Coming Down (25 page)

Grace
raises her eyebrows but keeps staring, like I’m the bad guy in this. “I saw Daisy this morning. She told me you went barging into her flat making all kinds of accusations.”

“
That’s not true,” I protest. “She was the one shouting.”

Grace raises a finger as if to silence me.
“Then I went to Allegra’s school and asked her if Darren had been hanging around. She told me she hasn’t seen him for months.”

“
But Daisy was so defensive. When I saw the jacket she practically pushed me out of the door...”

“
See it from her point of view. She’s trying so hard to make it work, putting her all into doing the right thing by Allegra. Then you swan in and make her feel like she’s being judged.”

“
I didn’t swan in. I just wanted to check everything was okay.”

“
Why?” she asks.

“
What do you mean?”

“
Why wouldn’t everything be okay? It’s as if you’re expecting her to fail and it’s not on. We’ve analysed all the risks and given her the chance to prove herself. Your spouting off accusations isn’t helping anyone. Least of all Allegra.”

Tears prick at my eyes, and my hands clench with frustration. It
’s not the fact she doesn’t believe me which grates, it’s the knowledge that Allegra could get hurt and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. “You’re not going to do anything?”

“
Daisy assured me he isn’t back. That jacket was something he’d left behind; she wore it to pop out to the shops.”

Am I going crazy? I feel like I might be. It
’s as if I’m seeing the world through a different lens, insisting the sky is blue when everybody else sees green. “You believe her?”

“
Would Allegra still be there if I didn’t?” Grace’s reply is terse. “There’s no sign that he’s back. Daisy looks healthy and clean; I don’t think she’s using. The flat was tidy and full of Daisy and Allegra’s things. Not Darren’s.” She almost glares at me. I must look like a flake to her. The girl who cries wolf. “I think your going round there did more harm than good.”

I instantly recoil
as if I’ve been slapped in the face. “How do you mean?”

“
Daisy thinks you’ve had it in for her ever since you heard our suspicions about Darren. She’s got this idea in her head that you’re going to take Allegra away.” She pauses. Long enough for me to take it in. A moment later, she drops the bombshell. “For both their sakes I think you should stay away from them.”

“
Stay away?” I echo. “How long for?”

Grace shrugs.
“Until Daisy feels comfortable with you being around. She isn’t your biggest fan right now.”

“
But I’ll still see Allegra here, right?”

Grace shifts
awkwardly on her seat. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“
I won’t get to see her at all?” The last word comes out as a sob. I have to cover my mouth to stop it from developing into anything more.

“
It’s for the best.” Grace’s expression softens when she sees how horrified I am. Leaning forward, she reaches out to pat my free hand. Her gesture does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.

I remove my hand from my mouth.
“It’s not fair,” I whisper. “I love that kid.”

“
You’ve broken the first rule,” Grace tells me. “You’ve got too involved. You haven’t got the distance you need.”

Her words make me want to scream. I don
’t need distance or judgement or anything else she thinks I’m lacking. There’s a little girl who can’t protect herself against an evil bastard, and I’m not even allowed to help. The thought of him getting close enough to hurt her makes me want to throw up.

“
What if I see her anyway?” I ask, grasping for straws where there’s only air.

“
Then Daisy has every right to call the police. She’s Allegra’s mum after all.”

26

I spend the next week trying not to be a stalker, despite my urge to drive over to
the Whitegate Estate and accost every muscled, weasel-faced guy I can find. Instead I spend the evenings at Niall’s flat. We eat dinner together, watch whatever happens to be showing on the telly, and then somehow end up tangled in each other’s arms, kissing the hell out of each other while our programme is forgotten.

On Wednesday night we kiss and grind for so long that I feel him freeze above me, his spine arched and his mouth tight as he makes a mess of his jeans. I laugh so hard I give myself a
stomach ache. He vows revenge when I don’t let him forget it.

Niall
’s plan to get me back comes good on Friday night, when we are on his bed, kissing hard and fast as I’m straddling his waist. He moves his lips down, dragging them softly against my neck, and presses his leg against me. His muscled thigh creates friction in an unbelievably sexy way. When I start to moan he flips me over and holds me in his arms. I shudder, gasp and melt inside. He kisses me hard and I can feel him smile against me, pleased with his victory.

We
’ve regressed to being teenagers, and I love every moment of it. Our evenings are the only thing getting me through the day. When I see Allegra’s empty table where she should be at art class it’s all I can do to make it through without the rest of the kids seeing me cry.

