by Paige Toon
‘Is that all?’ she asks.
I take a sip of my tea. I can’t escape from this woman. It’s futile to even try.
‘Can we talk about what happened in Amsterdam?’
I feel my face heat up. ‘He was trying to distract himself from the memory of abuse he suffered as a child. At least, that’s what I believe. Has he confided in you about that?’
She’s regretful. ‘I can’t go into detail. But will you tell me what happened from your perspective? I think it would be helpful. For both of you,’ she adds.
Steeling myself, I start from the beginning, talking her through the photo shoot, the mention of Sonny’s sisters and their boyfriends, and everything that went on afterwards.
‘Let me take a backwards step here,’ she says softly. ‘You pushed him away?’
I nod.
‘Would you mind if I asked why?’
‘Because I sensed he was using sex as a coping mechanism.’ As the words come off my tongue, I realise I’m parroting her phrase back to her.
And then I know why she wanted to have this conversation: The Hannah she treated would have never pushed a man away.
The Hannah she treated used sex as a coping mechanism too.
I was only seventeen when Charles first arranged for me to go and see Evelyn at her practice in town and I’d already had sex with three boys. I desperately craved comfort and closeness, but only on a physical, fleeting level. Charles and June were concerned, but this was the one thing I couldn’t confide in them about.
My eyes begin to sting. I squeeze them shut and bring my knees up on the sofa, hugging them to myself. I’m fighting the urge to curl up into a ball.
Evelyn’s voice cuts through the fog of pain. ‘It’s okay, Hannah. Take your time.’
As the seconds dissolve into minutes, she repeats this phrase again and again: ‘take your time’.
Eventually I’m able to speak.
‘I wasn’t ready to let him go,’ I mumble against my knees.
‘You thought that, if you had sex, it would be the end of your friendship,’ she clarifies.
I nod. I know she’ll be disappointed to hear that, after all these years, I still haven’t moved on.
Something inside me snaps. ‘But it’s not just me, you know!’ I can’t help raising my voice. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me afterwards, either. That’s his thing: he uses women for sex and then runs a mile.’
I’m still reeling from the fact that I was almost another notch on his poor battered belt.
She’s contemplative. ‘Do you believe he would have done that with you?’
A chill goes through me as I realise what she’s worried about: she thinks I’m going to break his heart.
She lets out a small sigh. ‘This promise that you made . . .’ She’s not talking about my promise to Sonny. ‘You were only a child.’
I start shaking my head fervently. Don’t go there.
‘Have you considered confiding in him?’ she asks.
‘No.’ My reply is abrupt and final.
For a fleeting moment, Evelyn looks as though she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Chapter 25
A week later, I come to in the early hours of the morning feeling hot, shivery and flustered. I was having a sexy dream about Sonny and I didn’t want to wake up.
For a moment, the memory of our kiss and the feeling of his body pressed against mine plays over in my mind. And then guilt consumes me and I drag myself from bed.
On my way to turn on the shower, I catch sight of my flushed reflections in the mirrored cabinets: twice the amount of evidence of my reprehensible behaviour.
‘What sort of a person would reduce a man to a sexual fantasy when he’s going through what he’s going through?’ I whisper aloud.
It’s not the first time it’s happened, either.
I press my hands to my hot cheeks.
‘What’s wrong with me?’
My face is burning, but shame is responsible for colouring it now, not desire.
I haven’t seen Sonny since last week when he was leaving Evelyn’s. Matilda has asked after him too – he turned down another Stranger Things evening on Wednesday, but he promised he’d be up for it next week.
Matilda invited me to the pub last weekend, which would have been a good distraction if I’d wanted a fun night out – I didn’t – and Danielle called a few nights ago, asking me to go to her place for an early dinner. When I went, all she wanted to talk about was Sonny – Nina had filled her in.
But I had only told Nina everything up to the point of our kiss. I wasn’t in the mood for speculating about why Sonny is complicated – I know the answer to that question now and can’t reveal it.
My friends want me to settle down and be like them: normal.
But I’ll never be normal.
I tear my eyes away from the mirrored cabinets and get ready for work.
*
It’s Friday and I have a day packed full of appointments. At around three o’clock in the afternoon, I’m in the middle of fitting a client with glasses when Sonny walks through the door.
My heart leaps. ‘Hello!’ I exclaim.
‘Hi,’ he replies, flashing me an awkward smile.
‘Oh, you’re Sonny, aren’t you?’ Abbey remembers. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘I was wondering if I could have a moment with Hannah,’ he asks tentatively, half addressing her, half addressing me. ‘I’m happy to wait.’
‘I won’t be long,’ I call across to him. My insides have expanded tenfold. ‘Take a seat.’
I return to dealing with my client – a middle-aged man with smoker’s breath – but even his rancid exhalations can’t quell my feeling of joy.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ Abbey calls across to Sonny.
‘No, I’m fine,’ he replies. ‘Thanks.’
He’s uncomfortable about being here. He doesn’t want to be any trouble.
‘How’s my sister’s place working out for you?’ Abbey asks, and I’m grateful to her for making light conversation while I finish up as quickly as possible.
