Anything for You Ch. 07

Message: Angie

Angie? At eleven forty-two?

With shaking fingers, I stabbed at the phone again.

Fab 2 c u tonite, Mr MF. Had a gr8 time. Hope u found ur jacket - def not here. C u Mon. x x x

I swallowed as I read the words again. How many interpretations could there be of Fab 2 c u tonite then? Mr MF—Magic Fingers, a little voice in my head sneered cruelly—clearly had seen Angie again this evening. They'd had a 'gr8 time'. She even knew he'd mislaid his jacket and by the looks of things, it was possible he could have left it at her place. So how did any of that fit with Drew's claim that he'd 'phoned and called it off'?

I clicked out of the screen and set the phone back down on the chest of drawers, my breathing coming fast and hard. Why would he lie? Why would he say he hadn't gone on a date when he obviously had? Why would he make a point of telling me he loved me if there was someone else in his life? And why on earth would he...?

Make a point. My heart suddenly seemed to skip a beat.

Oh no. Oh God, no. As the awful realisation dawned, a rush of heat rose from the pit of my stomach and crashed over my head in a nauseating wave.

Because I'd got it all stupendously and horrifically wrong, that was why. I'd come within about a millimetre of making a total and utter idiot of myself. My throat constricted as I put what I'd taken to be his declaration of undying love on rewind.

He didn't love me—at least, not like I loved him. That hadn't been what he meant, had it? No, he loved me as a friend. As someone he'd always watch out for. Someone who needed protecting from herself. Someone he didn't want to see hurt by the womanising ways of Marco Maretti. As someone he'd even occasionally fancy having sex with—a fuck buddy, wasn't that what I'd heard Roxy call it?

But he didn't love me in the way I needed him to love me. Longed for him to love me. As someone he wanted as a soul mate, always and forever.

Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. Now was so not the time to cry. Now was the time to figure out how the hell I going to get out of Drew's flat without giving away what a monumental fool I'd almost been.

I stared down at my feet, at the faint red marks criss-crossing the skin there. Shoes. I needed my sandals. My keys. My bag...

Finding a strength I didn't know I possessed, I pushed myself upright, no longer caring about my dress as it slid downwards, merely willing my legs to support me. They did, but they felt like jelly as I hobbled out of the bedroom door, my knees protesting fiercely with the effort. There was my handbag on the breakfast bar where I'd left it, my sandals on the floor beneath it. And there, a few feet away, screwed into a tiny ball, were my knickers.

I'd just bent to pick them up when I felt Drew behind me, his hands landing on my hips.

"What are you doing? Bath's all ready." He sounded amused, one hand lazily caressing the length of my spine as I made a grab for the sandals. "Thought I told you to get this off," he added, his tone chiding as he slipped a finger beneath the shoulder strap of my dress and gave it a gentle tug.

"I—I couldn't." I straightened up, not daring to turn around even though his arms folded around me when I tried to reach for my handbag. "I—" I stopped, a fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm me as he held me against him, resting his cheek against my head. "I'll do it in a minute," I got out somehow. "In the bathroom."

"What?" Laughing, he dropped a kiss into my hair. "You're surely not telling me you didn't want to get undressed in front of me, are you? Like I haven't already seen everything you've got, gorgeous. Hey." His voice softened. "This isn't still about those scars?"

"Maybe—maybe a little," I whispered, taking refuge in the lie and pushing at his hands.

Much to my guilty relief, he let me go at once. "Sweetheart..."

"I know. I'm sorry," I choked out, snatching up my handbag and moving quickly out of reach. "I guess—I guess it's going to take me a while. I know it's stupid."

"Sam!" Drew sounded bewildered.

As well he might, I thought, staggering blindly towards the bathroom. "Just—just give me a minute," I begged, willing him not to chase after me. "I'm okay, all right? I just need to—just need to..."

I burst through the bathroom door, slammed it closed and fumbled for the bolt, catching my finger as I rammed it home. And as I stared at the tiny triangle of ripped flesh as it began to bleed, everything blurred.

"Sam." His voice was close, urgent but gentle. I could picture him leaning against the door, one hand against the frame. I could even imagine the look in his eyes.

"I'm okay." My own voice was surprisingly steady, considering the rate at which tears were thudding on to my dress, each one creating a dark circle on the fabric. "Really."

"We need to talk about this."

I bit my lip, fighting a sob. "I know," I lied.

"I'm going to make us another cup of tea, okay? Seeing as we didn't get to drink the last one."

