Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (16 page)

I can feel someone lightly shake my arm. ‘Are you OK? Arielle, are you all right?’

I sit up, dazed, wondering what on Earth has just happened. Was that a bomb? Is it another 7/7?

‘Is it terrorists?’ I say, sitting up slowly. My leg is shaking like mad but I can’t seem to stop it, even when I put both my hands on it to try and steady myself.

All I can think is that I never said goodbye to Piers properly this morning.
I never said goodbye to him.
At this thought, I promptly burst into tears. Big, huge racking sobs.  

I hear footsteps, muffled voices, a pause, and then a glass filled with an amber liquid is pressed into my hands. ‘Here, drink this.’

‘What is it?’ I hiccup, taking the glass off Eliza. She looks fine, but she wasn’t at the window, and she probably said goodbye to her boyfriend properly this morning.

‘A drink, it will do you good.’

I take a sip. It’s whisky, which I usually hate, but it’s warming and I notice once I have downed the glass that I’ve stopped shaking.

‘It was a gas explosion,’ she says kindly. ‘Not terrorists, don’t worry.’

‘It felt like an earthquake,’ I gulp, wiping away tears from my face. Here’s hoping my new mascara is waterproof, as it promised to be. ‘And there was all that smoke. I thought it was a bomb.’ My voice is croaky.

‘Nope, just a gas explosion. They’re digging up the road and something must have been unstable. Look, do you mind if I go? You’re OK, right?’

She shoots a look at the door.

‘Where’s Greg?’ I say, looking around the studio and noticing he’s gone. ‘What about the photos?’

How can she be so calm? I’ve never heard anything quite like that explosion. It rumbled right through me, yet Eliza isn’t rattled in the slightest. I feel stupid that I fainted and cried, that I’m sat on the floor having to be looked after.

‘He’s gone to get some shots for the newspaper, but he’ll pop back when he’s done. I’m going to try and get a few quotes, too. I can write up a piece on the way to the airport.’

‘What about my piece?’

‘Oh, I’ll do that later,’ Eliza says dismissively. ‘Don’t worry.’

But I am worried because I can see the glint in her eye, and I know that Eliza would rather be writing on-the-ground reports of exciting things, exciting things like gas explosions, than be writing about fluffy and fickle pop-ups. Sure, she might write my article up afterwards, but she’s heading to Florence and I bet work and my pop-up will be far from her mind when she gets there.

‘Sure, do what you have to.’ What else can I say? I smile weakly at her from my position on the floor.

‘Brilliant! Look, good luck with the pop-up and get in touch to let me know how it goes, OK, or if you do something with Tabitha again.’

See, I knew this was about Tabitha really.

She’s off before I can answer, leaving me sitting on the floor. I get up slowly and walk over to the window. There’s still smoke billowing down the road, and I can see blue flashing lights twinkling away. I hope no one was injured. I could quite easily have been walking past there today when that happened. I shudder at the thought.

I just want to go home, where hopefully Piers is waiting for me, and give him a big hug. Sod Greg and the photos – I doubt he’ll come back anyway to take them, not when he has a scoop that happened pretty much under his feet. He’ll want to get those photos to his editor and picture agencies as soon as he can.

I check my phone, but there’s no word from Piers about how his appointment went, so I gather up my things and head downstairs.

‘Here,’ I say, passing my empty glass to Ted, the barman who is working today. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘No worries. Are you OK?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But I’ll feel a lot better once I get home.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah what?’

‘They’re not letting anyone leave,’ Ted says apologetically. ‘They need to cordon the area off whilst they get everything under control and the ambulances can treat people.’

‘Crap,’ I swear. ‘Are there... I mean, was anyone–’

‘No, no, nothing like that, but a few people are quite badly injured. Nothing life-threatening.’

‘Thank goodness.’ I look around, half-expecting to see Greg and Eliza sitting in one of the booths but they’re not here. No one is, apart from me and Ted. ‘Where are Greg and Eliza?’ I ask. ‘The people who came to see me this morning.’

‘They flashed their press passes... I mean, you can try, but I think they’ll ask you to hang tight for a bit.’ He shrugs.

‘OK, thanks. I’ll pop my head out and see what’s going on.’

When I do though, it’s chaos out there. People are running around, putting yellow tape up, barking orders into walkie talkies, and there’s a sour smell in the air.

‘On second thoughts,’ I say to Ted, ‘I’ll just wait upstairs for a bit.’

He waves me up and I flop down on the floor, away from the window. I try to give Piers a call to let him know I’m OK, but it keeps ringing, never going through to voicemail. It’s irritating the first few times, but after an hour has passed I’m panicking. I try the landline at home – nothing – before calling the hospital who can’t tell me anything because of the Data Protection Act. Now I’m convinced he tried to come here after his appointment and he’s one of the people badly injured on the street.

