Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (16 page)

“Bright and early,” Holly promised.

She made it halfway to the door when her boss’s mobile rang. Sasha snatched it up.

“Hello? Oh. Yes, Mrs Ames. I’ll be over this evening… What? She’s — oh, my God.” The blood drained from Sasha’s face. “No, of course I’ll come at once! I know there’s nothing I can do, but at least I can
be
there—”

She was silent for a few minutes, listening. “Very well,” she said, her words unsteady. “If you think it best, I’ll… I’ll stay away.” Her voice broke. “Thank you for calling.”

And to Holly’s shock, Sasha laid her mobile aside and began to cry.

It wasn’t just teary-eyes-and-a-bit-of-sniffling, either; this was sobbing, hiccupping, runny-nose, full-on crying.

“Sasha?” she said uncertainly, unsure how to proceed. “Are you all right? Is — is there anything I can do?”

Sasha sucked in a deep breath and groped for the tissue box. “No,” she choked out, “there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.” She yanked a tissue free.

“Can I get you something? A glass of water—?”

“My sister’s just tried to kill herself,” Sasha mumbled, “again. And this time—” she blew her nose “—this time, she nearly succeeded.”

Chapter 23

“Oh, Sasha… I’m so sorry,” Holly murmured, stricken. “Is she — will she be all right?”

“Yes. This time,” Sasha said bitterly, and blew her nose.

“Has she done this before, then? Tried to kill herself, I mean?”

“Once, right after—” She broke off. “Oh, never mind, I’ve said too much as it is. Please, just go away.”

Holly ignored her and sat down, her face etched with concern. “If you want to talk about it, I’m listening. Sometimes talking really helps.”

“Amanda is bipolar,” she said after a moment. “She’s fine as long as she’s on her medications. But sometimes she quits taking them. She decides she doesn’t need them, so she hides them, or flushes them down the loo. Then the behaviour problems begin.”

“Is she in care?”

“Yes.”

Holly bit her lip. “Has she always been in care?”

“No. My mum was an alcoholic,” Sasha said, and stared down at the tissue in her hand. “My dad did a runner when I was a baby. So I took care of us, because Mum couldn’t. Not properly, anyway. I made our lunches and got Mandy fed and dressed and off to school every morning.”

“Where was your mum at?”

“Passed out on the sofa, usually, or lying across her bed.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Holly murmured. “Was she always like that?”

Sasha dabbed at her eyes with the tissue and shook her head. “Not always. But by the time I was ten, I was used to making dinner and doing the laundry and the weekly grocery shop, because there was no one else to do it. Mum stayed drunk. Mostly, she went out and didn’t come home until late.”

Sasha didn’t add that the nights her mother stayed home were the worst; she didn’t tell Holly about the men who sometimes came over, how she and her sister lay in bed with their door locked, Mandy asleep while Sasha listened, wide-eyed, to the grunts and moans that came from Mum’s room.

She didn’t tell Holly any of that, because someone like Holly James — who’d grown up wealthy, pampered,
loved
— would never understand.

“I’ve work to be doing,” Sasha said abruptly. “I’m sure you do, as well.”

Holly stood, but hesitated. “Yes, I do. Sasha—”

“Don’t you
dare
to tell anyone about this, Holly, especially not Valery.” She leaned forward, a hard gleam in her eye. “Or I’ll hang you up by your toes and run you out of
BritTEEN
on a rail…a clothing rail. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” Holly stammered, and swallowed. “Completely.”

“Good. Now go.”

Holly nodded and returned to her cubicle, dazed. Poor Sasha…not only was she coping with a mentally ill sister, she was paying for a part-time minder for the girl as well, and juggling her work schedule so she could slip away to visit…

And all of it without Valery’s knowledge.

No wonder she’d been so stressed and snappish.

Sasha’s personal calls, the ones she and Kate had thought were from a new man, had been from her sister, Amanda.

As she set about returning calls and filing the stack of release forms and folders before she left, she remembered Sasha’s warning.

“Don’t you
dare
to tell anyone about this, Holly, especially not Valery. Or I’ll hang you up by your toes and run you out of BritTEEN on a rail…a clothing rail.”

Her desk phone rang. “Holly James,
BritTEEN
.”

“Holly, it’s official. I’ve just filed the nomination paperwork to stand for the next election.”

“Oh, Alex — that’s wonderful! Congratulations. So you’re really doing it, then.”

