“Breast cancer. Metastasized. Spread to her spine. Within a few months she could barely walk.”
Lizzie’s lips parted. Probably to say I’m sorry. But if he stopped talking, he might never start again—so he ploughed on.
“I gave up the bullshit I was involved in. All I could think was that I’d get caught, locked up, and she’d have no-one to look after her.”
“And they just… let you stop? Just like that?”
He gave a humourless laugh. “It’s not like in films, Lizzie. Drug dealers aren’t the mafia. Pay what you owe, be respectful, and you can do whatever the fuck you like. It’s just that most people never want to stop. No pension, no job security, but it pays better than stacking shelves.”
She nodded, her eyes wide. She probably had a father or a brother who’d beat him senseless for telling her any of this. But there were little girls all over the country who’d known nothing but this life since childhood. The silent majority didn’t have to be silent if only somebody would listen.
Lizzie was listening.
“So I stayed with her. I stayed with her until—until she died. And I promised her that I’d stay straight. I swore I’d try to do something with my life.”
“What happened?” She asked softly.
He smiled, though there was no pleasure in it. It was more a thin stretching of the lips, a pathetic attempt at emotion. Because it was all so fucking ironic.
“I kept my word. I was doing well. I found a college that did bricklaying courses. I was okay at it, too. Things were… calm. Boring. I liked that.
“I started to make some friends, too. So, one Saturday night, we all went out. The usual. But one of my mates got into an argument with some guy. Next thing you know, we’re all fighting. Someone comes for me; I swing. Punched him square in the face. He went straight down. Smacked his head on the concrete. Killed him.” Isaac chose a spot on the snowy tablecloth, a square inch just as pristine as the rest. He focused on that spot, clung to it like a lifeline as he finished the story.
“When he didn’t get back up, I took a look at him. Realised he wasn’t breathing. Then I saw the blood, spreading around his head. Like a halo. My mam—she used to collect these little cards, with pictures of angels. They had little sayings on the back. He looked just like that. Only his halo was red.
“Called an ambulance. Wasn’t fast enough. I even tried fucking CPR, like that would help. The guy’s brain was painting the pavement and I started breathing down his mouth like a fucking idiot.”
“Isaac,” she said. “Don’t treat yourself so harshly—”
“Why not?” He gritted out. “I’m alive to do it. He’s not. So why fucking not?”
She bit her lip. “What was his name?”
“Ben Davis,” he said, the words falling from his lips like a habit. “He was twenty-two. Had three little sisters. His mother cried every time she saw me. His father never said a word.”
Lizzie leaned forward, squeezing her hand with her own. “I was wrong,” she murmured. “When I said that you profit from it.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You weren’t.”
“I was. Because you suffer, don’t you?”
He gritted his teeth against the searing pain of her words, of her gaze, so soft and understanding.
“I know you,” she said. “I know that you’ve probably done all you can to atone for that day. So ask yourself this: what else can you give? If the answer is nothing but more of this pain… Maybe consider the fact that it’s not helping anyone.”
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. And then, unable to help himself, he said, “Why do I want to tell you everything? How do you make me feel like this?”
She stiffened. Not a lot. Just enough that a man who felt her the way he felt gravity would notice. And in an instant, he saw that she was pulling away. That the shutters were falling. That the shadows had returned.
She gave him a little smile, valiant and utterly fake, and returned to her food as if it wasn’t freezing cold by now. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she said lightly. “How is your ratatouille, anyway?”
And he picked up his fork and said, “It’s good.”
Because he’d let her do this, if it was what she needed. He’d let her pull away.
But he wouldn’t stop hoping that one day she’d let him in.
Eighteen
Lizzie sank into the soft embrace of her room’s double bed with a sigh. A tiny pillow fell from its grand arrangement to land on her face. She didn’t bother brushing it off.
Its presence helped with her wallowing.
She’d never felt so low in her life. Not when she was twelve, and she accidentally told seven-year-old Yen that Santa wasn’t real. Not when she broke up with her first boyfriend and he’d cried. Fuck, not even when she’d said those awful things to Ellen.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, trying to chase away the memories of Isaac. His kindness, his understanding, the aching intensity of his gaze. It had been hours since their lunch date; hours since she'd pushed him away for what felt like the hundredth time. He'd let her go when the meal was over, but she almost wished that he hadn't. She almost wished he'd push.
He never would.
He wasn't the man she'd believed him to be. And when Lizzie had agreed to all this, as much as she'd despised the subterfuge, it hadn't been a difficult choice. Her brother, or a stranger with a bad reputation? No contest. Except he wasn't a stranger anymore. And Lizzie was starting to realise that, despite all she'd been raised to believe, reputations didn't mean a damned thing.
Full of anxious energy, Lizzie sat, pushing the pillow off her face. Moping was a waste of time. She should be glad that things were turning out this way, that he was opening up to her. Soon, she'd find the perfect moment, and she'd get the information she so desperately needed. And then this would all be over. And he would never forgive her.
Restless, Lizzie unlocked her phone. She needed to talk to someone—but there was no-one left.