She was surprised and more than a bit gleeful to hear that Sonny and I had been socialising outside of work.
‘Get in there,’ were the words she used.
I don’t think the phrase, ‘we’re just friends’ has ever been said more often about two people.
Abbey takes over from me as soon as she can, inviting the client to the till to pay.
I turn to Sonny with an expectant smile and he gets to his feet, nodding at the door.
‘Don’t forget Mrs Simmons is coming in at three fifteen!’ Abbey calls after us.
My face must betray my frustration.
‘I only need a minute,’ Sonny reassures us both.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as we walk around the side of the building, out of view of inquisitive eyes.
‘No, it’s okay.’ He leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. ‘I only wanted to say that I’m going to Evelyn’s later, but I won’t call on you afterwards.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow. ‘Okay.’
He’s come to see me to tell me that he doesn’t want to see me? It’s hard not to mask my dismay.
‘It’s just that . . .’ He looks at me and then away. ‘These sessions are taking it out of me a bit and . . .’ Once more his eyes meet mine for only a second before returning to the ground at his feet. ‘ . . .I need time to work through things afterwards.’
Now I want to wrap him up in my arms and never let him go.
‘I wondered if you were free tomorrow, though,’ he continues. ‘After work? I wanted to show you the shots I took in Amsterdam, and there’s something else I want to run by you. Will you come over to mine?’
‘Of course!’ My emotions are up and down like a yo-yo. ‘Yes! I’d love to!’ I try to contain my reaction, but it’s impossible.
He smiles sweetly. ‘Okay.’ He nods and pushes off from the bui
lding. ‘I’ll let you get back to work.’
‘Cool.’ I beam at him.
Now he’s amused. ‘See you.’
‘Bye.’
It’s all I can do to stop myself from standing there like a giddy idiot on the pavement, watching him until he disappears from sight.
*
Sonny lives only a short walk from work so the following day, after getting changed, retouching my make-up and going via the off licence – only to stand there dithering about whether or not I should buy a bottle of wine because I don’t want to seem presumptuous – I arrive at Cecily’s converted garage.
It’s five twenty-five, so I hope he’s okay with me coming this early. He might’ve thought I’d need to take Bertie home first, but Robert and Umeko offered to have her overnight to save me the trouble. They’ve been so kind and accommodating.
The garage is at the front left of a large detached Victorian house. Abbey has already told me, slightly acerbically, that her older sister married a surgeon who is ‘loaded’. But neither he nor her sister drives so they considered the garage a waste of space. Cecily, who’s a stay-at-home mum, wanted a hobby so came up with the idea of doing Airbnb.
‘It’s all right for some,’ was the way Abbey summed up the situation.
The garage door has been replaced with an opaque glass brick wall and a warm glow is emitting from within. It’s hammering down with rain and I’m not sure my mini-umbrella will withstand the onslaught for much longer, so I hurry to the front door and knock.
‘What happened to summer?’ Sonny exclaims when the door whooshes open. ‘Quick, come inside.’
I shake off a cascade of raindrops before closing the door and propping my umbrella up on the floor.
‘Where’s Bertie?’ he asks.
‘Robert and Umeko offered to keep her overnight.’
‘That was nice of them.’ He steps forward to give me a quick kiss on my cheek before turning and waving his hand at the room.
This simple contact alone brings on a blush, so I walk past him, hoping he won’t notice.
‘This is cool,’ I say.
‘Not quite my apartment in Amsterdam, but I like it,’ he replies as the heat on my face thankfully begins to recede.
The space is compact but functional, with a living area looking out onto a private courtyard at the back, accessed by glass sliding doors. The bathroom is on the left and the kitchen is at the front on the right. There’s no dining table, but I spy three stools tucked underneath the central island unit.
Two large roof lights overhead mean that the place would be flooded with sunlight on a sunny day, but right now the sky is dark and stormy and the sound of heavy rain is thundering through the room.
‘Where do you sleep?’ I ask, spying Sonny’s photography cases beside a desk. He had to go to the trouble of arranging and paying for more luggage on our return journey from Amsterdam, a hassle he couldn’t have been less in the mood for.
‘Sofabed,’ he replies.
‘Aha!’
‘Drink?’ he offers over his shoulder, going to open a fridge under the kitchen counter. ‘I’ve got Prosecco.’
‘Ooh, yes please.’ I wonder if this means we’re settling in for the night. ‘I brought this too,’ I add, bringing out a bottle of red from my oversized handbag.
‘Thanks! Would you prefer red?’
‘No, I’ll go with the Prosecco. Thanks.’
I look for glasses.
‘In the cupboard under the island,’ he directs me, unwrapping the silver foil top on the bottle. ‘I’ll have one too.’
As he pours, I notice a packet of artisan pasta out on the counter by the hob and a loaf of crusty bread. There are also a couple of bowls of nuts and olives.
He passes me a glass and indicates that we should move to the living area, bringing the snack bowls and placing them on the coffee table in front of me as I sit at one end of the sofa.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks.
‘A little. Thanks.’ I lean forward and pluck out an olive.
