AllFreeNovel
Share Us
His eyes stray from mine. “I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. You don’t seem yourself, Carly. Is there something else going on in your life that we don’t know about?”
My boyfriend’s a vampire.
No, I don’t say it, but I want to. For a split-second, I actually toy with the idea of blurting it out, just to get it off but chest, but decide against it. I mean, with my medical history, if I start babbling about vampires, the hospital will probably have me sectioned.
“Are you definitely sure you’re okay?” Michael repeats. “Is anything else bothering you?”
I shake my head slowly. “No, there’s nothing else; just my dad. That’s all I care about.”
We stay out there a while longer, smoking and talking, then we go back to the cafeteria to find my mother. She apologises for what she said and I apologise for shouting and we hug and all is forgiven. Then we leave the hospital and Michael drops me back to Battersea.
As soon as I get home, I take a long hot bath. Then I swallow my second dose of Thurlux, make myself some coffee and a sandwich, but they don’t taste of anything. I feel so restless and uneasy, it’s difficult to hold anything in my stomach. I pace around constantly, moving from room to room, checking all the windows to make sure that they are securely locked. I keep looking through the curtains too, squinting through the darkness to see any signs of Nick’s Jag. I’m paranoid he might be out there somewhere spying on me. After all, hedidcome by the house earlier, so who knows when he’ll next pay a surprise visit?
Once I’m satisfied Nick’s definitely not stalking me, I return to my bedroom and watchThe Lion Kingfor a spot of escapism. I try not to think too much and focus on the current moment. Sometime around eleven-thirty, I finally fall asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lost
For the next four days, I give a performance Meryl Streep would be proud of. Every morning I go to work and slap a smile on my face. I put on my make-up and a fresh novelty T-shirt and fake the fascade of normality. I grin continuously; laugh whenever Mark tells a bad joke and act like everything’s great and wonderful.
Most of all, I remember to keep my mouth shut. I don’t tell a soul about Dad’s stroke, or my fears for my sanity. I don’t say a word to anyone—not Mark, not Jill, not even Ronan. I can’t bear to have anyone fuss over me.
In the evenings, I visit Dad in hospital; I bring him flowers and fruit and freshly washed clothing. I talk to him softly, tell him funny stories and pray for his speedy recovery. I put in the hours, stick rigidly to a routine, and manage to just about hold it together, because it’s the only thing I’ve got; the only thing that keeps me stable. I’m also back to smoking with a vengeance, demolishing at least two packs of Marlboro a day. I don’t particularly enjoy it, but what the hell, it’s something to do. I constantly need to stay busy and not think too much, because when I think too much, that’s when there’s trouble. I just have to keep going, because it’s the only thing Icando.
Still, I’d be lying if I said it was easy. On Tuesday, I get a call from a guy at the jewellers, asking if Nick’s engagement ring fits properly. I almost break down as I take the call, but manage to keep composed as I tell him yeah, the ring fits great, and then I confirm that it’s okay for the jewellers to go ahead with the monthly direct debit I set to pay for it. I don’t have the heart to cancel.
I’m trying so hard to be cool, but every now and then, the mask slips. It’s worst at nights, when I’m alone in my silent house; that’s when I fall apart completely. I miss Nick and crave his touch like a junkie craves heroin.
Everytime I close my eyes, I think about the mind-blowing sex we had; the most wonderful, perfect sex of my life. I think about his cock inside me, the heat of his lips, and then I feel guilty for having such perverse thoughts. Without Nick in my life, I feel incomplete, like I’ve lost a body part, and mourn him like he really is dead. My fingers are constantly itching to call him, but whatever happened to me that night—whether a dream or drunken hallucination—has left such a powerful impression, I’m incapable of acting on my impulses. Now whenever I get the urge to call him, I only have to remember what happened with the crucifix, and that he could have murdered Jessica, and my desire quickly withers.
“You don’t seem yourself,” Jill comments at work on Friday afternoon, as she passes through reception to lunch.
I close the signing-in book. “Don’t I?”
“No,” she says, scrutinising my face. “I sense something’s up. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course. Don’t I look happy?”
“You do, but I sense an undercurrent.” Jill hestitates. “How’s Nick?”
My laugh is too loud, too excessive. “Oh, he’s fine,” I grin.
“You guys haven’t had an argument or anything?”
“No, everything’s great between us. Life’s never been better.”
“Well, if you’re sure, honey. I still think something’s up, but you can’t knock a girl for trying, huh? I just want you to know that you can talk to me anytime, okay?”
“Okay, thanks Jill. But you needn’t worry, like I said, everything’s fine.”
She glances at her watch. “Hey, shouldn’t you be getting off for lunch round about now? It’s past one.”
I look at my watch. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.”
“Come on then. Get Mark to cover you on reception and we’ll nip across the road for a coffee.”
Reluctantly, I phone upstairs and Mark agrees to come down in five minutes. Then I grab my coat and bag and follow Jill out of the building. I don’t fancy a further interrogation and hope she finds something other than my wellbeing to talk about. When we get to Coffee Republic, I order my usual blueberry muffin and large white coffee. Jill orders a mint smoothie and then we find a table by the window.
