Anything for You Ch. 09

I dropped my head into my hands and cringed.

"Or do I?"

"Oh God..."

"See, if you'd asked that question, you'd have had to admit something to me, wouldn't you, Sam?" Drew was back in scary lawyer mode. "You'd have had to tell me you looked at the text messages on my phone, wouldn't you? My private, personal text messages."

"I'm sorry," I got out, my voice little more than a squeak as I raised my feet to the front edge of the padded seat and hugged my knees. "I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to pick up my phone, go into my inbox and scroll through my messages?"

"No." And then, realising I couldn't very well deny it, I whimpered, "I mean yes, okay? But it wasn't like that."

"It wasn't? Why did you do it then?"

"Oh God." Hugging my knees even more tightly, I pressed my face against them and began to rock. "You—you said you'd got a date. With the new receptionist."

"Which I told you I was going to cancel. And I did."

"I know! But you were getting all these text messages. So many of them. And I brought you your phone 'cos I thought it might be something important. And you looked through them and one of them seemed to make you smile—smile a lot." The words tumbled out in a rush. "And I—I wanted to know what made you smile like that. Who made you smile like that."

"You're talking about when I was in the bathroom?" He sounded surprised. "You mean when we were at the Park?"

I raised my head. "Of course I mean when we were at..." I trailed off, my eyes widening as I looked at him properly for the first time. "Oh my God." How could I not have noticed before? "There were two bathrobes in the wardrobe. You're wearing the other one!"

Drew glanced down at himself, tucking his thumbs into the lapels of his own burgundy gown. "Yes," he said drily. "Well spotted, Sherlock. But I fail to see what that's got to do with—"

"You're wearing a bathrobe." I shook my head, unable to make any sense of this new discovery. "H-how? When did you change into it? How could you have—?"

"Oh no. Don't try to change the subject, Miss Bloom."

"What? I'm not trying to change the subject!"

"Talk me through why you read my text messages, Sam." He tilted his head on one side, considering me with narrowed eyes. "What was going through your mind when you took that decision to invade my privacy?"

"Drew!" I stared at him helplessly, at a loss as to whether he was angry or amused. Yes, he'd just called me 'Miss Bloom'—something he'd done hundreds of times before in play-fights. But he'd never looked at me the way he was looking at me right now. "I told you, it wasn't like that!"

"Then tell me how it was."

"You..." I swallowed, desperately trying to work some moisture back into my mouth. "You'd just told me you were supposed to be going on a date that evening. And when you told me about her, you were reading one of your messages—and you were smiling. So I thought—I assumed the message must be from her. And you were finishing off in the bathroom and I'd still got your phone and I—I wanted to see why you smiled. I know I shouldn't have done it, okay? I don't know why I did." But as my eyes welled with tears, I dropped my gaze.

Because I did know, didn't I?

"And there was a message there from someone called Angie and it said..." I drew in a shaky breath. "It said—"

"Catch."

"What?" But before I could do any more than look up, I realised something was hurtling through the air towards me. The fact that I caught it had more to do with the accuracy of Drew's aim than any reflex action on my part. I looked down to discover I was clutching his mobile phone.

"You need to know that there's absolutely nothing on that thing that I don't want you to see. There never has been and there never will be."

A tear rolled down my cheek. "That's not the point, though. I shouldn't have looked."

"No." Drew's tone softened. "But the real point is, I should've told you about Angie."

"What?" My chin jerked up then. "No! You don't have to tell me everything! You've got a right to keep some things to yourself—and if you don't want to tell me stuff then you shouldn't need to. It shouldn't be any of my business who you're seeing, who you're going out with. Like—like Kayleigh." I took a chance on meeting his gaze. "I didn't need to know you weren't really going out with her, did I? Because it was none of my business."

He winced. "Roxy told you? Sam, I'm sorry. But I didn't tell you because—"

"Because it was none of my business. Because there was no reason in the world why you should tell me."

"No, Sam." He sighed. "Because I couldn't tell you. Given the circumstances, the fewer people who knew what was really going on, the better. It was a dangerous situation to be in. Pretty stupid too in hindsight but it seemed a good idea at the time—and luckily for Kayleigh, it all worked out in the end."

I shook my head. "It was none of my business."

