He wasn’t unfaithful.’ I’m aware of my shoulders creeping closer to my ears, and my voice, when I speak again, is small. ‘I—I cheated on him.’ At least, that’s what I’d said in the original paperwork. It seemed easier to leave it that way, especially when I’d found the crumpled copy signed next to my underwear. My hands go instinctively to the chain I’m no longer wearing. And my wedding ring.

  McKenzie’s brow puckers as he looks down again, alternatively grasping then releasing his pen. ‘A petition for the dissolution of marriage can’t be sought by the pursuer for the reason of adultery if it is indeed the pursuer who committed the act of . . . adultery.’ My heart sinks like a rock through my chest. It’s all been for nothing—the lies. I’ll have to start the process again. Oh, God. I can’t see him—can’t face him. I can’t tell him! ‘And I hasten to add; this is not what he agreed.’

  My head snaps up from my lap. ‘Your uncle? Yes, because—’

  ‘We received a sworn affidavit in this morning’s post. It was from your husband or, rather, his legal representative.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Sworn to what?’

  ‘To his infidelity. Unfortunately, there is no correspondent named, though the instances and dates are in their nature, multiple, and are enough for the Sheriff’s Court.’

  At the moment before he slides the paper away, I glance down and notice a list of dates and places and what they stand for— admissions of his adultery. And there, at the top of the list, is the date I’d used myself. The date I’d sworn, at least, on paper, that I’d committed adultery when, in fact, I’d gone home drunk with another man. A gay man. The same date we’d fought, and he’d stormed out. The date he returned to our home with lipstick on the zipper of his jeans. Strange to think so much had changed in a twenty-four-hour period.

  If my heart dropped like a rock at his admission of guilt, the date of the dissolution of our marriage turns it to stone.

  ‘That first date,’ I ask. ‘What does it say?’ He looks confused, so I elaborate.

  He glances down at the open file. ‘At the Vision Gentleman’s Club.’

  Where no gentlemen are ever found.

  ‘Does it say anything else?’

  ‘Nothing I feel you should concern yourself with.’

  ‘Was it the first time or had he’d been fucking around our whole marriage?’ The question is in the air before I realise it. I’m not asking him—I’m questioning myself. Because this? Seeing it in black and white? It’s torture.

  ‘Well, there is a list, so I suppose you can assume . . . ’ His words trail off. He isn’t a counsellor but a bloody solicitor.

  The bottom line? I lied, and he wasn’t unfaithful until he thought I was. He’s taken the blame, at least on paper, but this doesn’t mean it’s not my fault.

  That he’s taken to whoring his way through Hollywood? That’s on me.

  ‘Is there any other way I can do this—get divorced?’

  ‘Without this admission?’ he asks, clearly at a loss.

  Jesus Christ, I’m not fit to raise a child. I can barely manage my own life—I can’t even get divorced right.

  ‘Fuck. Just fuck!’ Elbows against my knees, I have my head between pressing forearms as I begin to rock almost angrily.

  ‘You’ve been separated six months,’ he adds quickly. ‘At least, you’ve been in Scotland that long, according to this.’ I hear rather than see him pointing at the papers on the desk, his finger drumming the wood beneath three times. ‘Six more months and you can file the petition—’

  I sit up suddenly, the blood rushing away from my head. ‘That’s it? That’s the only way?’ I’ll be, what, six or so months pregnant by then. Not good enough. ‘There isn’t a quicker way?’

  I follow the line of my solicitor’s gaze, belatedly realising I’m cradling my stomach containing the little bit of Dylan I’ll always have.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘I’m afraid there is not.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ivy

  ‘I’m tellin’ you,’ Natasha is saying as I enter the salon, ‘that’s the way to go these days.’

  The bell tinkles as I close the door and am hit by a sudden wave of scent. Flowers, maybe, mixed with something not so pleasant. It’s all I can do not to gag.

  From behind the made-to-look-rough-hewn-but-actually-cost-a-fortune reception counter, June frowns. ‘Something wrong, hen?’

  ‘Has the water been changed for those flowers?
’ I immediately regret my terse tone. It’s not like it’s June’s job, and it’s not even as if she gets paid for the help she provides. And it’s not as though the odour resembles stagnant water exactly, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can she not smell those things? They reek!

  ‘They’re fresh this morning; the florist brought them in.’

  ‘Ask her not to bring them again. They stink to high heavens,’ I complain.

  June leans in, her nose hovering over the delicate, pale apricot pink blooms. ‘They smell like roses,’ she answers, perplexed. It’s an expression quickly smothered as another crosses her face.

  Suspicion?

  Nope, not touching that one.

  ‘I just have a sensitive nose,’ I answer, despite not meaning to as I swing past the counter and onto the main floor of the salon to where Nat and Ted stand.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, only really interested in avoiding June’s observations. Besides, they’re probably only sniping at each other. I’m not expecting anything pleasant from them.

  Nat sits in one of the chairs adjacent to a basin, and Ted is . . . what? Pretending to be busy now that his boss has just appeared?

  Pssht. It’s gone four o’clock on a Wednesday; it’s not like we’re expecting a last-minute stampede.

  ‘Nothin’ much,’ Nat responds to my enquiry, adding an airy, ‘Good appointment, was it?’

  I shrug lightly. ‘About what I expected.’ Maybe if it were opposite day, that is.

  ‘Is that so?’ Eyebrows comically high, she slides a hairbrush from a nearby stand, absently tapping it against the front of her thigh.

  ‘It is.’ It’s so bullshit. But I’m not thinking about it now. Not when she’s giving me the third-degree gargoyle eye. Or something.

  ‘Gimme that.’ Ted snatches the bristled brush from her hand. ‘Do I abuse the tools of your trade?’

  ‘Trade? You were tellin’ me earlier you were an artist.’

  ‘I said a creative,’ he responds, sounding exactly like, well, a child. A big, bearded narky child.