Canada Square (Love in London #3) (4 page)

“It's over.” The instructor dims the lights as we go into Savasana, lying on our backs with our arms and legs stretched out. The ache in my back has disappeared, and I let my eyes close as the instructor tells us to slowly inhale.

“What do you mean it's over?” Ellie whispers. “It can't be over. Not you and Luke. You’re meant for each other.”

That's the problem with childhood sweethearts. You grow up together and create a network of shared friends. When things go wrong it breaks everybody’s hearts.

“I've had enough.”

The woman next to me tuts and I shut up quickly. But Ellie won't let it go.

“But you'll work it out. You two always do. It's not as if you haven't split up before.”

I breathe in deeply, feeling the air pull through my nostrils and down my throat. My chest inflates, but the sense of calm I'm seeking doesn't materialise. Instead I start to feel awkward and panicky.

“Not this time,” I say. Inside I'm wondering if my words are true. If I'm strong enough to stand up for myself. It's not just Luke I'm rejecting but a whole way of life. Things will never be the same again.

That's what I want, isn't it? To get a degree, get a good job and get the hell out of here? I repeat my plan in my head like a reassuring mantra. It isn't working. Ellie is right, we've been here before. I've ended things only to take Luke back, over and over again. No wonder she can't believe it's finished. No wonder Luke won't believe me when I tell him we're through. History has taught us all that when it comes to Luke Sayer I'm a complete and total pushover.

My thoughts flicker to Callum Ferguson, and the way I stood up to him when he goaded me this morning. Despite his foreboding demeanour, and the fact he’s my boss, somehow Callum made me feel brave enough to stand up for myself. It was a good feeling, not taking any shit from him. Empowering. Maybe if I can be that girl when I'm in the office, it might spill out into my relationships, too.

By the time we roll up our mats and guzzle our water, my equanimity is restored. This time when Ellie asks me if there's any chance for me and Luke, my voice is as firm as my resolve.

“There's not a cat's chance in hell I'll ever take him back.”

4

By the time I make it home the sun is setting, casting the usually grey streets with a peach and orange glow. I'm listening to music through my ear buds, my bag slung loosely over my shoulder, and my mind a thousand miles away. Maybe that's why I don't notice the man at first. We’re almost face to face by the time I realise he's by my front door, and I stop suddenly in front of him as his eyes look into mine.

I watch as his mouth takes on the shape of his words.

“I'm sorry, I can’t hear you.” I pull the headphones from my ears. The lead dangles down from my hoodie.

He says nothing, but carries on looking at me. The vividness of his eyes unnerves me. He looks old, maybe in his early fifties with dark skin pocked with acne scars. His nose twists to the left as if it's been broken and set badly. There's a white line that leads from his ear to his jaw, that looks suspiciously like a healed knife wound.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise up.

“I'm looking for Tina Cartwright.”

That gets my attention. This isn't any old weird guy hanging around outside our house. This is a weirdo with an agenda, and it has my mum's name written all over it.

“Are you?” I counter question for question, trying to think the situation through. “Why?”

I'd like to say this is the first time a strange guy’s been looking for my mum, but that would be a bald-faced lie. One of my earliest memories is hiding behind the sofa with my mum while a bailiff was banging at the door, calling out her name. She had a bag of toffees in her hand and fed me them to me slowly in an attempt to keep my mouth shut.

My mum's never been good with money. Her credit score is shot to hell, too, which means that any loans she manages to get are dodgy to say the least. And Plaistow is full of loan sharks.

The man doesn't reply to my question. Instead he keeps his lips tightly closed, the effort bleaching them white. He tips his head to the side, still staring. I notice that one of his eyelids droops, as if the muscles there have given up. His scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I'm all too aware of the way my yoga pants cling to my hips, and that a sliver of skin is showing between the waistband and my crop top.

Then he says something that makes me freeze.

“Amethyst?”

Nobody calls me that. Even mum gave up trying after I begged her to stop. The shock of this man knowing my name—my real name—is enough to make me reach out to steady myself on the brick built wall that lines our boundary. I open my mouth to ask him how he knows who I am but I'm too damn scared.

What if he wants to hurt me just to get his money back?

“That's... that's not my name,” I finally manage to say. The effect of not eating anything for hours takes its toll as my head starts to swim.

“Are you okay?” The man's expression softens, and he tries to steady me. I shrink away.

