Canada Square (Love in London #3) (27 page)

“He said it was the only way. As his friend I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” His cheeks flush as he speaks.  “He wouldn’t let me go until I agreed to help him.”

I pick at the napkin in front of me, fibres falling to the floor like feathers from a bird. “What did they do to him?” I ask. “Has he lost his job?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “He came close, and to be honest by that point I don’t think he cared. But in the end they came to an agreement.” He shifts again, clearing his throat. “He had to transfer to the Edinburgh office right away, and agree not to contact you again.”

“What?” I try to catch my breath, but it isn’t there. “What do you mean he can’t contact me? I can still see him, can’t I?”

“No, they made that very clear. Any contact between the two of you and he’ll be dismissed. Clearly they think that you never want to hear from him again after what’s happened, and we need to keep it that way.”

A sob escapes my lips. “But I love him. They can’t keep us apart, they can’t.” I drop the shredded napkin. “It’s just a stupid job, it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Jonathan says sharply. “Callum’s job was the only thing that kept him going after Jane died. I know he cares about you, Amy, but this isn’t some bloody romance novel, it’s real life. There’s no way he wants to be responsible for messing up your career, not to mention losing your degree. This is the only way.”

“It can’t be…” My voice trails off as I try to think of another solution. Of course I want my degree, but the need to see Callum is so much stronger than the need to succeed. For the first time I realise that I’d sacrifice it all to be with him.

Exactly when he’s surrendering everything to be without me.

“You need to listen to me.” Jonathan hunches forward, his voice urgent. “If you try to contact him, they’ll find out, and it will be obvious he lied to protect you. You’ll both end up losing your jobs and that can’t happen.”

“But I love him.” The dam bursts as tears start to stream down my face. “And he loves me, he told me. This can’t happen.”

Even as I protest, I realise the truth. It
is
happening.

29

“Can I come in?”

The voice emanates from the other side of my closed door. Two days later and I’m still wallowing, shut up in my room where my only companions are a glass of water and the ballads streaming out of my stereo speakers. I’m curled up in a ball on top of my bedcovers, eyes red, nose streaming.

“Go away.” My words are muffled by my pillow. The poor thing has been pummelled and cried on until it resembles a wet rag.

My voice is obviously too stifled, because the handle on the door turns, and the person I least expect to see pops his head around, eyes searching the room until he finds me.

“Amethyst?”

“It’s Amy.” I sit up and grab the last tissue from the cardboard box next to my bed. “And I want to be alone.”

Digger walks in anyway, wringing his clasped hands as if he were drying washing. “I know, I just wanted to…” He swallows nervously, his eyes still darting around. “God, this room takes me back.”

Since I left the meeting at Richards and Morgan—and Diana suggested I take the rest of the week off—a succession of friends and family have paraded through my bedroom as they attempt to find a way to cheer me up.

I get the feeling this is their last try. If I don’t react to Digger then nothing will work.

“Can I sit down?” He gestures at the brown easy chair in the corner of my room. The same one my mum used to nurse all three of her children in, it has enough sentimental value for her to never throw it away. Right now it’s covered in a pile of clothes, and I watch as Digger lifts them off. I can’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed.

Seated, he looks as uneasy as he did when standing. Leaning his elbows on his long legs, he rests his chin on his hands, and stares at me with familiar blue eyes.

“Your mum says you’ve had a bit of trouble at work.”

Hearing the mention of my job is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“I’m fine.” The monotone in my voice tells a different story, but I’m hoping that it might send Digger running out of the door. I don’t want to talk to anybody.

That’s a lie. There’s one person I want to see.

Digger coughs, and it’s loud enough to make me look at him. He doubles over with the paroxysms, his tattooed hand covering his mouth, and my brow furrows with concern.

Why on earth am I worried about him?

“Are you alright?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve voluntarily said something in two days.

He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. “English colds. Something I didn’t miss while I was away.”

“That’s what killed off the aliens in
War of the Worlds
,” I tell him, in an attempt to fill the silence. “A simple cold.”

He smiles. “Your mum’s right. You’re a clever kid.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a kid, and then close it again, because right now that’s exactly what I am. Curled up in a ball, wailing at the inequities of the world, I’m nothing but a child.

