“Ah. That’s… That’s a shame.” He meant it. If Clarissa wasn't coming, the girls weren’t either. And so he’d spend the week avoiding people and trying not to freeze his own bollocks off. Bloody fantastic.
But then Mark said, his pink lips curling into a smile, “Actually, darling… I’ve reconsidered. I think you ought to come.”
“Oh!” Clarissa cried. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes. And the girls, of course.”
Just like that, Clarissa’s smile vanished. “Oh—the girls? But they’ve only just gone back to school. And they have their—”
“Not to worry,” Mark said. He swirled his port, and then his gaze slid to… Isaac.
That couldn’t be good.
“We’ll have a few of their tutors set extra work. Mrs. Brandt, for Mathematics, I think, and young Thomas for their English and history. A week off will do them no harm.”
“Well,” Clarissa relented. “If they’re to continue studying…”
“And, of course,” Mark added, “We’ll bring Lizzie. You know Audrey would only fuss if she missed a week of training.”
“Oh, yes,” Clarissa trilled. “You’re quite right! Now, I must go and tell the girls…” She stood, and Isaac stood with her. Not out of politeness, no; more because his body was filled with the sudden, uncontrollable urge to get the hell out of here.
Now.
“I… I’d best get off,” he choked out.
Clarissa looked at him with concern. “Oh; are you certain?”
“Yeah. Need to get back to London. Before the rush hour.”
Nobody pointed out that it was always rush hour in London.
“Well, alright then, dear,” Clarissa said. She gave him one of her beautiful smiles; the kind she saved for hellos, goodbyes, and special occasions, because they were so very lovely. Because they transformed her pleasant face into something like art.
They must teach that kind of smile at private schools.
Isaac found himself wondering if Lizzie had a smile like that. Then he crushed the thought ruthlessly. It was pathetic. And anyway, he doubted she ever smiled at all.
But that would make her just like him, wouldn’t it?
“Leaving so soon?” Mark asked, all concern. “Shall I see you out?”
“No,” Isaac replied, his voice raw. He tried again, and the words were more human this time: “No. Thank you. Speak later.”
And then he hurried from the room as though the hounds of hell were snapping at his feet.
Of course, because he left in such a rush, Isaac failed to notice the smile on Mark’s face.
But if he had, he would have been worried.
Because it was the smile of a predator.
Six
Two days.
Lizzie lay in bed, staring at the lock screen on her phone. At the letters just beneath the time, forming the word ‘MONDAY’.
They were leaving in two days. The Spencers were off on some business-cum-family-trip, and they’d pay her handsomely to follow, and they were leaving in two days.
So by Wednesday afternoon, Lizzie would be in France again. Perhaps the thought should devastate her, should act as a reminder of the way her life’s goals had been snatched away.
It didn’t—and she was reluctant to analyse that fact.
But it did remind her of the way she’d failed, the way she’d let her body’s needs spiral out of control. The fact that people had felt sorry for her. The memory of Mariella’s pitying gaze made Lizzie’s stomach burn, humiliation bubbling like acid. No, this trip to Mont-Blanc would not be easy.
And Isaac Montgomery would be there, to boot. Of-fucking-course.
Clarissa had told her so just yesterday, over the phone, gushing out the words. You met Isaac, didn’t you Lizzie? Isn’t he wonderful? Isn’t he so deliciously coarse?
As though the man were a slab of steak. Ha. If only. He was more like a raging bloody bull.
Lizzie pushed back the covers, welcoming the cool air of her cottage. She kept the heat low, to keep herself sharp. It wouldn’t do to sink into laziness. She had a routine to maintain.
Of course, it was altered slightly. Once upon a time, she’d have woken up and been at a barre minutes later. Now, she had no such freedom. There was blood sugar to test, medicine to take, meals to eat—oh, she’d learned the hard way about meals. No more dancing on an empty stomach for Lizzie, as delightfully airy as it may feel.
She was never empty these days. Never pure. Never perfect. There was always something her body needed; self-sufficiency was a foreign word.