Olu was miles away, further in spirit than he'd ever been in body. Yen soaked up other people’s moods like a sponge; if Lizzie called the younger woman now, they’d both end up in pieces over something or other. Ellen… Well. She’d ruined everything with Ellen.
But then she remembered Isaac’s words. If you’re sorry, you should tell her. Even if it’s not enough.
Biting her lip, Lizzie decided he was right. It was past time to apologise.
She pulled her suitcase out of the wardrobe and unzipped it, rifling through the few things she hadn’t unpacked. At the bottom was her laptop and charger, as yet unused; she’d been strangely busy on this trip, despite not being busy at all.
Manipulating men took serious energy. Who knew?
A pathetic voice in her head argued that it wasn't manipulation. That voice was a liar. Because whether Lizzie wanted to or not, enjoyed it or not, she knew what she was doing. She would get close to Isaac, she would learn his secrets, and she would use them against him.
That was the bottom line.
Lizzie unlocked her laptop and pulled up Facebook, typing Ellen’s name into the search bar. Her friend’s familiar, smiling face came into view, along with a cover photo of what looked like half the corps, grinning in their leotards.
Oh. Lizzie was in that picture too; at the back, on the right, side-on to the camera. She was talking to someone—Mario, another dancer. Neither of them appeared to notice the photograph being taken just metres away. And she looked… awful.
She was painfully thin, her calves barely the width that her arms were now. Her joints protruded, giving away the fact that her body was carrying less weight than it should. Her head looked far too big for her bowed shoulders, almost cartoon-like. And there were heavy circles under her eyes.
She clicked the image, bringing up its details. It was uploaded nine months ago. Before she'd committed to looking after her body, back when she'd been free-falling.
God, no wonder Ellen had sni
tched.
Feeling slightly sick at the prospect of what she knew she had to do, Lizzie closed the picture and brought up a chat box. She typed three different versions of the same sentence before finally settling on the right one.
I’m really sorry.
She stared at the words. They didn’t seem adequate. She had no fucking idea what else to say. Apologising always made her want to vomit. The more necessary it was, the worse she felt.
Before she could change her mind, Lizzie hit ‘send’ and closed the little window. There. Ellen and Lizzie weren’t Facebook friends anymore, so she had no idea if Ellen would even see this message. But she didn’t have the other girl’s number—Lizzie had deleted every trace of her old life in a ridiculous fit of temper. So this was the only way.
She just hoped it would be enough.
A ding came from the laptop, and her gaze flew to the corner of the screen. Ellen had replied already?
Oh. No. Crap. It was Olu.
Biting her lip, Lizzie clicked on the notification, opening the chat.
Olu: I see you online, sis.
Lizzie tapped her fingers against the side of her laptop. It was a simple sentence, but it felt like an accusation. She could hear his unspoken questions: where have you been? Why have you been avoiding me?
When he’d first started his never-ending world tour, she’d wanted so many times to ask the same questions. But she never had.
Maybe she should’ve.
Olu: you free?
Time to be a big girl. Straightening her spine, Lizzie typed back simply:
Yes.
A second later, her phone rang.
She picked it up, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Just like it did every time she spoke to Olu now. It bubbled, acidic and disgusting, as if she was moments away from throwing up her guts.
“Hello?” She croaked into the phone.
“Liz.” His familiar voice filled her at once with comfort and anxiety. She missed the days when she’d been free to love her brother without reservation. Now every interaction was laced with guilt, and it was all so fucking tiring. She was sick of it. She couldn’t fucking stand it. Suddenly, Lizzie was so furious with the entire situation, she felt dizzy.
“How are you?” He asked, his voice cautious.
She blurted out, “I’m diabetic.”
Shit.
He paused. And then, his voice laced with shock, “What?”
Sighing, Lizzie dragged a hand across her face, kneading her suddenly throbbing temple. “I’m diabetic. I have Type 1 diabetes.”
“But—what? Are you okay? When did this happen?”
“Um… February. Last year.”
There was another pause. Longer, this time. And then he said, his voice pure iron: “Elizabeth Adewunmi Olusegun-Keynes. Did I mishear you?”
Uh-oh. His Substitute Parent Voice. But for once, the sound didn’t make her nervous.
In fact, for the first time in months, she felt lighter than air.
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Is this why you left Paris? Not that bullshit line you fed me about diversifying your craft?”
“Kind of. I mean… They got rid of me.”
“What?! Why? Those pieces of shit—”
“No, no! Not like that. I… I wasn’t coping well. So they put me on a break. But I just... Left.”
She could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “What do you mean, you weren’t coping well? Did you tell anyone about this? Did you tell Mother?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Who, then?”
She was quiet. “Well. No-one, really.”
“Oh, Lizzie.” He sighed, and the depth of sadness she heard in that single exhalation brought her guilt rushing back. But without the added weight of such a huge secret, it was a lot easier to bear.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to—you know, to get in the way of what you’re doing.”