“Yes. You’re speaking to a potential member of the House of Commons. Oh, and I got you a job in the law firm downstairs, two nights a week — Reception, eight to midnight. Interested?”

She squealed. “Seriously? Yes! When do I start?”

“Next week. Let’s go out tonight and celebrate.”

“Oh, I’d love to, Alex…but I can’t. I’m sleeping on the streets tonight.”

“I’d forgotten.” He paused. “You know, that’s not normally what a chap wants to hear when his girlfriend declines a date.”

She laughed. “No, I suppose not.”
Oh, my God — did he just call me his
girlfriend
?

“I didn’t mention it earlier,” he added, “but I believe I got a tiny bit drunk last night.”

She leaned back in her chair. “A tiny bit drunk? That’s like saying the Titanic sprung a tiny leak.”

“I don’t remember much after you and Jamie wrestled me into the car,” Alex admitted. “I have a vague recollection of singing ‘Red Red Wine’ as we went up the stairs, and then it all goes blank. Which is probably a good thing.”

“You passed out on the sofa. You surrendered your trousers easily enough, but insisted on keeping your socks on.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat. “Did you hang my trousers on the shower rail…or did I? And if I did,
why
did I?”

“You fell off the stage — after a rousing striptease to ‘SexyBack’ — and then you nosedived into a table. You were covered in caramel flan. So I washed your shirt and trousers in the bathroom sink as best I could and hung them up to dry.”

He let out a long, slow breath and said contritely, “I’m sorry, Holly. I don’t know what got into me. Well, yes, I do — approximately half a fifth of Scotch whisky. I’m not, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, much of a drinker.”

“Were you hung over?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He paused. “Look, why don’t you come to mine on Friday, and I’ll make dinner. No whisky involved.”

“Dinner?” she said sceptically. “Do you cook?”

He paused. “Not really. But I can manage some steaks, or omelettes. I’m good at those.”

“I don’t normally eat red meat. And I shouldn’t eat eggs, either.”

“But you had eggs at your parents’ house,” he pointed out. “Quite a lot of them, actually,” he added.

She sighed. “I know. I’m not a very good vegetarian. But I’m not supposed to eat eggs, or red meat. Listen, I have a better idea. Are you free on Sunday evening?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you come to my place instead? I’ll get rid of Kate, and I’ll cook you dinner.”

“I didn’t think you cooked, either.”

“I’m an excellent cook,” she assured him. She lowered her voice and added, “And afterwards, perhaps we can start working on that therapy we discussed.”

“Why, Ms James,” he murmured, “I think that’s an excellent idea. Will you wear a nurse’s uniform, and one of those little white caps?”

“Of course,” Holly said primly. “I can’t administer proper therapy otherwise, can I?”

And so it was arranged. Alex would arrive on her doorstep at seven p.m. on Sunday, and Holly would have a lovely dinner for two waiting on the table.

However, there was one tiny problem. She couldn’t cook. She lived on a diet of salad, Shreddies, and macaroni cheese. Holly groaned. What the hell had she just done?

Suddenly she had the answer. Jamie! Jamie was a chef, after all. She’d ask him to come over on his day off and whip up a couple of quick dishes, reheat them before Alex arrived, and pass them off as hers. It was simple but brilliant.

She leaned forward to Google the number for Gordon Scots and called straight away.

The hostess answered and, after a lengthy pause, Jamie came on the line. “Holly?” he said, breathless. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

She blinked. “Of course I’m all right. Why do you ask?”

“I thought something was wrong.”

“No.” She paused. “I only wanted to ask you a favour.”

“A favour,” he repeated. “Holly, I’ve just started the dinner service. You never call a chef in the middle of a service,” he added shortly, “unless someone’s dying. Or dead.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s in the bloody reach-in!” he shouted an aside to someone. “Holly, I’m busy. What is it you want?”

Quickly — she had to go to meet Zoe in a few minutes — she outlined her dinner plan to him, then bit her lip and waited.

“So,” he said evenly when she finished, “you want me to come over on my day off, cook a romantic dinner for two, then leave so you can pretend you did it all yourself, and impress your boyfriend Alex. Is that the gist of it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I have two problems with your plan, Holly. No, three, actually. One — Alex isn’t stupid. He’ll know you didn’t do it. Two — you should learn to cook for yourself, not for some toffee-nosed prat who won’t appreciate it.”