She’d bet Isaac fucking Montgomery was self-sufficient.
As she went through the motions of her morning, Lizzie allowed her mind to sink—just a little—into recklessness, like it was a feather bed. To run through memories that she’d rationed out over the last couple of days for sanity’s sake.
Isaac Montgomery. The way he looked at her as though she were some creature both fantastic and terrifying. The way he baited her, and the way he filled a room. His stony face and the pressure of his gaze—dark blue, she’d noticed, like an ocean’s depths...
And the way he’d reacted to her final words, as though he’d taken a fatal blow. The way his breathing harshened and his colour weakened. For a second, she’d thought he was ill. For a moment, she’d thought he was ashamed.
But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Lizzie told herself that as she took her insulin, adding bruises to bruises. As she chewed her granola like a cow with cud. As, finally—fucking finally—she grabbed her pointe shoes and wrapped the familiar ribbons tightly round each ankle. Whether it was shoes, hair, or self-control, tighter was always better. She pushed the sofa in her cosy living room against the wall, and she told herself: If he were ashamed, he wouldn’t have done it.
She slotted her phone onto the speaker and chose her morning playlist and thought: If he were ashamed he wouldn’t swan about like the king of the fucking world.
She took her position by the window, its ledge serving as her barre, and thought: If he were ashamed…
Well. If he was, she’d said a rather awful thing, hadn’t she?
Perhaps they called him ‘angel’ for a reason. Perhaps there was more to the story. Perhaps she’d been just like her father, judging those around her based on bits and pieces, fragments of fluff.
But he had killed a man. Hadn’t he?
All this and more passed through Lizzie’s mind, Allegro. Faster than her footwork had ever been.
And then, blessedly, her music began with the meek opening chords of Chopin's Piano Concerto. Just like that, her mind—and its thoughts—disappeared.
She was only a body now. How beautiful that was.
Silence wasn’t hard to come by in the country. The little cottage that Olu had found for her was as secluded as it was cheap, so Lizzie often spent hours practising, interrupted only by her body’s nagging needs—and if she was lucky, not even that.
But after just eighty minutes of exercise, she was disturbed. The sound of envelopes flopping onto the hallway floor shattered her piece and piqued her curiosity. Slowly, keeping her core contracted, Lizzie lowered her right leg from its position above her head. The quiet trill of Chopin's Piano Concerto played on as she padded out of the living room, cool sweat trailing down her back.
She never had letters. Well; never was an overstatement. But Olu insisted on paying her bills, mumbling something about the fact that he never saw her, that it was the least he could do. And she supposed that taking his money, which came from their parents, technically contravened her vow to never touch her own trust fund. But really, principles aside, money didn’t grow on trees.
So most of the post she should receive was directed to Olu’s assistant, Jared. As Lizzie bent to pick up the white envelopes spilling across the hallway tiles, she frowned. Not one, but two letters; both identical. They were slim but heavy, the envelopes thick and creamy with delicate, winding vines embossed in gold down one side. The stamps were s
imilarly decorated and the addresses on both of them were typed rather than written.
Of course, they had both been sent to her home. But the first was for ‘Elizabeth Adewunmi Olusegun-Keynes,’ while the second was addressed to ‘Olumide Akin Olusegun-Keynes, care of Elizabeth’.
Lizzie bit her lip as she ran her gaze over her brother’s name. Whoever sent these letters clearly knew that he was essentially unreachable, and must have assumed that she’d be closest to him. Eighteen months ago—a year ago, even—they would have been right. But somehow, without Lizzie realising, their bond had stretched thin as a cobweb. Now they barely clung together, happy memories trapped and dying in the mess of what was once a real friendship.
He was only her brother now. Just as their parents were only their parents. And she knew it was her fault.
Setting Olu’s letter aside, Lizzie headed to the kitchen and pulled a butter knife from the drawer. She could almost hear her mother’s voice scolding her: Just go upstairs and fetch the letter opener, Elizabeth! You lazy child.
