Deeley nodded in thanks. ‘I’ll just take a moment to catch my breath,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
It wasn’t true, but she hadn’t wanted him to hang around for her. She let him shoulder his way into the crossing and waited until the bright yellow-and-orange tabard had vanished, till the next light had come and gone, until she felt recovered enough to make it to the other side of Euston Road, safely surrounded, this time, by a mass of other bodies. She had no idea who had pushed her, but she knew it had happened; a blow that stunning and powerful could only have been deliberate.
There hadn’t been any point in looking back to see if there was a face in the crowd she recognized. By the time she went hurtling forward towards the bus’s wheels, her attacker would have already been slipping away, back to the station and the throng of people there, completely invisible.
Someone just tried to kill me. The words rang in her head as she waited for the 390 bus to Marble Arch, as she boarded it and climbed upstairs, for the whole of the long swaying ride down Euston Road, into Gower Street, and the whole length of Oxford Street, all the endless stops and starts. Someone just tried to kill me.
And I have no idea who or why.
By the time Deeley stepped off the 390, she had calmed down sufficiently to convince herself that the shove in her back at King’s Cross had been, as the workman who’d rescued her had theorized, a random nutter. After all, she reminded herself, both the workman and the woman next to her had taken for granted that London’s streets were so dangerous that someone mentally unstable could be roaming them, shoving random targets into busy roads. They hadn’t shown any surprise, any disbelief at the idea.
It wasn’t personal, Deeley told herself as she turned down Park Lane.
But she was walking faster than usual, her nervousness belying her attempts to reassure herself. She could hear the quick patter of her heels on the pavement, a frightened scamper towards the security of her basement flat, with the double lock on its door and the bars on its windows. She actually darted a look back over her shoulder, like some ridiculous victim in a Victorian melodrama, being chased by Jack the Ripper.
You’re being totally paranoid! she told herself firmly, clutching tightly to her bag. Why would anyone be out to get you? You’re not remotely important!
Her footsteps were clattering along now; she swung left into Green Street, only a block away from the elegant parade of houses in which Devon and Matt lived. Two minutes away from safety.
A cab passed her, the heavy, solid ticking of its engine oddly reassuring. It pulled up just across the crossing, in front of the house, and Deeley’s spirits immediately lifted. It’s Devon, coming home! I’ll tell her what just happened – I mean, I know we’re not getting on that well, but she’s bound to be nice to me when she hears I nearly got shoved into traffic . . .
She bit her lip. Better not tell her it happened outside King’s Cross, though. If Maxie and Devon knew where I went today, they’d kill me. I’ll say it was on Oxford Street – with all the crowds, she’ll believe that, no prob—
But as she approached the cab, eager to see her sister, to throw herself into Devon’s arms for a much-needed hug of reassurance, the first thing that she saw emerging beneath the door as it was thrown open was a long silver pole with a black rubber tip. It wobbled, found the pavement, and steadied itself; then a man’s ankle, in a trainer as large as a small boat, edged out after it. One huge hand came out and grasped the roof of the cab. By the time Deeley had reached it, Matt was almost out of the taxi, the crutch wedged under his right armpit now, manoeuvring carefully to keep weight off his right foot, which was wrapped in a dark blue compression bandage.
‘Oh no!’ Deeley exclaimed, running up to him. ‘What happened?’
Idiot! she said to herself almost instantaneously. Isn’t it totally obvious?
‘You all right there, Matt?’ the cabbie called. ‘Nasty one, mate!’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Matt said, grimacing as he adjusted his grip on the crutch. ‘Just got to rest up now.’
‘‘Well, don’t leave it too long, eh!’ the cabbie said. ‘The Tigers’d be a fucking shambles without you!’
Matt tried to close the cab door, but wobbled dangerously. Deeley darted forward to do it for him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘God, I’m all crocked up.’
Under his tan, Matt’s face was white with strain, his lips tight with tension.
‘Ripped my Achilles a few years ago,’ he said, starting to hobble towards the steps of the house. ‘Just messed it up again in a friendly, sod it.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible!’ Deeley said. She hovered, feeling useless for a moment, then bravely stepped over to his good side. ‘Can I help you up the stairs?’
