by Carrie Elks
That knowledge is so much worse than the clusterfuck that happened afterward. The investigations and the media frenzy, followed by the unseemly influence of his parents’ money. The fact we bore all of the blame for his death in the eyes of the press and the university seemed like karma.
“Beth?” Niall squeezes my hand softly. I squeeze back, swallowing down the bile that’s collected in my throat.
“We’d best get on with dinner; we don’t want to starve your mum.” I start chopping tomatoes, slicing the sharp knife through their rosy skins. But he doesn’t move, though; simply stands and stares at me until I’m embarrassed enough to stop.
“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“Chopping tomatoes?”
“Avoidance. You even have this tone you use when you change the subject. Breezy and chipper, as if it’s your job to cheer everybody up.”
The impact of his words is so strong it almost hurts. It’s as if he can see right through my bullshit and understands who I am underneath. As though he wants to break through the shell I’ve carefully built around myself; the pretty one I show to the rest of the world.
If he does, I’m scared he’s going to find something rotten underneath.
* * *
I think I’m falling in love with Niall’s mother. Maureen is a one-woman ball of energy, a force of nature that has no half-life. She spends most of the evening taking good-natured jibes at Niall which he happily endures, and I sit and let their mutual love envelop me like a soft, warm blanket. I’ve managed to shake off my earlier angst enough to join in her teasing about Niall’s general messiness. He protests loudly when I tell her he’s been cleaning the flat all week.
When he disappears to the bathroom, she turns in her chair and smiles at me. “How long have you and Niall known each other?” She glances at my left hand, and I know she’s looking at my wedding ring.
“He started volunteering at the clinic a couple of months ago, but I knew him before. At university.” Her eyes cloud over when I say the words.
“You were there when that poor wee boy died?”
I nod.
“Such a tragedy.” She shakes her head slowly. “And everything that happened afterward, too. Did you hear Niall was thrown out?”
I swallow hard and glance at the door to the hallway. Unsure how much I should tell her, or how much Niall would want me to say. But I’ve seen them interact enough to know she doesn’t judge, not unless she’s making a joke. If pure love exists, then these two have it in spades.
“I was thrown out, too,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen as realisation seems to wash over her. “You’re the girl...” she breathes. “The one he left behind.”
My voice is thick when I answer her. “That was me.”
She looks at my ring once more, before her eyes flicker up to meet mine. “I know Niall looks tough, but he’s sensitive underneath it all. He had such a hard time dealing with everything that happened. When I flew into town yesterday, it was like he was really alive again, that he was letting himself be happy for the first time in years.” She catches my gaze and I feel like I’m being scrutinised. “My son adored you once, Beth. Don’t make him fall in love with you again.”
My chest constricts until I can barely breathe. “We’re just friends,” I manage to whisper.
“His eyes follow you around the room whenever he thinks you aren’t looking. When he talks to you there’s this gentleness to his voice I haven’t heard in years. I’m old but I’m not blind. I can see the way you both look at each other.”
I take a big mouthful of wine and consider her words. Remembering the way he waited for hours outside the police station. How he always hangs around after class and helps me clear up.
Oh, God.
“He’s worked so hard to get over everything that happened,” she says. “Please don’t break his heart all over again.”
The campus is dark and mostly deserted. People are either home, in halls, or cozied up in one of the many bars dotted around the university. We pass the occasional runner and a few groups of students walking home from the pub, but for the most part it’s just the two of us.
We keep stopping to kiss and touch, which turns the ten-minute walk to the art building into a twenty minute one. My head is still buzzing, but the tab of ecstasy we shared before leaving my room is washing away the worst of my hangover, blanketing me with a sense of sweet euphoria. Whenever he touches my chest it makes me giggle.
When we finally reach the building it’s all too easy to break in. He jimmies up a sash window with a metal rod, then pushes it up until we can climb inside. My feet land on the classroom floor, and my heart races, pounding against my ribcage as if it’s trying to escape. Suddenly the lyrics from Bat Out of Hell start coming out of my mouth, and Niall muffles them with his palm, hushing me as he leads me toward the studios.