“I'm fine... I just need to, to—”

This time he catches my elbow, just before I collapse on the floor. A sudden nausea tugs at me. He looks at me, concerned.

It's not the type of expression I expect to see on a loan shark. The ones I've seen—and over the years there’s been a lot—tend to have two looks at most. Pissed off and extremely pissed off. He lifts me back to my feet, then steps back, and runs a hand through his scant, black hair.

“Tell your mum I came to see her, okay?”

“Who are you?” I'm aware this is the second time I've asked him. I'm not sure if I want to hear the answer, or if I need to. He's just one in a long line of men who've taken advantage of my mum's need for money, for pretty clothes, for things that she can't afford on a cashier's salary alone.

By the time he answers my question, he's already at the gate, pushing it, making the hinges creak. “Just tell her Digger says hi.”

* * *

The first thing I do when I walk into the house is open the fridge door and pull out some orange juice. Twisting the lid off, I bring the spout up to my lips and swallow citrusy mouthfuls. My hand shakes as I hold the carton, in fact my whole body spasms, though I'm not sure if it's from low sugar, fear, or both. There's a shock of cold as the juice hits, then a few moments until I start to feel the shivers subside.

I can't get his face out of my mind. The way he stared at me with interest. It's hard to put my finger on the reason why he intimidated me so much, because there was no lust or sexual interest there. It was more that he looked at me as if I was a specimen, a creature he couldn't quite understand.

My shower takes longer than usual. I feel the need to scrub every inch of my skin, and let the hot spray work the kinks out of my muscles. Though the dull throb in the base of my spine has gone, I know from experience that it will be back in the morning. Grabbing a towel from the heater beside the shower door, I wrap it around my damp body, using another to make a turban around my dark hair. Then I go back to my room to slip on some pyjamas.

It's only then that I check my messages. Two missed calls and a text from Luke.

Call me.

Seeing his name makes me shiver all over again, and I slip under the duvet just to find a little warmth. The final message is from my brother, asking me about my first day. Though I suspect my sister-in-law goaded him into sending it, I'm still touched that he's even remembered.

I think about texting Alex back, but after the confrontation earlier I'm still feeling jittery, and the thought of hearing his friendly voice is too much of a temptation. I quickly dial his number and lean back on my pink velvet headboard, closing my eyes as the familiar ringtone echoes into my ear.

It only buzzes twice before Alex answers. “Hey, beautiful. What's up?”

I smile as soon as I hear his voice. My brother is six years older than me, and along with our elder sister, Andie, has always been overprotective. Although I bristled against it in my teens, now I find it sweet and comforting, like unwrapping a much needed bar of chocolate.

“Not much. Just got back from Yoga. How's things with you?”

“Splendid.” He puts on a stupidly posh accent. “Max is teething, Lara's had a shit day at work and I've somehow managed to piss them both off.”

“Just another day chez Cartwright,” I tease. It's so lovely to talk to him. Only a few weeks ago he was living here with Mum and me, trying to work through some problems with his marriage. As much as I loved having him home with us, I'm thrilled he and Lara managed to patch up their differences. Lara is one of the nicest people I've ever met. She always has time for me and doesn't treat me like a little kid, which Alex and Andie always do.

“How's Max?” I ask, hearing my nephew squawking in the background. “No more chest problems?”

“No, thank God.” Alex sounds genuinely relieved. After being hospitalized for bronchiolitis, my baby nephew has managed to make a full recovery. Which is good, because we don’t want to go through that again. “He's right as rain. Got a good set of lungs on him, as you can probably hear.”

I start to laugh. As deadpan as Alex sounds, I know he loves Max to the moon and back. “He’s as full of it as his dad.”

“Careful...”

“Anyway, I wanted to ask you something.” I reach out and grab the bottle of water that's resting on my side table. “Is Mum having money troubles again?”

There's silence for a moment, and all I can hear is Alex's breathing, and the distant echo of Max's cries. Then my brother speaks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “What's she done this time?”

Hastily, I backtrack. “Nothing, at least not as far as I know. It's just there was some weird guy hanging around asking for her.”

“A weird guy?” Alex echoes. “What kind of weirdo? Did you see him?”

“Yeah, he was standing on our doorstep when I got home from yoga. Asked me where she was.”

Alex's voice deepens. “Did you tell him?”