He glanced at her, and a flicker of genuine amusement flashed in his blue eyes.
‘Thanks, but if I lean on you, we’ll both go down,’ he said, managing a grin. ‘Skinny little thing like you, I’d snap you in two if I put any weight on you. Here.’ He fished slowly and awkwardly in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, and eventually produced a bunch of keys. ‘Why don’t you unlock the door? The alarm code’s 2003.’ He pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘Year we won the World Cup.’
Deeley took the keys from him and dashed up to open the door, tapping the numbers into the alarm panel to stop the beeping. Matt was halfway up the stairs, but she went back and put a hand under the elbow of his free arm, helping him balance.
‘I do a lot of Pilates,’ she said, piqued by his assumption that she was weak. ‘I’m a lot stronger than I look, you know.’
‘Yeah? Glad to hear it,’ he said between gritted teeth, his crutch stumping doggedly up one step at a time.
‘There’s lots of weight-bearing exercise in Pilates!’ Deeley persisted, sensing that Matt needed a distraction. ‘We do stuff with loaded springs, pulleys, even something called a Magic Circle . . .’
That actually got a laugh from Matt. They were entering the hall now, and he leaned against the wall as Deeley shut the front door behind them.
‘Magic Circle, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ll have to see that one of these days.’
She turned to look at him. There was a gleam of sweat on his forehead, his light brown curls a little damp with the effort he’d made to haul himself up the stairs. His lips were gripped together, his jaw tight.
‘You look terrible,’ she said frankly. ‘Do you have any painkillers?’
‘Thanks!’ Matt said wryly. ‘Yeah, the doc gave me some already, but I’m probably due for another dose.’ He reached for his tracksuit pocket once more, but wobbled precariously, his crutch slipping fractionally on the slippery black-and-white tiles of the hall floor.
‘For God’s sake!’ Deeley said crossly. ‘What are you doing? You should be lying down! And probably elevating that foot! Come on.’ She nipped to his side, taking his right arm again. ‘Into the living room,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you onto the sofa, and then I’ll get you some water to take your pills.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Matt said meekly, hobbling along by her side, as Deeley guided him into the living room and over to the huge leather sectional sofa. He sank down onto it with a big ‘ooof!’ of relief as Deeley bustled around, turning on the lights and drawing the dark purple brocade curtains. The large room was scattered artfully with a mixture of tall chrome uplighters and round silver lamps on polished cherrywood tables; when Deeley had finished, a warm glow suffused the room. She bent to switch on the fire, which was an elaborate mass of fake coals around which gas flames danced, a beautiful alternative to the open-fire ban in the centre of London. The orange-and-golden flames flickered deliciously in the grate, casting glints of light against the wrought-iron frame of the fireplace.
Matt was lifting his injured leg with both hands, settling it onto the sofa, and by the time Deeley had gone to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, he had a packet of co-codamol out of his pocket and was popping two pills out of their blisters. He swallowed them dutifully
, muttering, ‘Thanks,’ as Deeley took the empty glass from him.
‘Wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ he said gloomily, nodding to his foot, which he’d propped up on a big suede pillow. ‘It just went out from under me. I was dodging a tackle. Sprinting full out, did a bit of a twist and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my face with my ankle blown out.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Funniest part is, the guy coming for me was diving. I went down and he flew right over me, believe it or not. I saw it on the replays. He came back after the game to see how I was. He grazed his nose when he landed.’ Matt raised a huge hand to his face, indicating the tip of his own battered nose. ‘Skin’s all ripped off. He looked worse than me.’
‘What did the doctor say?’ Deeley asked.
‘Put iodine on it and told him not to whinge,’ Matt said. ‘He’ll have a nasty scab for a while.’
‘No!’ Deeley actually stamped her foot. ‘You, idiot! What did the doctor say about your ankle?’
Matt’s mischievous grin showed her that he had deliberately misunderstood her question. But it faded fast.