“I know you’re hurting,” he says, running a hand across his stubbled chin. “And believe me, I know what that feels like. But bottling everything up and refusing to talk is the worst thing you can do. I know that from experience, too.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “After I came back from the war, I was in a state. I’d seen things nobody should have to see, done things nobody should have to do. I thought I could forget about them or put them to the back of my mind. I really believed that if I threw myself into looking after you and your mum then I’d feel better.”

His eyes are watery when they catch mine, the reflection of the sun making them glint. I don’t know if he’s tired, or if he’s upset, but either way I stay silent.

What he says next shocks me.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you. Every day I think about what I did, how I broke your wrist. I hate myself when I look in the mirror.”

This time, it’s me who starts to cry. Fat, hot tears that trail down my cheeks, dripping onto my nightshirt and staining the pale fabric. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“What kind of man hurts his own kid?” he asks. “A baby at that. I wasn’t a man, I was a fucking devil.”

A lump forms in my throat. “It was a long time ago…”

His head snaps up. “Don’t make excuses for me. I was the worst kind of father. I still am, I haven’t been here, haven’t made things up to you, and I’m so bloody regretful about it all.”

“I thought you were dead, I didn’t know any better.”

Digger squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished I
was
dead. Or how long I waited to come and find you, too scared to admit what I’d done.”

He’s crying openly. The tears stream down his face unwiped, making him look even younger.

“I’m not scarred by that,” I whisper, somehow needing to reassure him. He might have hurt me when I was a kid, and he might have disappeared from my life, but at the end of the day he’s a man who did something he regrets. “There are no lasting effects. Bones break and they heal again.”

“So do hearts,” he says pointedly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.” His eyes shine even though the tears have stemmed.

“I don’t think mine will.” I let out a sob, covering my mouth with my hand. “I’m never going to be happy again.”

I miss him, Christ how I miss him. His smile, his touch, the knowledge he feels the same way I do. It’s hard to believe it’s only been three days since I last saw him; three days since his lips last pressed against mine. A day without Callum seems dark as night.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Digger covers the short distance between the chair and my bed in less than two seconds. Maybe I shouldn’t let him scoop me into his arms and drop my head onto his shoulder as I cry hard, letting his t-shirt soak up the tears. But I do it anyway, and it actually makes me feel better, if only for a moment.

“I love him,” I wail, holding onto him.

“I know.”

“And he doesn’t want me.”

He strokes my hair softly. “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re beautiful, you’re funny and you’re clever as anything. I’m so proud to see how you’ve turned out.”

His words begin to warm my ice-cold heart. “It’s not enough,” I say.

Digger wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, their roughness a contrast to the smooth skin of my face. “You are enough,” he tells me. “You’re more than enough, and nothing else matters. You might not realise it now, and it’s going to take a while for you to get over this, but one day you’ll look back and realise just how strong you are. And how proud you make me.”

I look up, catching his gaze through slick eyelashes. “Thank you,” I say. I mean it, too. It’s not as though I’m throwing myself into his embrace like a long-lost daughter and begging him to become part of our Brady Bunch, but the fact he’s put aside his discomfort—not to mention risked provoking Alex’s ire—to come up and talk to me is enough right now. I might not want to call him ‘Dad’, and I certainly don’t want to see him kissing my mum again, but part of me wants to give him another chance.

After everything that’s happened, this might be the only positive chance I get.

* * *

“How are you?” Charlie slides onto the swivel chair next to mine, his legs splayed so his feet can pivot on the floor. “Feeling any better?”

I look up from my laptop. It’s my first day back in the office and it’s taking longer to boot up than usual. As if it’s fed up with me for ignoring it for five days.

“I’m okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. They’re tight and itchy from too many tears and not enough sleep, but a good covering of concealer has hidden most of the damage.

Charlie pushes himself along on the chair until he’s close to me. The arm of his chair hits mine.

“Hey, we’re not on the dodgems,” I tell him.

He raises an eyebrow. “The whole point of dodgems, Amy, is to dodge ‘em. You’re thinking of bumper cars.”

I glance at him warily. “I can guarantee that’s not what I’m thinking.” What I’m actually thinking—in the small amount of consciousness that’s not aching for my laptop to load so that I can see if Callum is logged on—is that I want to be left alone. Preferably for the next two months.