Not knowing how long I will be here, I reluctantly call the bakeries and cancel our tastings for this afternoon. I try Piers again, but I still can’t get through. I’m about to call Mum so I can have an hysterical phone call with her, get her to reassure me that nothing bad has happened, when Felicity’s name pops up on my phone. I take a steadying breath.

‘Hi Felicity,’ I answer, trying to sound upbeat, trying to sound like nothing is wrong. ‘How are you?’

‘Dear?’

‘Hi Felicity,’ I repeat. ‘How are you?’

‘Is that you, Arielle?’

‘A-huh.’

‘Oh, hello dear. How are you? Thanks for calling.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, carefully, because I did not call her. ‘More importantly though, how are you? How are you feeling?’

That’s as close as I dare get to asking her whether she’s having trouble remembering things today.

‘Oh, I’m fine. You know how it is, dear.’

I don’t know how it is because she keeps how she’s feeling to herself.

‘Now, tell me about your interview,’ Felicity continues. ‘How did that go?’

I fill her in, pleased that she remembered it was today, but I pre-warn her that we might not actually get the coverage because of the gas explosion.

‘An explosion?’

‘I was terrified! I thought it was a bomb but it was a gas explosion, which is bad enough! Luckily I don’t think anyone was too badly hurt but, still, what an awful thing to happen. Hopefully they’ll get everything sorted out before we launch. I can’t even leave the building at the moment.’

I stand up and walk to the window. The smoke has pretty much cleared, and there’s only one ambulance remaining. It seems things are getting under control down there.

‘Of course you shouldn’t leave the building!’ Felicity yells at me. She sounds really agitated. ‘You should be in an air-raid shelter! Where’s your gas mask? Put it on right now!’

‘I should be where?’

Did she just say what I think she said?

‘In a bunker, where it’s–’

Oh, bugger. The phone has cut off, and when I look at the screen, it’s blank. My battery has died, which is just what I need...

When I go downstairs to see if Ted has a charger, he’s talking to a police officer who is giving the all-clear. In my rush to head home to see if Piers is there, calling Felicity back completely slips my mind.

‘Pony?’ I yell, closing the front door behind me. I ignore the post on the floor. ‘Are you here?’ I walk into the front reception room to be greeted by the sight of Piers sitting on the sofa, staring into space.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I cry, dropping my things on the floor and running towards him. ‘Are you OK?’

He slowly turns to look at me, and I can see his eyes are red.
Fuck
. What’s happened? What has the consultant said?

‘Piers?’

I don’t wait for him to answer. I jump on the sofa next to him, and pull him close to me. He hugs me really tightly, and after a few minutes I manage to feel calmer. Seeing him hurt kills me inside. I would do anything to stop him from feeling pain, from being upset or hurt. I love this man
so
much.

‘Where were you?’ I ask. ‘Why weren’t you answering your phone?’

‘Why weren’t you answering yours?’ he counters. ‘I thought you were lying in a hospital somewhere, I was convinced you’d got caught up in the explosion.’

‘Wait, I was convinced
you
were caught up in that. I was at Tabi’s!’

‘Well I couldn’t get there. No one could.’ He wriggles away from me, and reaches over to pick up the phone. He holds it by his ear.

‘They blocked off the road,’ he continues. ‘And when I couldn’t get through to you, I came home. The landline’s not working, and I’ve been sat here for the past few hours trying to get hold of you.’

He throws the phone back down on the coffee table.

‘When I called the paper, they told me Eliza is on holiday. They probably tell that to everyone,’ he adds.

‘No, no. She’s gone to Florence, not that it matters,’ I say. ‘What matters is that you’re OK. What did the consultant say?’

‘It’s fine, Arielle. Nothing to worry about.’

He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his awful Lowry painting, which turns out to be
the real deal. I’m terrified whenever he is away now, convinced that someone is going to break in and steal it.

‘Do you promise?’

‘Of course. I just need to take it a bit easier, that’s all. Cut out some stress, not that I can do my job without it.’

He chuckles and turns to look at me, but it seems strained. Like when you’re laughing because you’re trying to impress your new boss but you’re really thinking he’s a bit of a dick.

‘Bloody stress gives us all the edge to function in my world,’ he adds, rolling his eyes.

Piers explained to me that what we’re hearing on the news about the recession – Northern Rock being nationalised here in the UK, mumblings of dissent and huge cock-ups in the sub-prime market in the States, whatever that means – is only the beginning. Things are going to get a lot worse, and heads are going to roll. I hope it isn’t Piers’ head because he works really hard for his company but, if it was, maybe he could escape the stresses of the financial world, once and for all. 