“But it’s Meatloaf,” I try to tell him. “Did you know he changed his name by deed poll? Imagine having to sign your cheques Mr Loaf. He must get really funny looks when he does the weekly shopping.”
“You weren’t this chatty an hour ago.”
I hadn’t taken ecstasy an hour ago, either. Now I want to tell him everything. There’s so much in my brain that’s itching to get out, I barely even know where to start.
This time, he muffles my words with his mouth. Hard, rough kisses that send my pulse soaring. He cups the back of my head with his hand and presses the other against my bum. His tongue is soft, though, almost gentle compared with the rest of him. I let him stroke it against my own.
“You need to be quiet while I paint you, okay?” he says after I break free to take in some air. His words are punctuated by soft pants.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“At least try and lie still. I can’t do the first sketch if you keep moving and speaking.” He kisses me again, and this time I feel his hardness digging into my hip. “We should never have taken that bloody E.”
“It feels good, though.”
Niall pushes me against a table and it rocks precariously on the tiled floor. There’s a crash as a pile of books fall to the ground. He laughs and pushes me again, this time until I’m sitting on the edge, my legs wrapped around his hips. He grinds into me, kissing me feverishly until we fall back onto the scratched wooden table top.
“I thought you were going to paint me,” I say.
He pulls my t-shirt up over my head. “Later.”
13
It doesn’t get much busier than Trafalgar Square on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Filled with a mixture of tourists and pigeons, the concrete square seems to vibrate with excitement. Allegra pulls anxiously at my hand, almost running toward one of the huge black lions that guard Nelson’s Column.
“Can we climb it, can we, can we?” she chants, her cheeks blooming with anticipation as we reach the iron beast.
“I’ll give you a boost.” I squat down, linking my fingers to form a cradle. She places her left foot in it and reaches out as I stand up, launching her onto the plinth. My attempts to climb are altogether clumsier. After three tries at hoisting myself up, a middle-aged tourist takes pity and lends a hand, until I finally reach the base of the lion. Allegra has already climbed astride it. Waving me over, she pats the space in front of her, and we sit together, overlooking London.
“This is Aslan,” she tells me. “I’m Lucy and you’re Susan and we’re going to fight the White Witch.”
I stroke his metal back. “What a good lion.”
“Lucy was sent away from her mum, too,” Allegra says. “I wonder why.”
“It was wartime. They were evacuated.”
“What’s that?”
“There were bombs raining down on London; it wasn’t safe for kids. They were sent to the countryside to live with strangers.”
“In homes?” Her brow pulls down, thread-wrinkles lining her forehead.
“Not group homes like yours. But they had to live with families they did
n’t know.”
Understanding softens her frown. “Like foster parents you mean?”
“Pretty similar, I suppose. Except some families didn’t want them at all, and some of the kids had a terrible time. Maybe we should go to the War Museum next Saturday, there’s bound to be some exhibitions there.”
It’s become a regular thing, our weekend trip out. At first we stuck to her local area, to leafy-green parks and Happy Meal lunches, but in the last couple of weeks we’ve spread our wings. A journey on a bus or the Tube, followed by a visit to a museum or gallery. After lunch we’ll go into the National Portrait Gallery and hang around the Holbeins, maybe visit the Van Goghs. Allegra likes to make up stories about the paintings and I love to listen to them.
She’s such a funny, wry little girl.
“Shall we climb down and eat our sandwiches?” I ask. In spite of the sunny day, the painted metal of the lion is cool, and it’s seeping through my jeans, making my legs shake from the chill. I turn around to look at her and she’s smiling happily. The gentle breeze lifts the ends of her hair. The tendrils look like they’re dancing.
“What did you buy me?”