‘No, I mean, I’ve got pasta. I can put it on whenever you like.’
‘You’re cooking?’
‘Of course. You thought I’d ask you over and not feed you?’ His entertained expression grows wary. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans . . .’
‘No!’ I reply quickly. Too quickly.
He laughs awkwardly and I take a sip of my drink, trying to calm my nerves.
Frowning up at the roof lights, he walks back into the kitchen.
A Billie Eilish song is playing from a speaker on his desk. It’s slow and sultry, and the low bass is vibrating through the glass.
He returns with a couple of posh candles and proceeds to light them.
‘Sexy music . . . Candles . . . If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to woo me, Sonny Denton,’ I say with a smirk.
He snorts. ‘I’ve tried that. Didn’t go down so well,’ he adds as he sits at the other end of the sofa.
Even though we’re bantering, his words make my insides dance.
‘Harriet gave those to me as a moving-in present,’ he says, nodding at the candles and getting out his phone. He offers it to me. ‘You can put on something more upbeat, if you like. I was listening to this while I was working.’
‘No, I like it.’
I turn to face him. He knocks back a mouthful of Prosecco and I realise he’s nervous too.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m all right.’ He lifts one shoulder and keeps his gaze averted. ‘I’m not thinking about it much outside of my sessions with Evelyn. They’re kind of harrowing,’ he adds with an uneasy laugh. ‘I’m remembering some things I’d tried to forget.’
I give him a sympathetic look. ‘She has a way of getting it out of you, doesn’t she?’
He glances at me sharply. ‘You see her?’
‘I went to her when I was younger,’ I reluctantly admit, having unintentionally let that slip.
‘Why?’
My eyes widen.
‘Sorry, too direct.’ His apology is genuine, but when I don’t answer, he frowns and adds cuttingly, ‘I’m the only one who gets to spill deep dark secrets around here.’
I feel ill as he gets to his feet and puts his glass down on the table, crossing the room to the desk against the far wall.
But then he looks over his shoulder and says, ‘Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.’
‘It’s okay.’ I shake my head dismissively.
He returns to the sofa and hands me some large 8×10 prints. They’re close-ups of my eyes and they’re . . . stunning. The colours sing out, and there are so many: from gold and amber to brown, green and hazel.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ Sonny says as I study the pictures, awestruck. ‘Has Mel come to see you yet?’
I have to think for a moment, then realise that he means the homeless girl who was knocked over by a cyclist.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You know what we were talking about with Archie and Matilda, how tricky it is for homeless people to get free eye care?’
I nod.
‘There’s a charity that specialises in it. It’s called Vision Care for Homeless People. It’s true what Mel said: the majority of homeless people aren’t getting financial benefits so they’re not eligible for NHS eye examinations or the vouchers that can be put towards buying glasses. The voucher often doesn’t even cover the price of glasses, but this charity provides everything for free. They don’t have a clinic in Cambridge yet, but maybe with more funding that will happen one day.’
I’m impressed with his research. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking about taking some more photographs.’ He nods at the images I’m holding.
Sonny’s idea involves photographing the eyes of people living on the streets and putting on an exhibition to raise money and awareness for eye care for the homeless.
‘I’m talking huge close-ups,’ he says animatedly, drawing a
large square in the air. ‘Only one eye and possibly just the iris, so the depth and colour would be more impactful. The images would be inescapable – there would be no looking away, not like we normally do when walking past homeless people. Perhaps the exhibition could be called “Now We See You”, or something like that.’ He shrugs self-consciously. ‘I don’t know. But I reckon Archie would get on board to do the graphics for the poster. If not, I could.’
He studied graphic design at university, of course.
‘Sonny, this is a brilliant idea! But how will you get homeless people to agree to be photographed?’ I’m not sure how I’d feel about having my photo taken under their circumstances.
‘I’ve been in contact with a couple of the local shelters and they think some of their guests will be keen to take part. I’ve also offered to do some volunteer work at Jimmy’s.’ That’s one of the more well-known shelters in town. ‘It’s something I should be doing anyway while I have time on my hands, and it may help if I’m a familiar face rather than some wanky random photographer.’
I’m blown away. Not only has he come up with this idea, he’s actually executing it. He knows it won’t solve the bigger problem of homelessness, but it’s something, and anything that improves the lives of homeless people has value.
‘You said you wanted to do something meaningful.’
He nods. ‘I need a purpose. I love spending time with my daughters, but I can’t depend on them to make me happy. That’s expecting too much from a couple of nine-year-olds.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve been doing all of this when you’ve had so much else going on.’
His expression briefly sobers. ‘It’s taken my mind off things, to be honest. It’s been a good distraction.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Are you hungry? Shall I put on the pasta? I only have shop-bought pesto, but it’s fresh.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ I get to my feet and follow him into the kitchen, pulling up a stool.
The thought of walking around his exhibition fills me with an enormous sense of pride.
And then something occurs to me.
‘When are you hoping to put on the exhibition?’
He shrugs. ‘I haven’t got that far ahead. I guess I’d need three or four months to do it properly, with publicity and everything.’ Something in my expression makes him falter. ‘Won’t you be here?’