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“I told you he wasn't a problem. He won't talk to her again.”
“You told us a lot of things,” my brother bites back. “But most of them were a pack of lies.”
I look at Mum. “Who is he? If you don't owe him money, and he's not after our stuff, why's he hanging around here?”
Mum looks down, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “He's nobody. He won't hurt you, he won't come around here again. Those two are just being overprotective as usual.”
“I'd still feel better if you stayed with us for a while,” Alex says. “Lara doesn't mind and I can keep an eye on you.”
I sigh. “I'm twenty three, Alex. I can look after myself. Anyway, there's not enough room to swing a cat in your flat. Where exactly will I sleep, in the bath?”
“Come and stay with me,” Andie suggests. “You can sleep on my sofa bed.” She has a one-bedroom flat near Brick Lane. It feels squashed when two people are in there.
“So I can sleep in Alex's bath or in your lounge?” I clarify. “No thanks, I think I'll stay in my nice cosy bedroom. Mum says he won't be around anymore and that's good enough for me.”
I sound braver than I feel. I haven't forgotten the air of menace emanating from that man, or the way I was shaking when I walked through the door after our first encounter. But I've come across intimidating men like him before and survived, I just need to be extra cautious.
“Now if it's alright with you lot, I'm off to bed. Some of us have work in the morning.” I hug Alex first, then Andie, and plant a kiss on my mum's cheek.
When I get up to my room, I'm dog-tired. Exhaustion makes my bones ache and my skin throb. I take my clothes off, letting them fall into a messy pile on the floor, then pull on my pyjamas, deciding I'll shower in the morning.
The three of them have always treated me like the baby of the family, and for a while I was happy to be exactly that. It made up for the times when Alex and Andie would leave to visit their dad, while I was left at home on my own. I've always envied them that; although their father was an alcoholic and his visits were intermittent at best, at least they had him. My own dad died before I was born, a casualty of the first Gulf War, and I can't remember him at all.
I think that's why Alex is so overprotective. He hates to see me hurt or worried, or going through anything a normal sister would. Every time I'm knocked over by life he tries to cushion my fall, and if he had his way he'd cover me with bubble wrap.
What once was sweet is becoming increasingly stifling, and tonight is yet more evidence of that. I'm still fretting about things when the fog of sleep overwhelms me, muddying my thoughts and weighing on my body like a blanket. My breathing slows, my eyes flickering beneath paper-thin lids, and finally I disappear into a restless slumber.
9
Callum is out of the office for most of Friday, and I busy myself with emptying my inbox, then finishing off his expenses. I print out the form and carry it into his office for him to sign when he returns, placing it on the top of his in tray.
His desk is as messy as always, strewn with printed emails and scribbled pages he's ripped out of notepads. Lines of codes and lists of things to do mingle in with reminders to pick up a present for his mum's birthday and to call his accountant about his tax return. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, but this cluttered chaos is enough to make my head spin. I’m tempted to scoop all the pieces of paper into his bin and reveal the polished cherry wood beneath it all.
As I go to leave, I walk into the top drawer he's left half-open. The wood scrapes my nylon-covered leg, and I reach down to rub it.
A glint of silver catches my eye, and I pull open the drawer to see a photograph frame lying in there. It's face-down, the metallic edges curving against the black leather back, and without thinking, I pick it up.
The glass covering the black and white photograph is dusty, and I run my finger across it until the tip is coated in white residue. It isn't the dirt that catches my eye, but the glamorous couple smiling behind the glass, their faces shining with a happiness that makes my breath stick in my throat.
It's a wedding photo. Callum stands there in a black jacket and tie, his legs covered in a blue and black tartan kilt. Beside him is a willowy blonde, her silvery hair caught in a chignon that spills out curls, her head resting on his shoulder. They are model-beautiful, her slim figure a contrast to his broad frame, and I find myself staring at them for long minutes, wondering why he hasn't mentioned her. Frowning, I try to picture his left hand—the one that sports a thick, silver band in the photo—and try to remember if I've seen the same ring in real life.
Is he still married? Divorced? He's usually here when I arrive first thing in the morning and is still punching at his keyboard when I leave at night; he doesn't give the impression of a man racing home to spend time with his beautiful wife. For some reason I find that thought unnerving.
If I'm truly being honest with myself, looking at this blonde bombshell on his arm makes me sick with envy.
I'm not sure what that says about me.
When I hear the door click, I hastily replace the photograph, sliding the drawer shut with my dusty fingers. Then I walk out to find Charlie standing next to my desk wearing his wool pea coat, a satchel slung across his shoulder.
“Hey! I wasn't sure you were still here.” His smile is wide, and my racing heart starts to calm. “How was your day?”
I wipe my fingertips on my hips. “Surprisingly good. I think I'm getting used to this working thing.” In truth, this place has started to feel like my haven. Though there's a learning curve and my first days with Callum were hard work, there's something about this office that's becoming my happy place. “How was yours?”
“I didn't break anything so I'm counting it as a win.” He curls his fingers around the back of my chair. “A few of us are going out for a quick drink, would you like to join us?”
I glance back at Callum's empty office. From its disarray I assume he's planning to pop back at some point this evening, and there's a part of me that wants to hang around when he does. Since our drink at the Trafalgar Club, he's definitely softened his approach towards me, and I've definitely started to warm to him.
Okay, maybe more than warm. Not quite a burn, though. Not yet.