"Actually, it was. Is." Drew's tone was gentle again. "Which is why I should've told you about Angie. I did get quite close to telling you a couple of times, but..."

Sensing motion, I looked up to see he was walking away from me. And when he moved around the four-poster to pick up the guitar, I felt a reluctant smile tug at the corners of my mouth. "What are you going to do? Tell me in song?" I asked, not bothering to hide my sarcasm as he perched on the wide padded stool at the foot of the bed and slung the strap of the guitar over his shoulder. "The Ballad of Angie and Drew?"

He shot me an unexpected grin. "That's not a bad idea, actually," he said, striking a chord before singing:

There once was a wanker called Andrew

I gave an involuntary snort and his grin widened.

Who didn't know wh-at to do He wanted to learn how to play guitar Some lessons were well overdue

"Too bloody true," I interrupted. "What the hell are you doing with my brother's guitar, anyway?"

He struck another series of chords then paused. "You know," he said, giving me a speculative look, "you should probably know that the way you're sitting right now, with your knees up like that, I can see right up your..."

I let out a little gasp as he whistled, immediately dropping my feet down from the chair to the floor and gathering the bathrobe around my legs.

"Not that I haven't seen it all before, of course," he continued cheerfully, starting to strum again. "And let's face it, you were putting on quite a show before. You're going to kill me, you know that, Sam Bloom? There's me, doing everything I can to stay quiet so you don't know I'm here, and there's you, prancing around naked in front of the mirror. You've lost weight, by the way."

I felt my mouth drop open, my cheeks flushing even hotter. "You were watching me? You were here the whole time? But—" I took a glance around the room. "Where were you? How did you...?"

He grinned. "I honestly don't know how you didn't see me. I swear you looked straight at me at one point. I kind of half hid behind the curtains," he nodded towards the drapes at the head of the bed, "but they didn't quite do the job."

"And you had a shower!" I accused, a piece of the puzzle dropping into place. "Didn't you? That's why the shower was all wet. That's why you're wearing that robe. Then how long...?" I watched as his fingers skated across the strings of Paul's guitar, my head aching as I tried to find homes for the rest of the jumbled pieces. "How long have you been here?"

"Since about twelve thirty. Well, I had to do something to pass the time, didn't I? I couldn't exactly unpack." He pulled a face at me. "You'd have noticed all my stuff straightaway. As it was, I thought you might see my bag under the bed. It seemed the safest place to stash it—and given the way you went through all the drawers and cupboards earlier, I guess it was. But isn't that shower fan-bloody-tastic? Don't know about you, but I could've stayed in there for—"

"Wait." I stumbled to my feet, increasingly fascinated by the effortless way his fingers were moving across the fretboard, finally hearing the complicated riff he was playing. Flawlessly. "You—you can't play the guitar."

Drew smiled up at me as I ventured a little nearer. "That's harsh. I think I'm a lot better than I used to be."

"No, I mean..." I shook my head, confused. "You're good. Too good."

He sent me another smile. "You remember Paul and I both used to have lessons years ago? Not that it did me any good, but back then I couldn't see the point of practising, could I?"

"With..." I frowned, knowing I should be able to remember the teacher's name. My brother had carried on having lessons with her well into his teens. "Mrs Sherborne?"

"That's right," he agreed, picking out another riff. "Well, I looked her up about a year ago to find out if she was still teaching. Figured if she'd got the patience to teach ten year olds, she might be able to teach me to play a few chords now. 'Cos I kept seeing Paul's guitar every time I opened the cupboard over the stairs and... I don't know, it just seemed wrong that no one was playing it."

"You've had his guitar all this time?" I wondered whether my mother had any idea. Since his death, she'd jealously guarded my brother's possessions, refusing to part with any of them.

Though he nodded, he didn't quite meet my gaze. "He gave it to me to look after, the day before the operation. He was a bit worried your Mum might do something stupid. You know how she hated it being all scratched—kept going on about how everybody else must think she and your Dad were too tight-fisted to get him a new one?"

I remembered only too well. And Paul had good reason to be worried. Knowing Mum, she'd have thrown it out and bought him something brash and shiny as a recuperation present. But he'd loved his battle-scarred second hand Fender, saying nothing could beat the tone. "And Mrs Sherborne—you found her? You've been having lessons with her then?"