“I'm not stupid,” I reply, exasperated. “But the odd thing was, he knew my name.”

“What the hell? Tell me what he said?” For the first time I detect a note of panic in my brother's voice. Alex doesn't rile easily. I don't like it.

“He asked me if Tina Cartwright lived here. Then he said my name.”

“He might have heard someone else talking to you...”

I bite my lip before taking in a deep breath. “He knew my real name Alex.”

“Fuck.”

The only way to know my real name is to go through my official documents. Look in the electoral register, or at my birth certificate. Absolutely nothing online—especially not my Facebook account—is under the name Amethyst.

“What did you say to him?” Alex asks. Then I hear him mutter something. I'm hoping he's talking to Lara rather than to himself.

“I said I wasn't Amethyst. Then I asked him who he was.”

“And?”

“He didn't really say. Just said something about digging something up.”

“Digging something up?” I can almost hear Alex running his hand through his hair. He used to do that all the time when we were kids. “What does that mean?”

I frown. “No, I don't think he meant digging. He said his name was Digger.”

Silence. This time I don't hear Alex breathe. His lack of response makes my heart start to hammer, as if there's something I should be afraid of.

“Alex?” I finally prompt.

“He said he was called Digger?”

“He told me to tell Mum he said 'hi'.”

“Shit.” This time his voice raises an octave. “Did you lock the door behind you?”

“Of course I did, I'm not stupid.”

“Where's Mum?” he barks. I blink in alarm.

“She had a shift at the shop I think. She'll be home by eleven.”

“What room are you in?”

“Alex,” I say, “You're really starting to freak me out. What's going on?”

“Amy, just tell me where you are in the house.”

“I'm in my bedroom.”

“I want you to go to the window and look out at the street. Tell me if you see anybody there, okay?” His voice wobbles.

“Okay.” I swing my legs around until they hit the carpet, and step out of bed. The autumn chill hits me. I walk half a dozen steps to my window and pull back the corner of my curtain. Though it's dark, the streetlights illuminate the concrete paving slabs. There's not a soul to be seen, not even the she-fox who seems to delight in wailing like a baby most nights.

“There's nobody there,” I say.

“Okay, good. You definitely locked the door, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, patiently. “I locked the door and I saw him walk away. He's gone, Al.”

“For now,” he replies, dully.

It's like a light flicking on in my brain. “Do you know this Digger guy?”

“I'm... I'm not sure. But if it's who I think it is, he's a nasty piece of work.”

“Who do you think it is?” I persist.

“Look, Ames, I don't want to scare you unnecessarily, and I don't want to say anything until I've talked with Mum. But if this guy comes up to you again, you scream and run, okay? Then you call me and I'll be over like a shot. In fact, I should come over now.”

“Don't be stupid, I'm in bed. There's nothing to see here.” I say it lightly, as if I'm joking. “I'm pretty sure he won't bother me again, but if he does, I promise to let you know.”

“And run,” Alex repeats.

“And run,” I confirm. “Or at least kick him in the arse.”

“I'm not kidding, Amy. Don't do anything to antagonise him.”

“I'm not stupid, Alex.” Nor am I a baby, I remind him silently. Sometimes I think he and Andie forget I'm twenty-three years old.

“I know you're not, kid. But this guy—if he is who I think he is—he's not right in the head. And I don't want you to get hurt.” His voice breaks on the last word, and in that split second I go from exasperated to emotional.

“I won't let him hurt me, I promise. I love you, big brother.”

“I love you, too, Ames.” That's something great about Alex, he's never afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. Where some men might shy away from their feelings, he positively embraces them. “And you take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will.”

When I hang up, there's a smile on my face. Not because I feel safe, and definitely not because I feel happy. My lips curl up because I feel loved and taken care of, and that's good enough for now.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning my body feels as though it's been through ten rounds in a boxing ring. My back aches, my muscles throb and there's a shooting pain on the left side of my brain that makes me wince. Somehow I drag my sorry self out of bed and into the shower, leaning against the cold tiles as the water cascades down.

In the kitchen, Mum is sitting at our old oak table, a half-drunk mug of coffee in front of her and a cigarette balanced between her finger and thumb. The ashtray is filled with smoked-to-the-stub fag ends, as if she's been chaining them all night.

“I thought you'd given up.” I take the milk from the fridge, splashing it across a bowl of muesli.