By Saturday I
’m such a mess of emotion—both good and bad—that Niall drags me to his studio and tells me to sit by the window that overlooks the Thames. He sketches my profile as I try not to think too hard. Staring out at the grey, choppy water, I follow the progress of a flotilla of boats that make their way upstream. Smaller rowboats bob in the wake of the pleasure cruisers. I wonder if they feel as lost as I am, unable to do anything but wait for the waves to stop crashing.

“
What are you thinking about?” Niall asks softly. When I turn my head he’s staring at me over his sketchpad. I get a sense of déjà vu; any minute now Digby could walk through that door and tell us to hurry up.

“
I was watching the boats. You have an amazing view.”

“
I know.”

From the way he smirks I know he
’s not talking about the river. He has this way of looking at me, his head tilted to the side, the corner of his mouth quirked up. It’s an expression of intent that lights a fire deep inside. I cross my legs and try not to squirm, but my body has other ideas.

My discomfiture worsens when he places his
sketchpad on the table and walks over. Putting his hands on my hips, he swings me round until he’s standing right between my thighs. When he leans down his eyes are bright and fierce, as though he can read every dirty thought that’s going through my mind.

“
Do you have a thing for boats?”

“
What? No!” I try to laugh but he’s too close and the impulse dies in my throat. Instead I try to breathe.

“
Then why are you looking at me like that?” He runs a finger up my bare arm and I shiver.

“
Like what?”

“
Like you want me inside you as much as I do.”

Oh
my God
.

His words are enough to chase every thought out of my mind,
as if there’s only enough space for him. When he leans down to press his mouth against mine, I close my eyes and melt into him, clutching at the back of his t-shirt as if he’s the only one who can save me. Kissing him back, our lips move slowly, our tongues sliding together as though we have no other choice.

But there
’s a choice and I’ve made it. I choose him.

He drags his lips down my neck and I wrap my legs around his waist, threading my fingers through his hair. His hands reach under me,
palms digging into my behind as he pulls me closer to him, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels more natural than breathing. I arch my back and grab fistfuls of his shirt, desperate to feel him close.

When I slide down from the window he seems as surprised as I am. Even more so when I drop to my knees and run my finger down the front of his jeans. He stops breathing
. When I look up at him from my position on the floor I can see his eyes reflecting sunlight as he stares down at me. His cheeks are flushed, his lips have fallen open. I try to hide my smile at his obvious shock. Taking my time, I unclasp his belt and button, slowly dragging the zipper down. Not once losing eye contact with him. He’s as still as a statue.

“
Are you sure?” His voice is low and thick.

I smile when I nod because there
’s something so perfect about his concern. Niall can be strong and determined when he wants to be, but here—in this room, towering above me—he’s not afraid to be vulnerable. To make sure this is all okay.

He makes me feel safe and I love that about him
.

God, I love everything about him. My chest is full of that knowledge. I
’m not ready to say it yet, but it’s in every glance I take, every touch of his skin. It’s in the way I curl my fingers around him and try not to smile when he gasps short and low. And when I finally take him in my mouth it’s in the way I stare up at him. I know he can feel it.

H
e gently cups my head, staring down through fevered eyes, and I feel it right back.

“
Beth.” His voice is little more than a breath.

I drag my tongue against his tip, watching as his jaw slackens, his head dropping forward
. I glance at him through my lashes, meeting his gaze. Though his eyes are half-shut, I can still see the heat there.

I can taste it too. He hardens in my mouth, hips rocking involuntarily. When his breath starts to shorten, I take him deeper,
feeling him drag against my lips. Then he stops moving and his breath catches as he tries to pull out, to move away. But I don’t want to let him go. Instead I grasp his thighs and suck him deeper still, letting him take over all my senses. And when he comes, spilling inside my mouth, he whispers my name again.

I
t sounds a lot like love.

* * *

The following week I meet Simon inside a smart restaurant just off Upper Street. Arriving early—a sure-fire sign of my nervousness—I order a small gin and tonic. I sip it as I sit at the table and wait for him. Even on a Thursday night the restaurant business appears to be booming. The room is full of smart couples and businessmen, soft conversations and clinking glass. I feel lost amongst the gentility, like a child dressed up in her Sunday best. The tight black dress I’m wearing feels uncomfortably restricting, and I keep pulling at the neckline to give myself room to breathe.

Simon arrives a few minutes after seven. He has that
‘straight from the office’ look. His shirt is lightly crumpled and his sleeves rolled up. From the way his thin hair falls in disarray, I don’t think he checked himself in the mirror before he left. Still, as soon as he sees me sitting at the table his expression softens and a genuine smile forms on his lips.

“
You look beautiful.” He presses his lips to my cheek. “How are you?”

“
I’m good. How are you?” I sound polite and measured. This is how relationships die; one careful word at a time.