"Yeah. I didn't think she'd remember me—I was just a kid the last time she saw me—but she did. Seemed really happy to hear from me too. God knows why, 'cos I must have been her worst pupil ever. Still." He grinned. "Maybe that's why she remembered me. Anyway, we fixed up a time and it all went from there, really."

"Right. Well, that's—that's good." I cast my mind back over the times I'd gone with Dad to her house to pick up Paul after a lesson, remembering a plump-ish jolly lady with curly black hair. I'd liked her.

"Ithas been good." But there was an odd note to his voice. "You see, it's been more than just lessons. Because, well. You see..."

I watched him, feeling more unsettled than ever. It wasn't like Drew to stumble over words. And then, something clicked in my head. I could see the cheques my father had written out to pay for Paul's lessons. The name of the payee.

"Oh my God!" I burst out. "Mrs Sherborne—Angela Sherborne?Angie is Mrs Sherborne?"

"Yes." His brow furrowed. "Of course. I thought you—"

"You've been having an affair with Mrs Sherborne?"

Drew fired me a searching glance. Then with an air of resignation, he began sliding the guitar strap from his shoulder.

"Oh God!That's what's been going on?" I watched in disbelief as he calmly rose to his feet and carried the guitar to the wardrobe, placing it inside. "That's why she sent you those messages?"

"Sam—"

"That's why she called you 'Magic Fingers'?"

Heaving a sigh, Drew closed the wardrobe door. "You got me," he said, in the manner of someone who'd been caught stealing. "And my word, it's been torrid, let me tell you. Red hot passion all the way."

"But..." Even without the sarcasm in his tone, I could tell from the glint in his eyes he was mocking me. "She called you 'Big Boy'!"

"Well." He gave me a salacious look, steadily closing the space between us. "Of course she did. You should know."

"Drew!"

"Ah Sam, I can't deny it," he said solemnly. "We just had this spark from day one. Right from the moment she opened the door when I went to her house for my first lesson and she said—" he adopted a falsetto "—'Drew Barnett? No... But you're such a big boy!'" His voice dropping back to its normal pitch, he added with a grin, "Now that's what I call an ice breaker. We both fell about laughing. And naturally," his grin widened, "I haven't let her forget it since."

I bet he hadn't. I was already getting the sinking feeling he wouldn't let me forget what I'd just said, either. "But you—you said it was more than lessons," I said weakly as he caught my hand and started to unpeel my fingers from the phone I was still clutching.

"It was." He put the phone down on the table behind me but didn't let me go, instead letting his hand fall into mine. "Much more. In fact," his expression turned thoughtful as he gazed down at me, "you could probably call it therapy."

All at once I was hyperaware of his skin against mine, of a tingling sensation that extended far beyond my fingers, shooting through my wrist and up my arm. "Oh?" I whispered, even as I realised he was now so near, I could feel the warmth exuding from the rest of his body.

He nodded. And then, still holding my hand, he lifted his other hand and grazed his knuckles against my cheek, gently brushing back my damp hair. "You know," he said softly as I started tingling there—started tingling everywhere, "you've never asked me why I left London three years ago. Not once."

I stared at him, suddenly conscious of having that 'not really there' dream-like feeling, as though somehow it wasn't really me standing in front of him. "I thought you didn't want to talk about it," I heard myself say. "I figured if you wanted to tell me, you'd tell me. Because sometimes, there are things you don't want to talk about with anyone, aren't there?"

That's how I'd felt of course, I recognised with a blinding flash of self-insight. Me—who'd mastered the art of not talking about things.

He smiled. "I loved that you didn't ask me," he confessed. "And yet at the same time, I really wanted you to."

I trembled as he caressed my cheek again, closing my eyes as his fingers slipped into my hair. "You did?"

"Yeah." He brushed his lips against my forehead. "Although it's probably just as well you didn't. Spending time with you, just being myself, getting back to feeling like me again—it's probably what I needed more than anything."

I opened my eyes to find him inches away, his brown eyes so very dark, so very close to mine. "Tell me?"

