by Alam, Donna
If he was interested in more than for now, he would have said.
Wouldn’t he?
At eight, my phone rings. I know who it is before I even reach for it.
‘Hey, sweetheart. How’s your head?’
‘Worse.’ I sound like I have the flu. Or possibly the black death.
‘You’ve been overthinking.’
I laugh. Unhappily. Because yes, yes I have. I’ve been thinking about all the things I wish I could change. How I’d do things if I was given the chance to do them over again.
I wouldn’t blackmail Archer into dating me.
I’d force myself to pluck up the nerve just to ask.
Ask, not demand.
God. Hindsight is a torturous bitch.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah,’ I croak, pushing myself further up the pillows.
‘You love working for Miranda. You’ll probably love working for yourself in the same business even more.’
‘You think?’ If only my issues were my job. Miranda’s offer is a no-brainer; I hate my nine-to-five and I love my weekends. I know there’ll be a steep learning curve ahead—customer service, dealing with people, money and ordering and a million other things—but I also know Mir will be there to help. Just like Archer has been.
‘I know it. And Miranda will help. You won’t be on your own.’
Alone. Like I feel now. Alone in my decisions.
‘You in bed?’
‘Yeah. Yes. I am.’ I move the phone from my face and sniff quietly, wiping tears from my face.
‘Okay. Well, you tuck yourself in and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.’
I laugh. And I cry a little more. Silently. Why couldn’t he have pulled out something crass? Why does Archer Powell continue to slay me?
‘What would the story be about?’
‘It’s about a girl with a magic mirror.’
‘I think I’ve heard this one already.’ I could probably write a thesis on it.
Girls who wish on magic mirrors: a study of be careful what you wish for.
‘I don’t think you have, babe.’
‘I wish you were here.’ Did he hear the desperate longing in my sigh?
‘What would you do if I was there?’
‘Right now?’ I run my hand across the mattress in the spot I’d like him to be. ‘Probably snuggle into your side and go to sleep.’
A car passes under my window, the sound somehow echoing stereophonically down the phone line.
‘Archer.’ I sit up a little straighter. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where would you want me to be?’
‘Close.’ I reply. ‘Near me.’ Here.
‘Shall I use the key you gave me?’
I’m out of the bed and in the living room in ten seconds flat, and for the second time today, I launch myself at him. The difference is, I think he knows what I’m going to say.
Archer, we need to talk. The words are on the tip of my tongue but that’s as far as they’ll go.
‘Come on.’ His hands on my shoulders, he turns me in the direction of the bed. ‘Up the apples and pears and into the garden bed.’
‘But I don’t have any apples or pears.’ Or in rhyming slang, stairs.
‘Hush. You’re spoiling the effect.’
In the bedroom, I pull the corner of the quilt back but don’t yet slip into it.
‘Aren’t you staying?’ My heart squeezes when it becomes clear he’s not stripping.
‘I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back for the mutt or I’ll have no home to go back to.’
‘You should’ve brought him.’ I drop the corner of the quilt and turn back to him.
‘He’s got doggy day-care in the morning. Better I drive back tonight, or I’ll need to be up at four to avoid the traffic.’
Two steps and he suddenly wraps his arms around me, hugging me tight. His hugs have come in all shapes and sizes, from those one-armed lacklustre affairs to the all-encompassing bear-hug type squeezes. This hug is on the latter end of the scale. It feels like he doesn’t want to let me go. I don’t know how long we stand there, our arms entwined and our hearts beating together, but as we pull apart, I think we both realise we’ve lost something.
34
Archer
I look like shit and I’ve barely slept.
And I know what’s coming today.
And I feel like an idiot because the way I’ve been living these last few weeks? A case of hope over fucking experience.
It’s laughable that I’d even consider she’d choose me.
So why aren’t I laughing?
Because it fucking hurts, this empty and achingly hollow reminder of why I don’t get involved.
Of why there’s safety in numbers.
Of why there’s security in anonymity.
Of why you never let people get too close because they only feel the weight of your baggage.
I went to her last night knowing she was hurting. Feeling in my bones that she’d say she was having second thoughts. That she’s say she couldn’t think of another man over me.
But she didn’t say a fucking thing. Worse, she seemed resigned.
Game over, isn’t it?
I still held her until she slept. Held her for me.
And then I left, the sad fuck that I am. Left with my tail between my legs.
Then this morning, I lay alone in my bed, and not even Elvis had sought my company. I thought how unfair it is that the dawn is supposed to bring a new day, a fresh start, when instead it was bringing the inevitable fading of things.
Maudlin fucker.
And then I look at Elvis, scratching his ear with his back paw. Stretching out his long body in one of those bone cracking deals. His tail wags and his ears perk up when he looks at me. He bounds for the door as if to say get up, you lazy fucker! I have shit to do—literally—lamp posts to pee on and dog food to eat.