“Get in the way?” He repeated, incredulous. “Lizzie. You’re my sister. I could be saving the planet from fucking aliens. I don’t give a damn. As soon as you need me, that’s my priority. It’s not like I’m out here splitting the fucking atom.”
“You’re helping people,” she said. “Or… animals. I can’t remember what you’re doing right now.”
“I’m in the Ukraine. But forget about that. You’re more important than everyone else in the world, Lizzie.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is to me,” he said, his voice soft. Then he cleared his throat as though leaving the emotional part of the conversation behind. He was far better with feelings than she was, a thousand times better than their parents—but it still didn’t come easily to him. “Are you at home?” He asked. “I’ll come and see you.”
“Actually,” she said, staring up at her bed’s canopy, “I’m in the Alps.”
“What the bloody hell are you doing over there?”
“The Spencers are on holiday. They decided to take me with them. But I’ll be back soon. In… three days, I think?”
“Alright. I’ll come home too. We can actually see each other in person for once.”
She giggled. “That might be nice.”
“I know you said you weren’t coping, before, but how are you doing now? Better?”
“Yes,” she said. And it was true. “I’m much better. I’m getting the hang of it.”
“So you have to… Inject yourself, and everything?”
“Oh, yes. It’s kind of gross, actually. You know I hate that sort of thing.”
“I’m impressed, to be honest. You’ve been doing this all on your own?”
“Well… At first I tried to avoid doing it at all. I just kept thinking, you know—you can train your body to do anything, if you work hard enough. So maybe I could… fix myself.”
“You don’t need fixing,” he said. “That sounds like Mother. Not everything needs to be fixed, Liz. Some things just need to be taken care of.”
“I like that," she said softly. “I like that a lot. But anyway... I’m managing now.”
“Are you?” He asked.
And in that precise moment, she felt completely confident when she said, “Yes.” Alone in her room, she felt herself grin with pure happiness. “I got my invitation to Theo’s wedding, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah! Aren’t they great?”
“They’re lovely. But how do you know? Yours is at my house.”
“Oh, I helped choose the stationery. I’ve been texting the maid-of-honour.”
In the past, this would be the point where she made a sly comment about him texting strange women. He did, after all, have a reputation as a ladies’ man. But right now she had no idea if that reputation was one side of a half-hidden coin, or a complete fabrication. A smoke screen designed to keep the world out.
No matter which option was true, the fact that she didn’t know for sure made her wary of the whole topic. So she let the moment slide.
“Is the location anything to do with you?” She asked. “I know you like Greece.”
“Oh, yeah. La Meraki. It’s a beautiful place. They don’t usually do weddings so early in the year, but I know the guy who owns it.”
“He’s a friend?”
“Eh, not really. He’s a bit like Father. Very stiff, you know. But he owes me a favour.”
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone owes you a favour.”
“True.” She could hear his smile. “Listen, Liz, I’ve got to go. I meeting with the head of this orphanage in twenty minutes.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Love you. Bye.”
The call ended, and Lizzie let her phone fall onto the bed. Then she did the same, laying back against the mountain of pillows with a smile on her face.
Wasn’t it funny how the things that seemed so difficult often turned out to be so easy?
/>
Nineteen
Isaac put on his briefs and then his jeans, dragging the worn denim up his still-damp thighs. He didn’t know who spread the rumour that cold showers helped with raging fucking hard-ons. But they were wrong. Showers didn’t do shit.
All he'd thought about since returning from lunch was Lizzie. Should he have pushed her? Should he go to her now? Should he fantasise about sucking on her tits while he came in his own hand, or would that be the moment he really hit rock-bottom?
Jesus Christ, he had no idea what to do with this—this multi-layered lust. Wanting a woman was so much easier when you didn’t also want her every thought and feeling.
Maybe he was just out of practice. Maybe he was back in teenage-boy-mode, and a good fuck would get his mind into working order.
Yeah, and maybe tomorrow morning pigs would fly past his bloody window.
He wandered into the suite’s sitting room in search of his notebook. But as he passed the hotel room’s door, he heard… footsteps. Muffled, light, but hovering back and forth along the same stretch of corridor. Right outside his room. Slipping into stealth like a pair of worn-in shoes, Isaac crept closer to the door and turned off the suite’s lights. Though the windows still let soft, mountain sunshine through, he could now see the play of light and shadow in the crack at the bottom of his door, where it wasn’t quite flush to the carpet. As whoever was out there moved around, the strip of light fell into shadow. Light. Shadow. Light…
Shadow.
He counted to three. There was no movement; the shadow remained, right outside his door.
Whip-sharp, Isaac pulled the door open, ready to take advantage of the element of surprise. But the tables turned when he found wide, whisky eyes and soft lips parted on a gasp, waiting for him.
Fuck.
He reached out and grabbed her arm, dragging her into the room before shutting the door behind them.
“I—I wasn’t sure if you were busy,” Lizzie said, stumbling over her words. “I didn't want to—”
“Don’t care,” he grunted. Then he pushed her back against the closed door, cupping his hands beneath her arse, pushing her up, up, up until her mouth was right where he wanted it.
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