Tea. The great British panacea for all woes. "R-right."

"And you're going to get into that lovely warm bath. Sort yourself out. And then we're going to talk."

I didn't answer him. Couldn't answer him, the tears flowing down my cheeks so quickly now I'd probably have drowned if I'd opened my mouth. But maybe he hadn't expected an answer, because he didn't speak again.

Steeling myself at last, I wiped my face with the back of my hand and straightened up. I looked longingly at the foaming bath water, the cloud of steam above it having already misted the mirrored cabinet over the sink. I could see and smell the vanilla-scented candle he'd lit for me, burning brightly on the windowsill. And then my gaze rose to the window itself, too tiny to squeeze through even if I hadn't been in a first floor flat.

The only way out was the way I'd come in, back through the door. There could be no easy escape, no avoiding some kind of confrontation. About the only thing I could do was attempt to speed up the process.

I put the seat down and sat on the loo while I rummaged through my handbag for my own mobile phone. Then flipping it open with one hand, I unzipped the pocket on the side of my bag with the other, extracted the business card I'd dropped in there earlier and punched in the number.

It was almost ridiculously easy. Phone call made, I set about tidying myself up as best I could, then used the clean flannel he'd left for me on the side of the bath to scrub at my face, clearing away tears, make-up and all, wishing the whole while I could just climb into the wondrously warm water and sink down until the bubbles closed over my throbbing head. But there wasn't time, I concluded, a decision confirmed wise when at last I bent down to fasten my sandals and heard two perfunctory beeps from a car horn in the street below.

If I was lucky, I thought, my heart pounding now, Drew would still be in the kitchen. I could bolt out of the bathroom, get my coat and hurtle down the stairs before he could do anything more than shout my name. Better yet, he might be on the sofa, already sipping at his tea.

The last place I expected to find him when I emerged was sitting cross-legged on the tiled floor outside the door, smiling up at me as he proffered me a mug. Which was pretty stupid really, because it was exactly where I should've expected him to be. How many times had he ambushed me before?

"Sit down," he said, patting the space beside him. "Let's get this whole bloody scar thing sorted once and for all. Because, Samantha Bloom, there are some things you really need to get through your thick—" But then he stopped, his eyes narrowing as he finally seemed to take in my appearance. "Why are you still dressed?"

I took in a breath but it did nothing to quell my rising sense of panic. So much for bolting. "Drew..."

"You've got your shoes on. You didn't get in the bath?"

I shook my head, biting my lip. "I'm sorry. But I need to—" I motioned helplessly towards the stairs.

"You're going?" He sounded startled.

"I've got to," I whispered, wondering just how I was going to get around him. He'd always been so much quicker than me. If I made a dash in either direction, he'd simply pull me down and wrestle me to the floor. The only thing that might weigh in my favour was the mug in his right hand. "I can't stay."

Still staring at me, he nodded slowly. "Okay." But my relief was short-lived. "Why?"

"Please, Drew. Don't. I've got—got a taxi waiting outside."

"You called a taxi?" Following my gaze to the mug, he frowned. "But surely you know I would've...?" He sighed in exasperation. "Look, Sam. I'm not going to stop you. I'm just not following what's going on here, that's all. Are you going to tell me what this is all about, kiddo?"

Kiddo. He'd called me that for as long as I could remember, but now it was just another brutal reminder of how he really felt about me. Why hadn't I realised before? Because that was all I was to him, wasn't it? Someone he viewed more as a little sister—even if that made what we'd just done practically incest.

"We can't do this," I said helplessly, watching him flinch as my voice broke on the words. "We should never have done this."

"Sam!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for me as I feigned a break to the left then crashed into his right arm. The sound of the mug shattering as it hit the tiles flooded my ears as I sprinted for my coat but I didn't look back, tearing it from the peg so vigorously I heard the lining rip. And then I was stumbling down the stairs, wrenching the front door open and sprinting across to the waiting taxi, falling into the back seat with a breathless, "Please! Just go!"

Joe didn't hesitate. The tyres screeched as he put his foot to the floor and swerved the car away from the kerb, not looking back at me until we'd rounded the corner and were halfway down the next street. He slowed then, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror just as they had earlier. "You all right, love?" His gaze narrowed further. "That your phone ringing?"

"I'm fine." I reached into my bag and switched my mobile off without looking at the display. "Just want to go home now, that's all."

