“Read about this in the papers,” he said, sneering. “Thought I’d show me face. In a way, this is all down to me, isn’t it? I was the – what do you call it – the catapult? Nah…that’s not it…the catalyst! Yeah, that’s it. If it weren’t for me, you’d never have written a bloody book, would you?”
The woman stayed a few steps behind him, the way she was hunched in on herself showing she was embarrassed. Scared. Trying not to be noticed.
Ben took a step back and Pippa could see the effort he was making to stay calm. To stay in control. To keep his hands in tight fists by his sides. She touched his arm, reminding him she was there. Wanting him to win that battle – because calm was the only way to go.
“This is an invite-only event, McConnell,” he finally said, his voice a low growl. “And you’re not invited. Leave. Now.”
“I thought my invite must have got lost in the post,” McConnell replied, casting a sideways glance at Pippa. He looked her up and down and smirked at her.
“Who’s this, then? That bird I read about? She’s nothing to write home about, mate…thought you could have done better for yourself. Like my Shelley here.”
Pippa glanced in the direction of the shivering Shelley and their eyes briefly met. Exchanged looks of mutual sympathy and barely controlled anxiety. Poor cow, thought Pippa. What a life he must lead her, and she probably didn’t even have a SpongeBob to talk to about it.
McConnell was edging forward, getting more in Ben’s face, his voice getting louder with every word. It was as though he wanted to attract the attention of everyone in the room and was willing to do anything to get it. Which, she knew, was probably exactly the case – as Ben’s star had risen, his had fallen. There was no book deal for McConnell. No public adulation. Not even the tabloid papers were interested in him these days. Maybe this was a bid for a second bite of the “cherry of infamy”.
“Get out,” said Ben, quietly, edging further back, away from McConnell, inching backwards as far as he could. Eventually his back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go.
Pippa stepped in front of him, shielding him from McConnell.
“I think you’d better leave,” she said quietly, trying not to draw attention to what was happening – because that was exactly what he was after. If it all went tits-up, Shelley had more than likely been primed to whip out her phone and get photographic evidence. “He’s getting angry and he’s got every right to be. And you know what he did to you last time.”
“He was just lucky, the bastard!” he said, the fury making him spit his words in her face. “He caught me unprepared. Sucker punched me! And this time, I’m ready – even if he does have his little guard bitch here to protect him!”
He pushed her to the side and she staggered against the wall, looking on in horror as he pranced up to Ben, bouncing on the soles of his feet like a boxer limbering up for the fight.
Pippa looked at Ben, saw his control slipping. Saw his body literally twitching in response to the threat in front of him. Saw his eyes widen and harden as Pippa recovered her balance. Heard him trying to slow his breathing, fighting against his natural urges. She nodded and smiled, letting him know she was fine. That McConnell hadn’t hurt her.
If he gave in, she knew, that would be the end of him. Of everything he’d worked so hard to build. Whether McConnell started it or not, Ben would finish it. He was so much bigger, so much stronger. There was no way the other man could win – and neither could Ben. She knew how the violence had eaten away inside him, how his conscience had never rested. How much self-loathing the attack had unleashed. Never mind his book, his career, the publicity – it was his soul that would suffer if he gave in and allowed himself to hurt McConnell again. No matter how much he deserved it.
She saw McConnell wind up, saw him pull his arm back in preparation to take that first punch.
And she ran, straight in front of his fist.
Chapter 18
When she woke up she was in a small room, walls painted uniform white. There were fresh flowers at her side in a vase and the subtle scent of disinfectant that told her she was in a hospital. But, she thought, glancing at the flowers again, a posh one.
She struggled upright, realising as she did it that her head hurt. A lot. She reached up and touched her own face. Yelped as she made contact with swollen flesh and a taped-up nose. Poo. She was channelling Patrick, all those months ago.
It was dark outside, she thought, looking at the window. Nothing but night creeping from the sides of the blinds. The room was set to “night-time” lighting, which meant only one fluorescent strip was glowing over her head. Even that stung her eyes, as if someone was pouring acid onto her retinas.
She blinked it away, moved her head slowly from side to side. The pain was muffled, as though she’d been dosed up with horse pills, but it was there. And it would hurt like hell as soon as the tablets wore off, she knew. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, wincing as it jarred the bruised flesh of her jaw. Ice cream and soup from now on, she thought.
So that, she pondered, was what being punched in the face felt like. Note to self: never do that again.
There was a murmur from the corner of the room, a quiet shuffle, and she realised she wasn’t alone. Ben emerged from the shadows, dashing to her side and taking hold of her hand.
He was still dressed in his power clothes, although there was a splotchy red bloodstain on the crisp white of his shirt. The jacket was gone, crumpled up on the back of the chair, and he looked as if he needed a shave. His deep-brown hair was flat on one side and doing the Macarena on the other.
“You look a mess,” she said, each word making her cry inside as her lips moved.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to comment,” he replied, smiling gently as he took in her poor, battered face.