‘Dunno yet,’ he said, sighing as he eased himself back and unzipped his fleece jacket. ‘But nothing good. It was pretty much a miracle that I could play after my Achilles went. I have to rest up for a while, then they’ll see.’ He was avoiding her eyes, a clear sign that he wasn’t comfortable with the subject under discussion. ‘Look, I could do with a drink. I know I shouldn’t cane it with the pills, but one won’t hurt, will it? D’you mind pouring me some whisky?’ He nodded over to the large antique cherrywood bar against the wall. ‘And grab something for yourself. Least I can do after you’ve looked after me, offer you a drink.’
Deeley hovered for a moment, unsure about the situation. Devon clearly wasn’t here, because the alarm had been on. And Deeley’s whole policy over the last few weeks had been a complete avoidance of this very situation: finding herself in a cosy tête-à-tête with Matt Bates, sharing a drink, alone together.
But Matt’s all crocked up, she told herself. And we’ve been talking to each other so naturally, like we’ve known each other for years.
And I could really do with a bit of company – I’m still shaken up from nearly going under a bus.
And besides, it’s just one drink.
She put down her bag, shrugged off her jacket, and went over to the bar. A decorative array of bottles were ranged along the top, and when she opened the double doors, gleaming ranks of glasses swung forward, lined on built-in shelves on the inside of each door. Beyond, silver shakers, strainers, jiggers, mixing glasses and bottle openers were arranged in perfect order. Deeley pulled out two tumblers, and poured a stiff two fingers of whisky into each one. She never usually drank whisky, but she had a feeling that it might be just what she needed after the terrifying experience she’d just had.
‘Cheers,’ he said gratefully, taking it from her as she sat down, careful to keep a decent distance between their bodies.
She leaned over to clink glasses with him, because he was holding his glass out to her expectantly; it brought her close to him, too close. Before, helping Matt up the stairs, into the living room, gripping his elbow, her fingers only able to clasp about halfway round, she’d felt the bulk and warmth of his body, felt, also, the slight dampness of his skin post-exercise, and had done her very best not to allow it to flood her senses.
Now, leaning in, she could see his dark navy t-shirt clinging to his chest, light brown hairs curling round the V of the cotton fabric. He’d pulled off his fleece jacket, and his arms were bare now, his biceps swelling against the tight short sleeves of his t-shirt, stretching the stitching of the seams. She could see the clear, firm outline of his pectoral muscles pushing out the fabric, even the small peak of a nipple crowning one. And she could smell the soap he’d used that morning, clean and fresh, and underneath it, his own light, musky sweat.
Deeley pulled back as if he’d just held a lighter to her knuckles, doing everything she could to wipe the scent of Matt from her mind.
‘Someone tried to push me under a bus at King’s Cross just now,’ she blurted out, too disoriented to remember that she’d told herself to lie about where the incident had happened. She swallowed a slug of whisky, which burned going down like a glorious hot fire, rich and heady.
‘What?’ Matt twisted at the waist to look at her, and gasped in pain as the sudden movement sent a shaft of pain down his leg. ‘Ow! Shit!’ he muttered. ‘You’re joking! You nearly went under a bus?’
‘I was waiting at the traffic light, and someone shoved me in the back,’ Deeley said, surprised at how relieved she was to say it out loud, to have someone stare at her, horrified, at hearing about her recent brush with death. ‘This guy pulled me back just in time.’
‘Oh my God!’ Matt propped a hand on the leather of the sofa to balance himself, swivelling over his bad leg to look at Deeley. ‘Are you OK?’
‘It wasn’t very nice,’ she agreed, feeling better by the moment. Having Matt react like this allowed her to be modest, in that very British way that she’d missed living in LA; there, if you didn’t make a huge fuss yourself, no one bothered to notice what was going on with you.
‘Jesus!’ Matt shook his head in disbelief, a few tight short brown curls bouncing on his forehead. ‘There’re some really bad people out there. A girl like you should be extra careful, you know? A pretty young girl in London . . . Lots of loonies out there. Probably jealous.’
Deeley couldn’t help smiling at this. Matt ducked his head awkwardly, embarrassed at having let a compliment slip out, and took a deep pull at his glass of whisky, looking away from Deeley, at the flames dancing in the big fireplace.
