‘No one makes tea like you, Josephine,’ George says happily, popping a sugar into each teacup.
I observe them for a few moments as I hover at the doorway, smiling when I catch Nan smack the back of George’s hand and George laugh delightedly. He’s happy to have her home, and though she’ll never admit it, she’s as equally happy with George back under her roof. The role reversal may bring on more bickering than usual between the two of them.
‘I’ll be downstairs,’ I say, backing out of the room, but neither acknowledges my announcement and Nan continues to give George precise instructions as he attempts to make the tea to Nan’s standards. He’s attempting in vain. No one makes tea like Nan.
Leaving them to their comedy act, I take off down the stairs, relieved to be out of Nan’s radar, soon finding myself in the kitchen, where Miller is leaning against the worktop and Gregory is slumped in a chair. Both men look at me as I enter. I’m under close scrutiny, but while I’m uncomfortable, it’s a relief not to find them at each other’s throat. That relief soon fades when I take all of the anxious vibes being thrown my way and conclude why Miller and Gregory look so apprehensive.
Miller’s told him about my mum. Every defence mechanism loads, locks, and gets ready to fire at whoever decides to hit me with their thoughts first, but after a long painful silence and neither man has spoken, I take the situation into my own hands.
And bury my head a little farther.
‘She’s settled and George is with her.’ I head for the sink and plunge my hands into the soapy water. ‘She seems quite bright, but she needs to stay in bed for a week or so.’ I wash and place the few dirty mugs on the drainer and then swirl my hands around in the sink, vainly trying to locate something else to wash. ‘She’s going to be hard work.’
‘Olivia?’ Miller’s footsteps approach behind me. My eyes close and I give up blindly grappling in the water for nothing. ‘I think you’re done.’ He takes my hands from the sink and starts to dry them with a tea towel, but I shrug him off and grab a dishcloth.
‘I should wipe the table down.’ I slap the sopping material on the table, making Gregory shift back. I don’t miss the cautious look he tosses over my shoulder in Miller’s direction. ‘I need to keep the house spic-and-span.’ My hand works furiously across the pristine wood, wiping up a mess that isn’t even there. ‘She’ll only moan or try to clean up herself.’
Strong hands wrap around my wrists and hold them still. ‘Enough.’
My eyes climb his bespoke suit, up his neck, and onto his shadowed jaw. Blue eyes are sinking into me. Sympathetic eyes. I don’t need sympathy. I need to be allowed to get on with things.
‘I’m not ready,’ I whisper, swallowing down the lump forming in my throat, my eyes begging him to let me be.
‘And I don’t want to expose you to more pain.’ He pries the cloth from my hand, folding it neatly, while I silently thank him and breathe in some composure. ‘I’m staying here tonight, so I’ll need to pop home and collect some things.’
‘OK,’ I agree, busying myself by brushing down the front of my sundress.
‘Yeah, I should be going,’ Gregory pipes up, standing and putting his hand out to Miller, who accepts immediately, nodding sharply. It’s a silent message – something to reassure my best friend.
Their polite exchange at any other time would be so satisfying to see. Not now, though. Now it’s like they’ve teamed up as a last resort . . . to deal with the fragile waif. I can’t help the wave of resentment I feel. This is just a show. They’re not being courteous because they know it’s what I would really love, for them both to be friendly and actually like each other. They’re acting like this for fear of tipping me over the edge.
Gregory approaches and pulls me into a hug that I struggle to return. I suddenly really do feel fragile. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, baby girl.’
I nod and break out of his hold. ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘OK.’ His reply is drawn out, and he moves to the kitchen door, raising his hand to Miller in goodbye.
I don’t see Miller’s response, or whether any more exchanges are passed because I’m halfway up the hallway.
‘She’s a firecracker!’ George laughs, and I look up to see him plodding down the stairs. ‘But exhausted. I’ve left her to have a kip.’
‘Are you going, George?’
‘Yes, but I’ll be back tomorrow at noon sharp. I have my orders.’ He reaches the bottom of the stairs on a huff, his big chest pulsing from the exertion. ‘You look after her,’ he says, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.