“I didn’t buy them, I made them.” I pat the canvas bag that’s slung over my shoulder. “Liver pate or cow’s tongue, take your pick.”
She sticks out her own tongue and gags until I take pity on her. “Okay, okay. Ham and cheese, I figured that’s safe enough.”
“I still prefer Happy Meals.”
Later, when I take her back to the group home, her little hand tightens around mine until her nails are digging into my palm. The tension wafts off her. It’s in the stiffness of her posture and the downward set of her mouth.
“You okay?” I whisper as we walk up the path.
Her bottom lip starts to tremble, but she tries to shrug it off. “I’m okay.”
“It’s all right if you’re sad. I’m sad too. But I’ll see you at the clinic on Monday, and we can have another trip out next Saturday.” I try to find the right words. The magic ones that will dry up her wet eyes and bring a smile to her lips. I fail miserably. Her little face crumples. The tears welling up in her eyes spill over, making shiny trails down her cheeks. I pull her close, burying my face in her hair.
“I hate it here. I don’t want to come back. Take me home with you. Please.” The last word is swallowed up by her wail, and in my mind I’m already stealing her away across London, hiding her in our house and contacting a lawyer to gain custody.
“I can’t.” My voice is thick. “I’ll call Grace on Monday, find out how much longer you’ll be here.” Her face clouds over when I mention her social worker, but she says nothing. Her shoulders slump with resignation and we press the buzzer to the house, waiting for someone to answer.
One way or another, I have to get her out of there for good.
* * *
On Saturday night I’m staring listlessly into the fridge and trying to work out what to cook for dinner. Not that I’m hungry; the memory of Allegra’s face acts as an instant appetite suppressor. I’m about to give up on food altogether and run a bath when my phone buzzes. Picking it up, I read the one-word message.
Hi.
It’s not the word that brings a smile to my lips, but the person who sent it. I reply right away.
Hi yourself.
I never said I was original. I don’t know what else to say to Niall. Even my fingers get tongue tied when he’s around.
How was your day?
I hesitate to reply. Do I tell him how shit it was, watching Allegra cry and beg me to take her away? Do we have that kind of friendship yet? I’m not sure, but in the absence of Lara, I feel the need to spill my guts to somebody.
Pretty crap. I’m going to drown my sorrows in a vat of Pinot.
Sounds tempting. Why don’t we drown together?
The thought of drowning with him—doing anything with him—is so tempting. My finger hovers over the keypad of my phone as I try to talk myself out of the ‘yes’ I’m itching to type.
It’s been a long day.
Simon wouldn’t like it.
Please don’t break his heart all over again.
The last excuse almost makes me laugh. Whatever Niall’s ma saw last night, it wasn’t adoration—pity, maybe, or kindness. I think we’re becoming friends, which I like very much, but there’s nothing more than that.
Not on his part, anyway.
He offers to come and get me, but I insist on taking a cab to his place, picking up a Chinese takeaway en route. I need that time to pull myself together. There’s a ten-ton butterfly doing somersaults in my stomach at the thought of seeing him. It’s as though I’m nineteen again, trailing after the popular kids, waiting for them to notice me. Even if I’m older and wiser, my body seems to be ignoring the fact. It’s driving me crazy.
When we pull up outside Niall’s flat, I juggle the takeaway bag and my purse, handing over a twenty pound note. The driver doesn’t bat an eyelid, just pockets the cash and thanks me when I refuse the change.
For the second night in a row, I find myself climbing the steps to Niall’s front door and pressing his buzzer to let me in.
I’m almost shocked when the front door opens. I’d been expecting a buzz and a click, not this. By this, I mean Niall running down three flights of stairs to meet me, a huge grin on his face, his cheeks flushed beneath the one-day layer of stubble that takes my breath away.
Why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous?
Niall leans forward and presses his lips to my cheek, grazing the corner of my mouth. I have to fight the urge to move my head an inch and feel the full force of his lips against mine.