McConnell was small, but he’d packed a lot of anger into that punch. Ben would have been able to take it – but Pippa? She was the size of a gnat and the blow had floored her. She’d landed in a heap on the shiny black marble, watching tweety birds and stars flock around her head.
She’d looked up and had seen several Bens dashing towards her. Which, any other time, would have led to some interesting possibilities.
Security guards had piled in as soon as they realised what was happening and McConnell had been dragged away, kicking and swearing, cheated of his prize: another showdown with Ben and the publicity that would follow. Another payday, basically. Instead, all he’d managed to get was a whole heap of trouble – and the reputation for punching small blonde women in the mouth. She’d grabbed hold of one of the Ben’s hands, gripping him tightly in case he went after him.
“Don’t!” she’d muttered, blood oozing from her split lip. “Leave it – or this will have been for nothing. Then I’ll be extremely broomsticked with your molluscs…”
That was the last thing she remembered. Until now. And waking up in a posh hospital room with him by her side. She glanced again at the blood on his shirt. Hoped it wasn’t McConnell’s.
Ben followed her eyes downwards, saw the state of his own clothes. He gripped her hand even tighter and shook his head.
“No. That’s all yours,” he said. “You owe me a new shirt.”
She tried to smile and his heart almost broke when he saw her wince. He’d had several near-death moments where he’d cradled Pippa in his arms, blood streaming from her nose, completely unconscious. Her body was limp, dead to the world, and her hair smeared in long blonde strands across her bloodied face. He’d wanted, for all the world, to chase McConnell down and smash him to tiny pieces. To crush his windpipe under his boot and tear him apart, limb from crappy limb. But he couldn’t – not while she was lying there, like that.
One of the guests, a doctor, had run forward to check her out, while McConnell was hustled away by the security staff to a back room until the police and the ambulance arrived.
The doc had said she was fine, just battered and possibly concussed – but no am
ount of assurances had helped. Even when the paramedics got there and she was wheeled away on a stretcher, even when he was told she’d regained consciousness, he didn’t believe it. He still didn’t believe it when the staff at the hospital told him exactly the same. What did they know, after all? It’s not as though they were trained medical professionals or anything.
They’d had a fierce job keeping him in the waiting room while they carried out their tests, and it was only when he’d seen himself in a mirror that he really understood why. He was big. He was angry. He was covered in blood. No wonder the nurses were tiptoeing around him. For all they knew, it was him who’d punched her in the face in the first place.
Eventually, they were sure there was no serious damage. Physically, at least. That she just needed some rest, some stitches and some major-league painkillers.
And so he’d sat there in her room, on a chair designed by the Spinal Torture Alliance, for the last four hours. Listening to the quiet beep of the heart monitor. Accosting every nurse who came in to check on her. Watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, grateful to see each inhalation, subconsciously timing his own breath to flow with hers. Eventually, he supposed, he must have fallen into a desperate, restless sleep.
But like a parent alert to the sounds of a newborn, he’d come to when she had, and now they were both awake. Both holding hands. Both battered, in one way or another.
Pippa grunted, considered asking for a mirror, then changed her mind. That could wait. For the time being, it could wait. It’s wasn’t as though she’d been a supermodel before, and seeing her Frankenstein face would only make her feel worse about the whole situation.
“What’s the damage?” she asked instead. “Broken nose?”
“Afraid so, although I’m told it should heal straight. Split lip. Chipped tooth. Bruised cheekbone. You’ll have a couple of rugby-player-standard shiners by tomorrow. God, I’m so sorry, Pippa.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “Broken noses are something of a family tradition now. I’m just hoping the kids hold out for a few years before getting theirs. Pull up the chair, Ben, you’re making me feel tired just looking at you hovering there.”
He realised that’s exactly what he’d been doing – bent low enough to be near her, but still half-standing, giving him a cramp in his calves he’d never even noticed. Because she was there. She was there, and she was hurt, and she was holding his hand, and she’d saved him from himself by taking the punch that was intended for him. He wouldn’t notice it if a parade of naked can-can dancers high-kicked their way around the room.
He did as he was asked and dragged the chair over, positioning it as close as he could without physically sitting on her. Which was what he actually wanted to do, but there were all those annoying wires still hooked up to her arms.
“What happened?” she asked. “After I, you know, did my GI Jane routine?”
“Mainly, you fell over. And bled, a lot. It was…awful.”
She heard the strain in his voice, heard what the words weren’t quite saying. She imagined how she would have felt, seeing him there like that, not knowing if he was all right or not. Feeling as if it was her fault any of it happened.
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” she said, quietly. Even now, he thought, even in this situation, she’s being the caring one. The kind one. The one who looks after everyone else, even if it involves a slap in the chops and a hospital visit.
She stroked his hand, touching the smooth brown skin, twining her fingers with his. He looked at her, with those chocolate-drop eyes, and tightened his grip. He smiled, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it, long and slow and caressing, his lips and his tongue flickering over the sensitive flesh of her palm; so familiar, so provocative…
The heart monitor started to beep faster and against the odds they both laughed.