We don’t speak the same language, yet we know what the other one needs, although he wasn’t up for spooning my miserable arse this morning, which says our is a very one-sided deal. But that’s a thought for another time. We don’t speak the same language, but we seem to know the score intrinsically. Heather, on the other hand, has a fuck tonne of problem decoding. And I’ve left this in her hands. Told myself that she has to be the one to leap. That she has to realise I’ll catch her no matter what from now on.
I may as well have written it in Chinese.
I’m out of bed in a flash, heading for the shower, stopped only by Elvis’s wine. Some things won’t wait, I suppose. But cluing in Heather? She won’t have to wait too long.
* * *
I’m late to work and cursing the doggy day-care woman. It should be called dodgy day-care. What kind of business owner sleeps in?
I drop my stuff in my office and head straight for hers, unable to shake off this sick feeling finding she’s not there.
I’m still sick to my stomach at eleven o’clock because there’s still no sign of her.
Not seeing her through the day isn’t unusual. We’re both often busy and our schedules sometimes clash. But that’s not what’s going on today.
Is she avoiding me? Hiding somewhere?
She’s in the building, apparently. At least, according to her assistant, Emika, who I’ve asked already twice. The third time, she looks around to make sure no one is listening before she answers.
‘She’s on the executive floor. She has been all morning.’
The executive floor. What the fuck could she doing up there—and for this long?
She could be handing her notice in, I suppose. She seemed really set on running her cousin’s company. And why wouldn’t she? Family means everything to some people.
Also known as the lucky ones.
She could be upstairs complaining about Haydn, I suppose.
About me?
Neither of those are likely.
Lunchtime rolls around and she’s still not about. Tension coils so tight in my gut
that I feel like I could puke.
I have so much I want to say.
So much she needs to hear.
So where the fuck is she so I can verbally vomit all these things?
I force myself out of the building, grabbing a takeaway coffee from Pret to drink while I walk some of this feeling off. The ache in my shoulders and the way my eyes smart like I’ve been staring at the computer too long.
I find my feet heading to Postman’s Park wishing my coffee was something a little stronger when a girl in a blue duffle coat catches my attention. My heart stops, my feet too, everything slowing down for a moment before coming back again, twice as quick. Heart beating fast enough to burst. Feet shuffling, not able to move fast enough. My fingers like wooden sticks as I try to open the latch on the gate.
She’s sitting on the far side, on a bench, in a patch of sunshine. Daffodils sway in the grass behind her, tiny birds hopping around excitedly, happy recipients of bits of her sandwich.
And she’s crying, her small shoulders wracked with silent sobs.
Sandwich abandoned, coffee cup dropped, she stands as I approach and then she’s in my arms again.
‘They made me leave,’ she says through gulping breaths. ‘Clean break, l-liability.’
It was a risk. It happens in these jobs.
‘Shush. It’s okay. They’ll pay you out your notice period. Money for free while you run your business.’ I try to pull back to see her face, but she just snuggles in deeper, shaking her head.
‘What is it? What else?’
I’m unprepared for what comes next.
Barney’s back.
It was inevitable at some point, I suppose.
She’s sorry she didn’t tell him before. She thought we’d have more time.
The rest? Platitudes. How good I’ve been to her; how good I’ve been for her.
How she wishes she was that woman, the one who would change me. But that she has to respect my feelings. That I’d said it myself—love ruins all things.
Did I say that? Because that’s fucking bleak.
Respect my feelings? Talk about fucking yourself over.
I tighten my arms around her and open my mouth because she’s got it all wrong. How can she not see it? She presses her palms to my chest and pulls away.
‘I owe it to myself to get to know Barney better. He’s written to me and asked if I’d visit him in Inverness. And I said yes. Because there might be something that can grow between us. We’re the same, me and him. A little outside. A little bit different.’ She sniffs and rubs her palms against her eyes. ‘It might seem mad to you, but it’s no madder than you and me.’
How do you answer that?
Do I shake the living daylights out of her? See if it’ll helps her see sense?
I feel like she’s stuck her hand in my chest and torn out my heart. I tilt my head, my gaze catching on the wording above the memorial tiles.
In commemoration of heroic self-sacrifice
I’m no hero.
But I love.
And if this is her choice, then shouldn’t I let her go?
35
Archer
‘Don’t look at me with those judgey eyes.’ Elvis huffs as he drops his big head to his paws again. ‘It’s easier for you,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got no balls.’
Oh, the fucking irony.
Between the two of us, one is no longer in possession of their testicles, and the other may as well take himself off to the doctor to have them removed.
I throw back my glass, draining the contents. There’s no tonic left to go with my next vodka. Do I go out and buy some? Nah, I’ll drink it neat.
Elvis whines as I step over him on my way to the kitchen, half filling my tumbler from a bottle of Grey Goose I’m trying not to nurse. It could be worse. I could be drinking it from the bottle. But I’m not sure if liquor numbs or exacerbates because I’m not feeling any better about my own lack of testicular daring currently.
She said she needed to try.
And I didn’t give her reasons otherwise.
But I suppose it doesn’t really matter what she said, or what I said, what she thinks, what I think, or even what Elvis thinks, because the outcome would still be the same.