‘I’ll take you home, George.’ Gregory appears, waving his keys. ‘As long as you don’t mind sharing a seat with a few tools.’
‘Ha! I shared space with far less desirable things during the war, lad.’
Gregory passes me on a strained smile and opens the door for George. ‘You can tell me all about it on the way home.’
‘It’ll make your toes curl!’
They’re both off up the garden path, George rabbiting about his war days, Gregory laughing tightly every now and then in response. I close the door, shut the world outside, but soon realise that I can’t shut my mind down. I’m fooling myself. Being here, smelling our house, knowing Nan is safe upstairs and Miller is floating around in all of his perfection, isn’t working as I’d hoped. Nan’s shockingly accurate conclusion has only added to it.
The distant ring of my mobile makes me moan, and I make no rush to go in search of it. Anyone who I would like to talk to is either here or just this moment left. I pad back to the kitchen, finding no Miller. Locating my bag, I rummage through it until I find the source of the persistent sound. I hit Reject and notice six missed calls, all from William. I turn it off and toss it to the side, glowering at it.
Then I go in search of Miller. I find him in the lounge, seated on the edge of the couch. He has a book in his hands. A black book. And he’s engrossed in the pages.
‘Miller!’
He visibly jumps and the book snaps shut as I hurry over and swipe it from his hand. ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask angrily, holding it behind my back, hiding it . . . ashamed of it.
‘It was tucked down the side of the couch.’ He points to the edge, provoking a mental image of me dumping it on the sofa when I last tortured myself by reading a passage. How could I be so careless?
‘You shouldn’t have read it,’ I spit, feeling the horrid thing burning my hands, like in a weird sense, it’s coming back to life. I shake that wayward train of thought away before it takes too much more of my attention – undeserved attention. ‘Reminiscing, were you?’ I ask. ‘Reminding yourself of what you’re going to be missing?’ I regret my vicious attack before Miller’s face twists with hurt, even more so when that hurt morphs into anger. That was unnecessary and spiteful. I didn’t mean it at all. I’m lashing out, being unreasonable and cruel to the wrong person.
He slowly rises to his full height, his face falling into his signature impassiveness, and busies himself by pulling at his jacket sleeves before straightening his tie. I’m shifting on my feet, searching my brain for something to redeem myself. There’s nothing. I can’t take that back. ‘I’m sorry.’ I drop my head in shame, resisting the urge to toss the book into the fire.
‘You’re forgiven,’ he retorts with zero genuineness, striding past me.
‘Miller, please!’ I reach out to grab his arm, but he dodges me, stealthily removing himself from my reach. ‘Miller.’
He swings around, physically knocking me back when his fierce eyes land on me. His jaw is pulsing, his chest expanding fast. I wilt under every hard-cut plane of his face and telling sign of his current state of mind. He points directly at me. ‘Never throw that in my face again,’ he warns, beginning to shake before me. ‘Never! Do you hear me?’ He storms out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me immobilised by his raw fury. It’s never before been directed solely on me with such intensity. He looked like he could smash something to pieces, and whi
le I’d put my life on him never laying a finger on me, I fear for anyone else who may cross his path right now.
‘Fuck!’ I hear him curse, and then his stamping shoes get closer again. I remain where I am, silent and still, until he’s bursting through the door of the lounge. That finger is pointed at me again, and he’s shaking more than before. ‘You’ll stay here. Understand?’
I don’t know what happens. Something triggers under his order and I find myself up in his face before I can weigh up the pros and cons of retaliation. I knock his hand out of the way. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’
‘Don’t push me, Olivia.’
It doesn’t matter that I don’t plan on going anywhere and leaving Nan alone. This is principle. ‘Fuck off!’
He clenches his teeth. ‘Stop being so fucking difficult! You’ll stay here!’
I see red, then blurt something that surprises me as much as it clearly surprises Miller. ‘Did you know?’
Miller’s neck retracts on his shoulders, a scowl settling. ‘What?’