He kissed me again, my nose this time, then let out a slow breath. "Some people might call it executive burnout," he said at last, the note in his voice letting me know he wasn't entirely convinced. "And looking back on it, I should've seen it coming a mile off. Those last couple of years at Uni, I worked my socks off to get my degree, to get that First and then to get my LPC. Not because I wanted to work that hard but because..." He paused, his lips twisting. "Because I had to. Because it was the only thing I knew how to do. The only thing that made any sense."

I had to blink hard. "Because of Paul."

Drew nodded. "Because of Paul, yeah. Because he shouldn't have died. Because he was only twenty and I was so fucking mad at the world. Mad at God. Because," his smile was again wry, "we men don't do talking about our feelings, do we? Don't go in for any of that namby-pamby stuff. Nah, we push on with things, get on with stuff, act like nothing ever happened. Work right on through it."

"Drew..."

Moving nearer, he kissed away the tears I couldn't hold back any longer, the tender gesture only making me want to cry even more. "And then of course," he said softly, "things got worse. I got the training contract in London, didn't I? I was in the office before six in the morning and I was usually still there at nine at night. That's if we didn't have to pull all-nighters, which seemed to happen all the time. Doing endless researching, endlessly drafting documents, performing due diligence, the whole time under massive pressure to bill clients for more and more hours. I drank gallons of black coffee, hardly slept—and even when I did, I just dreamed about it all. It never stopped." Drew sounded uncharacteristically weary. "Still, I did it. I did it for more than two years."

"But Alice always said you were happy." I felt a dull ache in my chest at the idea of him being miserable. "Whenever she spoke to you on the phone, she said it sounded like you were loving it. Having a ball."

"Because that's what I told her. And—I know this is going to sound weird—but I think I thought I was having a ball. I didn't have time to think about it. Everything seemed to go at a million miles an hour. There were times when I didn't even know what day it was, let alone whether I was happy. I just kept going and going and going, until..." He stopped, his lips twisting again.

"Until what?"

"Until Alice got narked when I'd phoned to tell her I wouldn't be coming home for Christmas."

"Alice?"

But now, I could clearly recall the day she'd come into the shop a picture of aggrieved indignation. "He can't even come to see me for a couple of hours," she'd complained bitterly. "I'm the only family he's got in this country and he can't make time for a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake?"

And then I remembered how she'd muttered something about Mohammed and mountains. Remembered her declaring she'd just have to visit him instead, whether he liked it or not.

"She turned up out of the blue on Christmas Eve," Drew said. "Didn't tell me she was coming. When the doorbell rang, I thought it was the pizza guy. But it wasn't, of course. And when she saw the state of me, saw the state of my flat..." He smiled ruefully. "I think she might've toyed with the idea of getting me sectioned under the Mental Health Act."

"That bad?"

"I hadn't shaved in about a fortnight—hell, I probably hadn't washed for a couple of days, maybe more. Plus I'd just downed the best part of a bottle of Jack Daniels. And the flat, yeah, well. Bombsite." He shot me a sudden grin. "Best let Alice tell you about that."

"So... She persuaded you to come back?" I found myself wondering how I'd never made the connection before. Only weeks into the New Year, Drew had returned to Stow Newton, found himself a new job in Oxford and put in an offer to buy 22 Montague Street.

He pulled a comical grimace. "Not sure 'persuaded' is the right word. You've experienced one of Alice's 'I'm saying this for your own good' speeches, right?" He grinned again when I nodded. "Then you can probably guess how it went. Actually, in all seriousness, I'm not sure what might have happened if she hadn't turned up when she did."

I wasn't sure I wanted to think about it.

"And of course, once I started to think about it, what she said made a whole lot of sense. Stow Newton—okay, it's hardly the centre of the universe but it's home. It's where I grew up. Where I know everyone." He brushed his fingers over my cheek again. "Where you were. Although," he continued, just as that delicious tingling started all over again, "when I told Alice I was looking forward to spending time with you again, she nearly blew a gasket. 'Don't even think about doing any more than that!'" he said, in a near-perfect imitation of his aunt. "'That poor girl's heart is fragile enough without you trampling all over it!'" I'd just started to smile when he added, still in character, "'Besides, she's with a very nice young man at the moment'."

"Tim Cosby?" I spluttered, after taking a second to figure out whom she'd meant. "'Nice young man'? He was forever trying to put his hand down my pants!"

Drew scowled. "Yeah, well. I wish I'd known back then he didn't get any further than that."