“
I’m okay.” He pauses and guilt unfurls its wings, fluttering in my belly. “Getting used to things.”

Thankfully, the waiter chooses that moment to interrupt us and bring our menus over. Simon orders a whisky
—stronger than his normal aperitif—and takes the wine list, asking if I’d prefer red or white. When we’ve ordered he removes his reading glasses, and I notice the bruise-like circles under his eyes.

“
You look tired.”

“
I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s not the same without you there. I keep worrying about you.”

The guilt-bird nesting in my stomach takes flight.

“I’m fine, honestly. The room is nice and my flatmates seem friendly enough.”

I don
’t tell him I haven’t been spending much time there. I’m not cruel, plus there’s a big difference between honesty and rubbing his nose in it. Still, I owe it to him to be truthful, and that’s a big reason why I’m here tonight. Things are getting serious between Niall and me, and I don’t want Simon hearing that from anybody else.

When the waiter brings the wine over we stop talking
. Simon tastes the red, pausing to sample it before nodding at the waiter. It’s achingly familiar, as if we’re part of a play repeating itself night after night. The script would have us finish our food and go home, where I would take off my makeup and crawl into bed, while Simon puts on his reading glasses and picks up the latest Lee Child. Instead we are winging it, ad-libbing where the script requires strict adherence. I can’t help thinking I’m happier with our new situation than he is.

“
How’s the clinic?” His question takes me by surprise, not least because I don’t know how to answer it. Do I tell him these past weeks have been difficult, that I’ve been crying more, scared for the fate of a little girl who doesn’t belong to me?

“
It’s good. Especially now the gala’s over.” I give him a small smile. “At least until I need to organise next year’s event.”

“
You did a good job. You always do.”

Silence falls again and I wonder how things became so awkward between us. Part of it is me. I
’m hiding something and my lack of candour is colouring our conversation. My chest tightens when our first course arrives and I realise I need to say something soon. But I look at him—the man I married, the one who saved me when I thought I was unsalvageable—and it just seems so cruel. As though I’m breaking his heart all over again.

Putting his knife down, he looks right at me. “When are you coming home?”

“What?” My brows knit together.

“You’ve made your point. I get it. I neglected you, I should have paid you more attention. There’s no need to string it out, you can come back home now.”

This isn’t the first time he’s asked me to come back to him. Yet every time I tell him it’s over, it doesn’t seem to sink in. He’s still talking to me as if I’m a child. The prodigal daughter, waiting to return.

“Simon…” I’m not good at this. How many times can you break somebody’s heart? My own feels
as though it’s cracked in two.

“You know I can take care of you. We work best when I’m making the decisions. Stop fighting me.”

He’s talking about a Beth I’ve left behind. I don’t want her back, I like being me, and the way I can make my own decisions. I don’t want to be the little wife anymore.

Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.

“I’m seeing somebody.” I blurt it out in my usual cack-handed way. “I wanted to tell you face to face.”

I watch as emotion clouds
his expression. Confusion morphing into surprise. “As in seeing a boyfriend?”

I nod.
“It’s early days. I just thought you should know.”

Simon
stares at me silently. I look down at the chorizo and scallops congealing on my plate. Any appetite I had has long since been stolen by my words.

“
Do I know him?” he asks.

M
y hands start to shake. “You know of him. He’s an artist. Niall Joseph.”

His eyes narrow
and he drops his head. “The one you’ve been working with?” When he opens his mouth to say more, my phone rings, and I shuffle through my bag to find it, embarrassed that I’m subjecting the whole restaurant to the sound of chiming bells. I’m about to switch it off when I notice the caller. My hand freezes in the air, shock stilling any momentum it might have had.

It
’s Daisy MacArthur.

“
I need to take this call.” I look up, but Simon’s staring at his plate. Maybe a few minutes to let him collect himself is a good thing. “I’ll be back in a moment.” My chair scrapes across the polished wooden floor when I stand up and walk to the front door. Pressing accept, I put the phone to my ear and walk out into the cool, evening air.

“
Daisy, is everything okay?” In the silence that follows I find myself wondering whether she’s dialled me by mistake, or is merely working up to giving me another earful. “Daisy, are you there?”

The
sound is so quiet I can barely hear it at first. I press the phone closer to my ear, trying to drown out the cacophony of traffic and conversation reverberating through the street. Then it gets louder until I realise she’s crying, and the drawn-out sobs chill me to the bone.

“
Daisy?”

“
I can’t wake her up.”

I stop breathing.
It’s not Daisy’s, but Allegra’s voice I can hear through the phone.

“
I keep shaking her but she won’t open her eyes.”

“
Allegra? What’s happened? How long’s she been asleep?”