‘Did you know she was back?’ I shout, thinking how well he handled the situation. There was no shock. He fell straight into comfort mode, like he was prepared for it. ‘When I thought I was losing my mind and you talked me down, did you know?’
‘No.’ He’s adamant, but I don’t believe him. He’ll do anything to lessen my hurt. No one’s speaking. Ted’s shirked me, William has avoided me at all costs until now – now that I know for sure – and Miller virtually threw the phone off his desk to cut the call when Gracie’s name was mentioned. And then I’m thinking about the call from Sylvie, the one telling me about the woman looking for me. Her description. It matches Sophia perfectly, but it also matches my mother. Clarity is a wonderful thing.
Blood burns in my veins. ‘You told William to keep it from me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I fucking did!’ he yells, startling me. ‘And I’m not fucking sorry!’ Firm palms cup my face, almost aggressively, and squeeze tightly, his nose meeting mine, his eyes penetrating me deeply. ‘I. Didn’t. Know. What. To. Do.’
I can’t speak; his grip won’t allow my mouth to open. So I nod, feeling emotion take hold – all of the stress, worry, and fear ripping through my vulnerable being. He was trying to shield me from more hurt.
‘Don’t leave.’ He scans my face, his gaze drifting everywhere, and though it’s an order, I know he wants my acknowledgement. I nod again. ‘Good,’ he says simply, then smashes his lips onto mine and gives me a forceful kiss.
When he releases me, I step back and blink myself back to life, just catching his back disappearing out of the room.
The door closes loudly.
Then I cry like a baby, trying to suppress the sound so I don’t wake Nan. It’s silly; if she was to wake up, then she would have by now after that brief shouting match and the slamming of a few doors. My pathetic choked sobs won’t rouse her.
‘Everything OK, Miss Taylor?’
I look up, seeing Ted in the doorway of the lounge. ‘Fine.’ I rub at my eyes. ‘Tired, that’s all.’
‘Understandable,’ he says softly, making me smile a little.
‘You knew she was back, too, didn’t you?’
He nods, dropping his eyes. ‘Not my news to share, sweetheart.’
‘So you did know her.’
‘Everyone knew Gracie Taylor.’ He smiles, keeping his eyes on the floor, like he’s scared I might press for more should he give me eye contact. I’m not going to. I don’t want to know.
‘You’d better take up position.’ I indicate over my shoulder when he looks up at me, his rugged face a little surprised. ‘I’m sorry for going AWOL again.’
He chuckles. ‘You’re safe. That’s the main thing.’ He strides across the room and finds his position at the window, and I observe for a while, remembering his skilful driving.
It pushes me to press him. ‘Have you always worked for William?’
‘Twenty-five years.’
‘What did you do before?’
‘Military.’
‘You were a soldier?’
He doesn’t answer, just nods, telling me he’s done talking with me, so I leave Ted and drag my weary bones up the stairs to the bathroom, hoping a hot shower will soothe my aching mind and heart while it’s soothing my aching muscles. The different elements of pressure on each of us are becoming too much, both of us trying to shoulder everything. We’re going to give way under the strain soon.
After flipping the shower on, I stand before the sink, staring at my washed out face, seeing dark circles under my hollow eyes. Only a century’s sleep and waking to find every burden gone will remedy it. I sigh and open the mirrored cupboard, cursing when a load of cosmetics tumble from the shelves and clatter into the sink. ‘Shit,’ I grumble, scooping up pots and tubes one by one and placing them back. I’m nearly done, only the Tampax left to . . .
Tampax.
I stare at the box, my tongue thickening in my mouth. Tampax. I’m late. I’m never late. Not ever. I don’t like the feel of nervousness beating in my chest or the pulsing of blood in my ears. I try to calculate when my last period was. Three weeks ago? Four weeks ago? I hadn’t gotten it in New York. Shit.