Me. Left behind.
Maybe there’s something innate in me?
I find myself laughing unpleasantly. Self-sacrifice? More like fucking cowardice.
Just like the contents of this glass.
I hold it up to the light as I stare. Then, without a second thought, I dump the contents down the sink.
At the tip-tap of Elvis’s nails, I decide I’ll take him for his evening walk. Life carries on, doesn’t it? Even when you feel like sticking your fucking head in the gas oven. Maybe it’s fortunate I only have electric.
Jokes, but no lols. Because I haven’t got the wherewithal.
‘What have you got there?’
Between Elvis’s teeth is something small, blue and silky. Something that has seen the inside of a washing machine quite recently. Something that will be going there again. Heather’s knickers.
‘Is this your way of trying to say she won’t be needing them this weekend?’
The vodka reverse engineers itself in my stomach, turning to potatoes as I struggle to wrestle a wisp of fabric from thirty-five kilos of mutt.
‘Get the fuck off, Elvis.’
But he just growls. It’s just one too many acts of contrariety that I can take today. I’m over it. Over myself. Because fuck it—just fuck it. I was right when I said love ruins because I feel like a wreck. How can I possibly feel any worse?
Well, other than spending the evening looking at Heather’s underwear.
Wondering.
Imagining.
Telling myself I don’t deserve her.
Say it enough and I’ll start to believe it.
Instead, I grab my coat.
‘You’re on your own, mate. But I’ll be back.’ I slip my wallet into my back pocket at the same time I shove my feet into my shoes.
‘I’ll call the kid next door when I’m on the way to the station.’ And I’ll google the train times on my phone. There are probably a dozen trains heading up that way today, and though I have no idea where she’ll be, I’ll find out on the way.
What if I’m too late? What if she’s already slept with him.
Then it’ll be your own fucking fault, won’t it?
Also, it might work in my favour because nothing will be as good as us together. Nothing has ever had such combustible chemistry.
Alos, and I feel quite confident on this, he probably has a really small dick.
I’ll find her cousin’s number; she can get his address from her brother. I’ll make up some bullshit excuse if I have to because this has to work. With a glance at Elvis’s bowl to make sure he has water, I grab my phone, simultaneously opening Uber app as I open my front door . . . and step on a dainty toe.
‘Ouch, Archer! Watch where you’re putting your bloody big feet.
My hands are on Heather’s shoulders, I know I’m holding her too tight, but I can’t bring myself to let her go.
‘It’s a good job I don’t have brittle bones,’ she says with a wince. ‘Is there any chance I could come inside?’
I swallow, not trusting myself to speak, though I step back and she rolls a familiar looking small pink suitcase behind her.
Did she think to stop off and torture me a little more along the way?
Heather bends from the waist to fuss over Elvis who, no longer chewing her underwear, seems very pleased to see her. ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’
Not me. Not the way my eyes are glued to her arse.
Not the thoughts I’m having, sexual and otherwise.
‘Were you going somewhere?’ she asks, twisting her head over her shoulder to glance my way. She glances back at Elvis again as she murmurs. ‘Did you run out of tonic?’
From where we’re standing, she can see through to the kitchen, to the half-fil
led bottle of vodka and the empty tonic.
‘Something like that,’ I answer, my tone gruff.
She straightens, seeming to blow out a long, restorative breath. And then she turns. She still wears the evidence of this afternoon’s tears in the red rimming of her eyes. But she looks strong, her gaze direct as she asks, ‘Do you have anything to say to me?’
I bark out a laugh. The fucking audacity. Her and only her.
And only for me.
‘What makes you ask?’ I ask, leaning against the console table.
‘Hope,’ she answers with a simple shrug. ‘That and I replayed this afternoon’s outpouring.’ To accompany her words, she pretends to vomit. ‘I didn’t leave you much space to say anything.’
‘There wasn’t a lot left for me to say. You made yourself very clear.’ I try to keep my words even, but they’re delivered with a hint of accusation. Why? I ask myself. Two minutes ago, I was ready to run to the ends of the earth, or Scotland, to make her see sense.
‘I was unfair. And afraid. And I’m sorry but, fair warning, I’m about to start babbling again. And I hope you’ll hear me out.’
I tilt my head rather than answer, not quite trusting myself as we stand facing each other, both still wearing our coats. It makes me wonder which of us is likely to bolt first.
‘I thought Barney and me were the same, but I’ve come to realise that’s not the case. It’s you and me who are similar. You talk about my self-deprecation, say how wearing it must be, but you’re no different. You just deal with it other ways. You don’t let anyone get close, because if they’re not close then they’re not able to reject you, right?’
I fold my arms across my chest and try not to sneer.
‘I must’ve read the situation wrong in the park somehow because it sure felt like fucking rejection.’
‘It was. Because I was frightened—I am frightened. I’m frightened now. Frightened that I’m going to offer you my heart and you’re going to laugh, and I’ll never feel whole again.’