“And three?” she said coldly.

“Three — Sunday’s my only day off! Why should I spend it cooking…and for Alex Barrington, of all bloody people?”

“It’s not for Alex,” she said. “It’s for me.”

There was silence on Jamie’s end, except for the crash of pans in the background, shouts of “order up for table six,” and the sudden roar of the broiler’s flames.

“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll do it — for you. I’ll get the ingredients and come by on Sunday morning. But
you’re
cooking everything, Holly, from appetizer to dessert. Got it?”

“Got it,” she agreed meekly, and her heart soared. “Thanks, Jamie, you’re a star—”

But he’d already slammed the phone down.

Chapter 24

Holly and Will met Zoe that evening at the Starbucks on Wardour Street. Sharon came along as well.

The walk from Piccadilly Circus underground to Starbucks was less than a quarter of a mile, but already Holly’s rucksack felt heavier than it had when she’d set out. She hitched the strap higher on her shoulder.

“Blimey — what you got in there?” Zoe asked.

“Not much.” Holly shrugged. “Some jeans, a couple of T-shirts, a toothbrush, shampoo, some make-up, a magazine—”

Zoe snorted. “Are you mental? You’re sleeping rough tonight, not doing a spa weekend at Claridge's.”

“Sorry,” Holly said, defensively, “but this is new to me.”

“Where do you usually sleep?” Will asked Zoe.

“Depends,” she replied, and began walking. “If it’s cold, or raining, I go to a hostel or a drop-in centre. I have a few mates who let me stay at theirs sometimes, on the sofa or the floor. I never stay long, though.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to overstay your welcome,” Sharon agreed.

“Is anyone hungry?” Holly dug in her rucksack and withdrew a couple of chocolate bars.

“Bloody hell.” Zoe came to a stop and glared at her. “Look, if you want to do this, you have to do it without all that stuff.”

Chastened, Holly returned the bars to her rucksack. “You’re right. Sorry.” Like Alex, she seemed to do nothing but apologize of late. The pavements were busy, crowded with couples on their way to restaurants or the theatre, talking into mobiles or clutching cups from Costa or Starbucks. No one paid them any mind.

“My feet hurt,” Holly complained a few minutes later, when they arrived at one of the benches across from the
BritTEEN
office building. “Can we stop for a minute?”

“We’ve barely started,” Zoe said, disgusted.

“Sorry.” She lowered her rucksack to the pavement and glanced down at Zoe’s boots. “How do you walk all day in those DMs?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Zoe said, and pulled out a sleek black mobile and began checking texts.

“Nice phone,” Will observed. “Is it yours?”

“Course it’s mine,” she lied. “I didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re asking. My dad bought it for me.”

He reshouldered his duffel. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and had a jacket tied at his waist. The ever-present Nikon hung around his neck. He regarded the three of them expectantly. “Are you up for some bin raiding, ladies?”

Holly nodded. “Sure!”

Despite her bravado, Holly felt a twinge of uneasiness as the light faded, and she stayed close to the others. She couldn’t imagine being alone on these streets. After all, she had Will and Zoe and Sharon to keep her company. Suppose she were on her own? How would she cope? Where would she go? It was a frightening prospect.

“What about night shelters?” Holly asked Zoe as they headed off in search of likely skip bins. “Can’t we go to one of those?”

“I told you, there’s a queue to get in. And there aren’t so many any more. I can’t stay in a shelter, anyway. I’m too young.”

“Too young?” Holly echoed, confused. “Surely a shelter doesn’t turn someone away because they’re too young?”

“Rules,” Zoe said, and shrugged. “If the council decides you’re ‘intentionally homeless’ — if you weren’t forced to leave because of abuse, or thrown out, or you’re not mentally ill — then you’ve chosen the streets, and you’re not a priority need.”

“But no one chooses to be homeless!” Holly said, appalled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“They hand you a home-finding packet and send you on your way,” Sharon said. “That’s what I got after my gran died and I went to the council for help. I was sixteen. I got evicted from gran’s flat, and the council said I couldn’t stay on.”

“Why not?” Holly demanded.

“They said I had a home, and told me to go back there.” Sharon snorted at the notion. “Yeah, back to my dad, who’d beat me as soon as look at me.” She shrugged. “That’s why I left in the first place, to get away…and to help gran. I did the weekly shop for her, and the cleaning.” Her expression softened. “She was that good, my gran. I miss her.”