I dash for my bedroom, finding the empty box of the morning-after pill, and pull the pamphlet out, fiddling with clumsy fingers to unfold the paper until it’s laid flat on my bed. Chinese. German. Spanish. Italian. ‘Where’s the fucking English?’ I yell, turning it over and slapping it on the bed. I spend the next twenty minutes reading piles and piles of small print. Nothing sinks in, though. Nothing except the success rate. There’s no guarantee. Some women become pregnant – a small amount, but some, nevertheless. All of the blood drains from my head. I come over all light-headed and the room begins to whirl. Fast. I collapse to my back and stare up at the ceiling, feeling hot, cold, sweaty, choked. ‘Oh fuck . . .’
I don’t know what to do. I’m blank. Totally stumped. My phone! I spring to life and run downstairs to the kitchen. My shaky hands won’t co-operate, my stupid fingers not hitting the buttons I’m telling them to. ‘Damn it!’ I stamp my foot, then stand motionless, pulling in some reasonable amount of air into my suppressed lungs. I let it all stream out calmly and start again, successfully pulling up my calendar. I go over the days time and time again, counting more than I’d hoped, thinking maybe amid the madness of my life just lately, I may have made a colossal error. I haven’t. Each time I count, I come to the same calculation. I’m a week late. ‘Fuck.’
I flop against the worktop, spinning my iPhone in my grasp. I need a chemist. I need to know for sure. This meltdown might be completely unnecessary. Glancing across the kitchen, I note it’s past eight. But a twenty-four-hour pharmacy will be open. My legs are in action before my brain, and I’m off up the hallway, but when my brain kicks in, I’m soon halted in my task of pulling my denim jacket down from the coat stand.
‘Nan.’ My body deflates. I can’t leave, no matter what the emergency. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened and I wasn’t here. Plus, Ted is keeping watch. There’s only so many tongue-lashings he’ll put up with as a result of my Houdini-like behaviour before he realises I’m not worth the bother and quits.
Releasing my coat, I collapse onto the bottom step of the stairs and drop my head in my hands. Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more hopeless, I have something else to add to my never-ending list of shitty things to deal with. I don’t want to deal with any of them. I want to curl into a ball and have Miller surround me in his thing, protect me from this godforsaken world. His beautiful, comforting face pops into my mind’s eye, sending me somewhere near to that safe place. Then it drifts into the anger that was all too evident before he stormed out.
He’s not speaking to me, and if he is, then I’m sure I won’t want to hear what he has to say. I groan and rub my palms into my face, trying to scrub away . . . everything. I’m an idiot. A first-class, A-rated, top-notch fool. A deluded fool who should fa
ce up to everything going on around her and find that renowned Taylor-girl sass to deal with it. Where has that easy, peaceful life gone? Miller’s right. I don’t have the ability to cope.
Chapter 17
My dreams are dreams. I know this because everything is perfect – me, Miller, Nan . . . life. Content to remain immersed in my illusory world, I snuggle down farther, moaning my comfort and hugging my pillow. Everything is bright. It’s all so very light and colourful, and though I’m aware that I’m being held in a false sense of security, I don’t wake myself. I’m hovering on the edge of sleep and consciousness, pushing myself to fall further into my dreams – anything to delay facing my reality. I’m smiling. Everything is perfect.
Gracie Taylor.
She joins me in my dreams, leaving her mark, making it impossible to shake out once I wake.
Everything is suddenly dark.
Everything is dull.
‘No!’ I shout, angry that she’s encroached on the only tranquillity to be found in my troubled world. ‘Get out!’
‘Olivia!’
I shoot up, gasping, and whip my head around, searching for him. Miller’s sitting next to me in his boxer shorts, his hair wild, his eyes worried. My shoulders sag, a mixture of relief and annoyance – the relief that he’s here, the annoyance that I’m awake and alert. I’m back in the real world. I sigh, reaching up to brush my hair from my face.
‘Bad dream?’ He moves in and crowds me, gathering my body into his arms and cradling me in his lap.
‘I can’t tell the difference,’ I whisper into his chest, making his movements falter slightly. I’m totally honest with him. I can’t define between my nightmares and reality and he needs to know,
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