Right up to graduation.

Charlie gets the message and backs away. “I bought you a Mars bar,” he says, laying the black-wrapped chocolate bar on the desk in front of me. “I thought you might need the sugar rush.”

I run my finger along the bar. “Thank you, I’ll save it for later.”

“You really aren’t alright.”

Doing my best to attempt a smile, I look over at him. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. If you were fine you’d have shoved the whole of that bar into your greedy gob by now. If you were fine you’d be begging me to make you a cup of tea to go with it, or suggesting we head over to Starbucks for an early coffee.”

The mention of coffee makes my chest hurt.

“Okay, so I will be fine. In time.” It doesn’t even convince me. As for Charlie, he wrinkles his nose and goes to grab the Mars bar. I snatch it back from him, pulling out my desk drawer and depositing it inside. I may not want it now, but it’s chocolate after all.

“Oh, by the way, I gave Caro a talking to,” Charlie says, standing up and pushing his chair back to where he found it. “Left her in no doubt what a bitch I think she is. I wanted to slap her, really, but I was too scared I’d get done for assault.”

The corner of my lip twitches. “That’s a shame.”

“It is,” he agrees, cheerily. “But there’s nothing to stop you.”

“Apart from my need to keep this job. And the small matter of my degree.” My voice is dry. “But thanks for the suggestion.”

“Any time.” With that he leaves, and although the invisible band around my chest hasn’t loosened much, it seems more bearable than it did before.

* * *

The next hour is spent reading my emails. I start to whip out replies, my fingers flying across the keyboard, before realising I’m late for a project meeting. I arrive ten minutes after it’s started, all too aware of my dishevelled appearance, and find myself grilled on project costs and overruns.

When I get back to my desk, I click on instant messenger and type Callum’s name into the box. The system finds him immediately, and the little green icon tells me everything I need to know.

He’s online right now.

I reach out for my coffee mug, hoping the bitter liquid will give me the courage I’m sorely lacking. I want to message him—of course I do—but after days of being ignored, my ability to take rejection has hit an all-time low. Unanswered emails have filled up my ‘sent’ folder, and I don’t know how much more I can subject myself to.

I type and delete over and over. ‘Hi’ seems too vacuous, ‘Why won’t you talk to me’ too demanding. I try—and fail—to hit the right note, to sound breezy without being careless, and in the end I settle for an old favourite.

Cartwright, A
:
How are you?

I hit return and stare at the screen until the little tick appears, confirming it’s been received.

The wait for a reply is excruciating. The program tells me that Ferguson, C is typing, and knowing he’s going to communicate sends my heart into a tailspin.

I only realise I’m holding my breath when my chest starts to protest, a burning sensation causing me to blow the air out. I sit, stare, and wait for my laptop to ping, knowing that any minute he’s going to respond.

But he doesn’t. Instead the ‘typing’ icon disappears, followed quickly by the green icon next to his name. Within a minute he’s offline, and it doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s deliberately turned off messenger.

The bastard’s ignoring me again.

I pick up my coffee cup, wanting to throw it in anger, but then I think better of it. As much as I’d love to see the mug fly across the room and make a satisfying dent in the wall, the last thing I need is another chat with Diana Joseph. Instead I let out a furious shout, my yell cutting through the background noise, causing everybody to turn and stare at me.

My cheeks flush, and I gesture at my laptop, as if to tell them I’m having an IT problem. Curiosity sated, they turn back to their work, leaving me staring at the blank computer screen.

I’m completely and utterly enraged. If Callum was here now I’d happily smash my fist into his gorgeous face. How dare he just walk away and ignore me as if everything that happened meant nothing to him? My hands flex with the need to hit something, but there’s nothing here to punch.

I do the next best thing—I write him an email. My fingers hit the keyboard with angry jabs, each word an attempt to hurt him as he’s hurt me. I want him to know exactly how I feel and precisely what I think of him. I want him to understand the pain I’m going through.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Arsehole

You’re a coward, do you know that? I’ve been calling you for five days, sending you messages and emails and still you haven’t got the guts to answer. I don’t care if you think ‘it’s better this way’ or that you told Jonathan you’re doing this for my own good, because if you’d bothered to ask me what I wanted, you’d know that I didn’t want this.