But her hands were beginning to shake, and she suspected that she hadn’t eaten quite enough this morning. Grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl, Lizzie hopped up onto the cream kitchen counter and opened the mysterious envelope.
Her trepidation dissolved into joy as she slid out the letter, recognising the purpose of its heavy weight, its cream and gold motif. It was a wedding invitation.
JENNIFER ABIGAIL JOHNSON AND JYU THEODORE CHAMBERLAIN CORDIALLY INVITE YOU TO CELEBRATE THE JOINING OF THEIR LIVES.
Lizzie kicked her heels excitedly against the cupboard beneath her. Theo’s getting married!
Theo Chamberlain and his little sister Yen had been the bright spots in Lizzie and Olu’s youth. Their prestigious private school wasn’t attended by many ethnic minorities; even fewer who were British nationals without bodyguards. So their parents had pushed them together, and while Yen and Lizzie had maintained an easy friendship, Theo and Olu had become brothers in all but blood.
The Chamberlain household was everything Lizzie had ever wanted. As a child, it had been one of the few places she could relax, could let go of the polite mask Mother always insisted on. When Theo and Yen’s father had moved the family to another city, following his work, Lizzie had been devastated. Of course, she’d ended up moving away herself, just a year later…
Munching happily on her banana, Lizzie scanned the invitation for details. The wedding would take place in mid-March, at—good Lord—an island resort in Greece. Olu had something to do with that, no doubt; he had friends in Greece, she remembered. God, he had friends everywhere.
She’d never met Jennifer, but she’d heard all about the woman from Theo’s sister, Yen. Apparently, Jennifer Johnson was some kind of angel walking the earth. Then again, Yen liked everyone. She was kind of a sweetheart.
But Theo was far more reserved. He’d only known this woman five minutes, yet he wanted to marry her. She must be something indeed.
Lizzie turned to put the invitation down, and her gaze caught on the open envelope. It had something else inside, a corner of paper peeking out. With a frown, she slid out the folded scrap of paper. She opened it to find a note scrawled inside, the handwriting bold and angular, veering off at wild angles as though each line was on the verge of taking off.
Hi!
Jen’s maid of honour here. I’m in charge of invites! Apparently you and your brother are Very Important and I should send his invitation to you. So I did that. Anyway, if you need to, call me!
Aria xox
P.S. Yen said to tell you your parents aren’t invited.
Below, she’d written her phone number. Biting down on a smile, Lizzie traced the digits. Very Important, huh? And their parents weren’t invited. Thank God.
No doubt Theo had told Olu all of this over the phone—in fact, Olu was almost certainly the best man. But she should ring him anyway, to tell him that she had his invitation. At that thought, the bubbles of joy in her chest coalesced, thickened, became storm clouds. Fuck.
Another stilted conversation with her own brother. Her best friend. The one who’d done everything for her, who’d used his charm to protect her from the worst of Mother’s wrath, who’d cheered her on despite Father’s indifference. The one who’d moved halfway across the country when Mother sent her away, just so Lizzie wouldn't be alone.
What would he say if she told him? If she told him that her career was well and truly over, and that she wasn't sure she minded? If she told him that being ordinary felt better than being a star?
If she told him that she’d be sick for the rest of her life?
She knew what he’d say. It’s alright, Liz. You’ll be okay, Liz. We can get through this, Liz. Together.
And then he’d pack up his lifelong world tour, leave freedom behind, and move into her spare room. Schedule her shots. Test her every five minutes, scold her when she overworked. Call in a favour here and there from his never-ending Rolodex of powerful contacts; get her the very best doctor, the best trainer, the best dietician.
He would fix everything. He always did.
He was the person she could count on. She was the weight dragging him down.
She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him.
But as long as she lied, they would remain broken.
Seven
Lizzie left home at 1.15 P.M., giving herself just enough time to walk the short distance to the Spencer house.