‘But it’s not as if you need to work, is it?’ I ask carefully, taking his hand in mine. ‘You could go part-time, or change direction? Get out before it goes really wrong.’

He squeezes my hand. ‘You can’t go part-time in my line of work, Pony. And as for changing direction, what would I do? I’m not creative like you. Crunching numbers and trading stocks is all I’ve ever done. Besides, it’s too late for me. I’ll have weathered the worst of it in six months’ time.’

I shoot him a confused look.

‘My notice period,’ he explains, letting go of my hand and pushing his hair out of his face. He really needs a haircut. ‘If I survive the next six months I can survive anything the market has to throw at me. I’d be leaving at completely the wrong time.’

‘There must be something else you wanted to be when you grew up?’ I push. ‘You love cooking, right? Didn’t you want to be a chef?’

He pulls me a look. ‘I’m not opening a pop-up restaurant, Arielle. We’re not going to become
that
couple!’

‘I didn’t quite mean that, silly, but don’t rule things out.’

He ignores me, but I hope he’ll think about it. Not opening a pop-up, but a change of pace, a change in his life. I’ve been telling him for far too long that he works horrifically long hours, that he needs time to de-stress. I’m obviously a big part of his life, and he enjoys travelling and his art, but work tends to dominate. I appreciate his career has paid for this house, for our nice things and enviable holidays, but how much more stuff do we really need?

‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘shouldn’t we be eating cake?’

‘I cancelled the appointments. I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck over at Tabi’s, but I brought some coffee and walnut cake back for later.’

He pauses for a moment, and then nods. ‘I’m pleased about that, Arielle,’ he says. ‘Look.’ He pulls a pained face. ‘I’ve been thinking about this, about the wedding.’

Uh-oh.

‘I mean, is it all worth it? All this money that we’re spending, all this fuss?’

My heart skips a beat and I pull away from Piers. I feel sick. Does he not want to marry me? Or, worse, does he want to break up with me? Is that what the red eyes were for? He’s done some upsetting soul-searching and we’re through. He’s realised that the consultant was right and he needs to make changes in his life, and that the change is getting rid of me.

‘Hey! Not like that, until death do us part, remember?’

‘We’re not married though,’ I say sulkily. ‘That only applies when you marry me.’

‘Well, we will be!’

‘So you want to marry me then?’ I ask in a tiny voice, which causes Piers to shoot me
that
look, the look that suggests I’m clearly bonkers for doubting him, for doubting us.

‘Of course, you idiot! I’m just saying that 2010 is a long way away, and I’m not sure I can wait that long.’

‘Piers!’

He’s saying all the right sweet things, but something sounds odd to me. Where has this come from?

‘I mean it, Arielle. Why don’t we forget tastings, guest lists and favours, and let’s elope? Your dress is sorted, and I have a billion suits I could wear. Why don’t we just get hitched?’

‘Where’s this come from?’

I reach for Atlas, who was about to start scratching the sofa, and I put him on my knee. He starts purring extra loud at this attention, which is gorgeous, until I notice that he’s created a pull in my grey and cream spotty Alexander McQueen pencil skirt. Bugger.

And really, where has it come from? Piers was the one who wanted the big wedding, who insisted that we had to invite his colleagues and clients so that he could make an impression. He wanted the fuss, the fancy party; I wanted something more intimate, something low-key but luxurious.

‘It’s just that when I couldn’t get hold of you, I panicked. It made me realise that I don’t want to wait to get married. Is that so bad?’

He pushes his hand through his hair again, and sighs loudly.
Now
I really want to get the scissors out and snip some hair off.

‘No,’ I say softly, trying to think this through. Something has clearly rattled him. Did the explosion cause him to panic that much, or is it something else? I was practically on top of the damn gas explosion, but I’m not clamouring to marry Piers tomorrow. Is this about his hospital appointment? Is he lying to me?

‘Let’s think about this,’ I say slowly, wondering how I can get the consultant to speak to me and think that I’m Piers wanting to go over his results again. Maybe Ob could help? ‘We’ve already put a big deposit down on Tharnham, and we’d have to start over again, even if we elope.’

‘Money’s no object, you know that.’

And this is why sometimes Piers is chasms apart from me. The deposit on Tharnham would be some people’s entire wedding budget; most people would kill to get married there. He’s happy (and can afford) to, throw it all away because he’s changed his mind. I love the romance of what he’s saying, that he doesn’t want to wait to marry me, but the practical side of me – ha, who knew I had one – finds it a bit wrong.

I pull a face. ‘Let’s just sleep on it, OK?’

‘Whatever you think.’

I pause for a moment, considering my odd morning. ‘And you promise that there’s nothing wrong with you, other than stress?’

He pulls me that look again. OK, conversation over.