The silence that fell was instantly dangerous. I’ll just finish this drink and go, Deeley thought, taking another big sip of whisky, and promptly coughing as it went down the wrong way.
Matt slanted a smile sideways at her. ‘Strong, eh?’ he said. ‘Just what you need after something like that, though. You must be all shaken up.’
‘I’m OK,’ Deeley muttered quickly, nervous of any more sympathy. ‘So, um, when’s Devon getting back?’
Matt heaved a sigh. ‘Tomorrow. She’s in Manchester tonight,’ he said. ‘She’s filming that show tomorrow, the daytime one where she has to cook live. She was all wound up about it. Said she wanted to stay there the night before, be fresh for the morning.’
Deeley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘She’s doing 1-2-3 Cook?’ she asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice. Deeley had spent plenty of time in the downstairs flat watching daytime TV and 1-2-3 Cook was one of her new favourite shows. Much as Deeley admired what Devon had achieved in her career, she had watched her sister’s show as well, and it seemed pretty clear to Deeley that Devon wasn’t the calibre of quick-thinking, restaurant-experienced cook who could pull off a challenge like the one she would face on live TV tomorrow.
‘Yeah, that’s what it’s called,’ Matt said. ‘She’ll be fine, I’m sure. She’s a really good cook.’
Another silence fell. Deeley was struggling with envy for Devon, that she had Matt, who would back her up unquestioningly, assume that she could put her hand to anything she set it to.
And then the true significance of what Matt had just said hit Deeley: He’s alone in the house tonight.
Devon isn’t coming home.
No one’s going to interrupt us.
She shot to her feet so fast she cannoned into the coffee table in front of her and rocked on her heels.
‘I have to go!’ she said loudly, bending to put her glass on the table. ‘I have to, um, do things . . . ring people . . . send emails . . .’
Her voice trailed off as she glanced sideways at Matt, overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of him, leaning against the back of his sofa, his long, wide legs stretched out along the L. His physical presence was utterly confusing. When they had been chatting just now, it had been the most natural thing in the world. She and Matt had never really talked before; they’d just exchanged a few,
stumbling, uncomfortable words at that dinner at Franco’s. Deeley had had no idea that they would find it this easy to talk. And it made everything infinitely more difficult.
It would have been so much better if he was just some big stupid hunk with meat for brains, she thought miserably. Then at least I could tell myself he wasn’t worth thinking about. But this guy – this guy is lovely. Self-deprecating, easy-going, really friendly. I could sit here and talk to him all night.
Oh God. This is really dangerous now.
Her gaze slid up his body, and she realized that he was nodding slowly. More, he was looking at his glass to avoid meeting her eyes. It was hard to read his expression; the flames flickering in the grate, the soft lighting, cast shadows over his face. When he spoke, his voice was a little hoarse.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You should probably go.’
Deeley swallowed hard. ‘Will you be OK?’ she said, picking up her jacket from the back of the sofa. ‘I mean, if Devon isn’t coming back – are you going to be able to cope? With getting upstairs and everything?’
‘I’ll manage,’ he said, setting down his glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ve got my crutch – I’ve just got to get used to it.’
He reached down with his left arm to haul up the crutch, which had been lying on the floor next to the sofa. But his actions belied the casualness of his words: nerves took over, and rather than lifting the crutch, he dragged at it with much too much force, jerking one end of it up as the other side skidded across the polished floor, banging against the coffee table, the tip swinging towards Deeley. She jumped to avoid being tripped, stumbling as she tried to retrieve her balance.
‘Shit, sorry!’ Matt exclaimed, letting the crutch fall and shooting up his arm to catch her instead.
She grabbed onto him with both hands. It was like putting her fingers into a live electric socket. Her palms connected with his forearm, thick with muscle; she felt every vein, every slightly rough hair, with such intensity that nothing else existed for her in that moment but the sensation of Matt’s warm, firm flesh beneath her hands. She clung to him as if he were a tree trunk and she were being blown away by a hurricane.
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