“Let me take that.” He pulls the takeaway bag from my clutching fingers and holds the front door open. “You look great, by the way. I like your t-shirt.”
“This old thing?” I don’t even remember where I got it from. It could be a five-pound Primark bargain or a hundred-pound Simon gift. I bat away the urge to check the label.
“It looks good on you.” His eyes scan down from my face to my chest, and my cheeks flame as red as his, but for entirely different reasons.
“Is your mum still here?” I squeak.
“I put her on the train to Preston this afternoon.” He isn’t suffering any of my breathlessness as we make the ascent to his flat. I try to disguise my embarrassingly loud gasps.
“What’s in Preston?”
“My aunt. Ma’s gone to terrorise her for a few days while I get some respite. I’m still traumatised after she revealed all my secrets to you last night.”
My son was in love with you, Beth.
Thank God he doesn’t know about that one. If he did, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. It isn’t true, I remind myself. She was seeing things that weren’t there.
“Shut up, she was really nice.” I punch him in the bicep and he reaches up to grab my fist. He holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at our joined fingers.
“Did I hurt you?” I whisper.
His eyes rise up to meet mine. “Never.”
He walks into his flat and carries the brown takeaway bag into his kitchen. I follow and watch as he unloads the little plastic boxes, steam escaping as he pulls off the lids. “Shall I serve or do you want to help yourself?”
I’m not at all hungry. “I’ll serve myself.” He’s still staring at me and it’s unnerving. My hand shakes as I reach out to grab a spoon. “I wasn’t sure what you like so I thought I’d stick to the favourites. You can never go wrong with Chow Mein.”
“Unless I have a wheat allergy,” he remarks.
I practically snatch the plastic pot from his hands. “Do you get all swollen up? Do you have an EpiPen? Should I call an ambulance?”
He takes the container back and starts to laugh. “I didn’t say I had a wheat allergy.” He starts to heap noodles onto his plate. “I was just hypothesising.”
Now I want to hit him again. “You scared me. I had visions of having to drag your lif
eless body down three flights of stairs, screaming out for help. Though I’m not sure which one of us would need the hospital more by that point.”
I look up and I’m breathless all over again. He’s beautiful. Not just handsome, in that square-jawed, matinee idol kind of way. His face is less ephemeral than that. His straight, even nose, full lips and those bright blue eyes remind me of medieval portraits and dashing knights.
“Hey, I promised you a vat of wine. Will a glass do to start with? They’re big ones; I can probably fit half a bottle in there.”
Niall and wine. I wonder if it’s a good combination.
“A glass will do. I forgot to bring my swimming costume anyway.” When he looks confused, I add, “For swimming in the vat.”
“Nah, you said drowning. You don’t need a swimming costume to drown.” He passes me a full glass. “You can do that naked.”
Oh.
I take a big gulp, searching for salvation in the bottom of the glass. Although I know even a mouthful of Pinot isn’t enough to ward off my demons, because I shouldn’t be here. It isn’t the same as popping over to Lara and Alex’s for dinner and a gossip.
Not even remotely similar.
For one, I haven’t had sex with Lara, or Alex. There are no memories of sensual nights, of skin on skin, of slipping and sliding our way to oblivion. Though I love them to bits, they don’t make me feel like Niall does. Exposed and raw.
“Do you want to eat here or on the sofa?” I ask. It comes out as one garbled word. His lips twitch at my discomfiture, which only heightens when he reaches out and brushes his hand against my face, cupping my cheek. It burns so hot I imagine there’ll be an outline of his fingers etched into my skin even after he pulls away.
But I don’t want him to pull away.
A shiver snakes its way down my spine at the same time my breath gets caught in my throat.
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is low. A warning.
“Like what?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Beth.” He moves closer, so my left hip is jammed against the breakfast bar while my right is jammed against him. I have to look up to meet his eyes. When I do I’m lost in them. It’s not wine I want to drown in, it’s Niall.