"Chesterton Close?" He sent me a sympathetic smile when I nodded. "Bit of an evening, eh?"

I averted my gaze, gnawing hard on my lower lip. For all this man had turned out to be an unexpected knight in shining black cab, I couldn't allow myself to collapse into a gibbering heap now. God only knew what he was thinking already. Probably something along the lines of I could've told you this might happen, I decided miserably.

But to my relief, he made no attempt at further conversation, instead letting the whine of the engine do the talking. Closing my eyes, I let the sound wash over me and tried not to think either, digging my nails into my palm every time an unwelcome memory surfaced until my hand throbbed as much as my head.

I gave him twenty pounds when we pulled up outside my house, refusing the change though it equated to a pretty hefty tip. In return, I could feel him watching me with something akin to paternal concern as I limped up the driveway. I knew he waited to see me turn the key in the door before finally driving away.

The phone began ringing the moment I stepped over the threshold as though Joe the cabbie hadn't been the only person watching me. I ignored it, heading straight for the kitchen and yanking open the wall cupboard next to the fridge, pulling a plastic sandwich box from the top shelf and letting it clatter on to the work top. I tore off the lid, my head pounding now as I pulled out the bottle of painkillers and carried it across the kitchen, setting it down in the very centre of the round table.

With equal ceremony, the continuing ringing of the phone acting as macabre accompaniment, I filled a large tumbler with water from the cold tap then sat down at the table, wincing as very tender parts of me met the hard seat of the pine chair.

I could disconnect the phone. Pull the plug out from the socket and leave it dangling over the side of the dresser. But there would be no respite from the pain. I knew from bitter experience that getting to sleep while a headache like this one raged through my skull would take hours. It would take every relaxation technique I knew—and I knew plenty—but exhausted though I was, I wouldn't drop off before dawn. Not without help—and the help I relied on most wasn't available to me now. Would it ever be again?

Picking up the bottle with trembling fingers, I pushed down the child-proof cap and twisted it off then tipped two pills into my hand. I stared at them then at the glass of water. It wasn't difficult, was it? All I had to do was pop them into my mouth, take a big gulp of water then swallow. Easy. Pop them in. Drink. Swallow.

Too easy.

I dropped the bottle with a gasp, springing backwards as it clattered to the table and fell on its side, spewing several more tablets across the polished wood. And then I dived forwards, scooping the pills into my hand and snatching up the bottle, pouring them back in before screwing the lid back on tightly as though I'd managed to round up half a dozen poisonous spiders.

It was only when I noticed my panicked breathing was the loudest sound in the room that I realised the phone had stopped ringing. I held myself very still, waiting for it to start again. He wouldn't give up that easily, would he? He'd phone again. Either that, or do exactly what I'd done to him earlier—turn up in person and start hammering on my front door.

A cold feeling of dread slowly spread through my limbs.

This wasn't over, was it? It could never be over. He wouldn't let this go. Oh, he might not phone again until the morning, he might think better of demanding I answer the door to him tonight. But sooner or later, he'd wheedle the truth from me. Sooner or later, I'd have to confess that I'd fallen head over heels in love with him and had been crazy enough to believe, just for a few gloriously golden moments, that he felt the same way about me too.

Maybe one day—some day in a far-off future I couldn't imagine—I'd find all this hilariously funny, just as I was certain he would the moment I told him. Maybe I'd even wonder what I saw in him. But right now, just the thought of him knowing how much of a fool I'd been was mortifying. Particularly as I was certain I couldn't switch this feeling off, now it had been well and truly switched on. I loved Drew Barnett with all my heart and soul, even if he didn't feel the same way about me. There wasn't a thing I could do about it.

Though there maybe was a way I could make sure he never found out.

I looked at the digital clock on the cooker. 00:12. Not that late, really. Certainly not late by some people's standards.

Willing the phone not to ring before I could reach it, I plucked it from the dresser and pressed the button for a dialling tone, just to make sure Drew couldn't call me while I searched my purse. And after finding the green foil-printed card, I put it on the table in front of me, took a deep breath and pressed in the number.

"Yes, good evening," I rattled off when a measured female voice answered politely, half-expecting to be reprimanded for ringing after midnight. But after listening to my request, she put me through without argument and the next voice I heard was male and sounded decidedly wide-awake.

"Pronto."

"Marco, it's me. I've made up my mind. How soon can I come to Italy?"

*

Thanks for reading. As always, all votes and comments are very much appreciated. :-)

Lily

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