“God, it’s good to see you again,” he said, keeping her hand snugly between both of his. “And I’d really love to make that thing beep even more, but I can’t kiss you properly. Not yet at least. Maybe I shouldn’t even be thinking like that, after everything that’s happened…looking at you, the kindest thing I could probably do would be to walk away and never see you again.”
“And is that what you want to do?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice as calm as she could. This was his decision. She knew now that she hadn’t given up, on him, on her. On them. She still loved him. Had thrown herself in front of a speeding fist for him and probably would do it again. Though she might change her mind about that once the codeine wore off.
She’d come all the way to London to see him, even if it hadn’t turned out quite the way either of them had planned. She came all that way to give him another chance – but he had to want it too. And not because he felt guilty, or grateful, but because he loved her, the same way she loved him.
He stared at her, gently swept away the stray hair that was floating across her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.
She could almost see the internal battle being waged and fought to keep her mouth shut, and her heart rate monitor quiet. If she spoke now, she’d never know how he truly felt. If he could love her or if he just felt responsible for her.
“No. It’s not what I want to do. I never want to be in a different room from you again,” he said, finally, his voice heavy and dark and laden with emotion. “But I’ve hurt you so much. Much more than McConnell did, I know, even if it looked prettier. I hurt you and I left you. I lied to you and I lied to myself and I walked away. I caused problems with Social Services. I abandoned the kids and then I got you punched in the face. And I hate myself for all of it. I’m terrified that if I don’t walk away then I’ll hurt you again – and you don’t deserve that. You deserve so much better. Better than me, better than this. You told me you loved me and I turned my back on you.”
“You did all of that,” she agreed, nodding and immediately regretting it as her head throbbed. “But you missed a bit out. On your long list of things you’ve done.”
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“You missed out the bit about making me happier than any man has ever done. The bit about the amazing sex. The bit about the way I always felt so safe with you – so content with you. The way you accepted my family and its weirdness without question. The way you helped Patrick. The way you brought me back to life – gave me back the joy of living that I’d lost when my parents died. The way you filled me up with so much pleasure of every possible kind that I didn’t know if I’d ever breathe again without you. Does that count for anything?”
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again there was a distinct sheen of tears.
“It counts for everything,” he said, “and I so desperately want to hold you right now. To make you feel safe and happy and content again. To take away all the hurt I’ve caused and all the damage I’ve done. But I can’t do either of those things. So I’ll just say this – I love you, Pippa. I love you with all my heart. I think I did from that very first moment I saw you, waving a toilet brush over your head. But now I understand and I know I shouldn’t even ask – but please. Give me another chance. Take me back into your life, into your heart. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise – but I love you, so very much.”
She felt a tidal wave of relief food through her, along with the headache and the throbbing pain in her broken nose.
“Well,” she finally said, “you are but a man. It’s only to be expected that you’d be a bit slow on the uptake. And I do love you, Ben. I never stopped, much as I tried – I just couldn’t forget you. But I warn you now – all the complications are still there. I’m still me. You’re still you. Social Services will still be involved and the newspapers will still be interested. I love you, but that’s not enough. I need to know that you won’t leave again. That if you’re back, you’re back for good. And God, I so wanted to sing that last line in a Take That way…”
“It’s the drugs…but Pippa, I am. I am b
ack for good, Pippa, if you’ll have me,” he said. “Back with you, back with the kids, back fixing the dishwashers. I’ll never leave again. As for the rest…we’ll overcome it together. We’ll make it work. Together.”
Epilogue
Barrelstock Bay. A hazily warm June evening. Pippa in her wedding dress and Ben in his suit.
The two of them, alone in the midnight darkness, toasting marshmallows in an illegal campfire on the beach. The only sound that of the waves creeping into the bay, the only light that of the stars in the sky, the sparks from their fire, and the dimmed headlights of the VW van they’d parked up on the cliff to brighten their way down the path.
They’d married in the old chapel at Tregowan Lodge, but abandoned the splendour of the surroundings for a place even more beautiful and even more special.
“I can’t believe we snuck out of our own wedding,” Pippa said, in between mouthfuls of lip-singingly hot fluff. “That is so naughty.”
“Nobody noticed,” said Ben, handing her the next sweet on a stick. “They were all too busy drinking the free champagne and dancing. And if anyone does notice, they’ll just assume we’ve gone up to our room for some wedding-night nookie.”
“Hmm,” said Pippa, grinning at him in the firelight, “and will there be any of that, Mr Retallick? Or are you a bit too tired after all the stress of the day?”
He closed the space between them and threw himself on top of her, pinning her to the ground while she squealed with laughter.
He held her wrists to the sand and straddled her as she pretended to try and get away. In reality, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than here, trapped beneath this big, growling man of hers.
“Stop it,” she said, wriggling furiously beneath him, “you’re getting my taffeta all creased!”
“It’ll be more than creased by the time I’m finished with you, evil witch…” he said, leaning down to shut her up with a kiss.
Pippa's Cornish Dream Page 16