She'd had a good morning. And her journal looked positive; her levels were balancing out, becoming predictable. She was getting the hang of this whole diabetic thing. In fact, a small part of Lizzie dared to hope that she might continue like this forever: quiet and forgotten, coping, dancing for her own pleasure and relearning her body.
But, like clockwork, Mother's chiding tones slithered into her mind. Moments ago the icy wind had seemed harmless; now it carried whispered insecurities. What do you have to be happy about? You have thrown away the only thing that made you worthwhile. You are the shame of the family. And now you will return to the country where you were once adored and triumphant... as nothing but a teacher. Practically a servant.
Lizzie reached out to pluck a frosted leaf from a nearby bush as she passed, her firm tug shaking the whole branch. The leaf resisted for a split second before it broke off in her gloved fingers. It had been so pretty, pale green burnished with ice.
But she'd crushed it into shattered pieces, now.
Setting her jaw, Lizzie picked up the pace, her leisurely stroll becoming a determined march. This was ridiculous. She hadn't seen Mother in years—only heard from her every birthday. Touring Europe had its perks.
For a few years, Lizzie had almost eradicated the echoes of Mother's voice in her mind.
She'd had everything under control.
Then, early last year, she'd fallen ill. Quickly been diagnosed. Retreated into denial. And that fucking voice had returned. As if adjusting to diabetes wasn't difficult enough without Mother's imagined commentary.
There was no reason for these twisted imaginings. She knew that, logically. But for some reason, at the minute, she felt on the edge of chaos all the time, no matter how much she told herself that everything was under control. No matter how tightly she pulled back her hair or tied up her pointe shoes, Lizzie always felt like she was falling apart. Unravelling. Coming undone.
And that reminded her of days best left in the past. The days when she'd been firmly under Mother's perfect thumb.
Lizzie arrived at the house a few minutes early, thanks to her punishing pace. The brisk walk and biting cold had scoured away her miserable thoughts; she made her way through the luxurious house with a freshness of air and attitude that only January weather could bring.
She should be happy. How many people in her position, suddenly out of a job, could have landed on their feet like this? For God’s sake, she was about to take a trip to the Alps for work. Yes, Lizzie had grown up filthy rich, but she wasn’t co
mpletely oblivious. This was the definition of a dream job.
She pulled off her scarf and gloves as she jogged up the side stairs. No hat, despite the weather: it would only make her hair frizz.
Sliding out of the stairwell, Lizzie let herself into the house’s west wing. Just a few doors down the long, richly appointed corridor, and—here. Coming to a stop in front of Mark’s door, she rapped smartly against the dark wood.
“Enter,” his familiar voice called. Lizzie did so with a smile on her face, shutting the door behind her. Mark took his privacy very seriously.
“You wanted to speak with me?” She asked.
He looked up from his desk, where he was studying what appeared to be four separate documents at once. “Ah, Miss Keynes. Yes; please sit down.”
Ignoring the bastardisation of her last name, Lizzie came forward and settled into one of the chairs before Mark's desk. Automatically, she folded her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles demurely. It was a posture that Clarissa was always nagging the girls to adopt; one Lizzie’s own mother had beaten into her well over a decade ago. Mother would say that Clarissa was soft, asking instead of telling.
But Lizzie rather liked Clarissa.
Mark put down his pen and folded his hands, matching her smile with one of his own. He was so kind to her; so welcoming. People always were, when they knew she was Olu’s sister. Everybody loved Olu.
“Lizzie,” Mark began, leaning forward in his seat. “Where to begin? It’s always a pleasure, employing people like you.”
Despite herself, Lizzie felt a flush of pleasure creep up her skin. There was nothing better than a job well done.
But then he continued: “People that I can control.”
Her smile faded. Confusion took its place. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“I think you heard me,” he said. Had she always thought his grey eyes so expressive, his narrow face so open? All at once they seemed sinister. Twisted. She felt goosebumps break out on her arms, beneath the warmth of her jacket.
Undone by the Ex-Con: A BWWM Romance (Just for Him Book 2) Page 5