True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (19 page)

‘That’s not surprising.’  She takes in a deep breath.  ‘He had a hard time.  I don’t blame him for wanting to forget.’

While she drifts away into memory, staring at the Plasticine and squeezing it over and over again, I begin to wonder exactly how I’m going to keep her in this conversation.

‘He told me you saved his life,’ I venture.

The fingers come to a halt.  Convinced I’m about to be told to mind my own business, I’m on the verge of apologising when she looks up, smiles and leans forwards.

‘I wasn’t that old,’ she explains, her voice lowered.  ‘Eight, I think.  He was sleeping in the outhouse.’  She checks the garden, making sure the boys are still otherwise engaged.  ‘You know about that?’

I nod.

She nods back.

‘It was freezing cold out there.’  Dropping the lump of Plasticine, she begins to move an index finger about on the table top, as if tracing the outline of the rooms.  ‘There was a door from the kitchen.  Dad locked it at night, but I knew where he left the key.  Every now and then, usually when he was pissed, I’d sneak a bit of food out to Dan.’

She pauses, waiting for my reaction.

‘I know they didn’t feed him.  He told me.’

Her eyes widen slightly and she smiles again.  Evidently satisfied that I’ve been allowed a handful of confidences, she presses on with the story.

‘He used to pretend to be asleep, so I just left the food next to him.  A bit of bread.  A biscuit.  Anything I could find.  He never said thank you but I didn’t care.  He didn’t need to.’  She checks the garden again.  ‘But that one time, I just knew there was something wrong.  He was on top of the covers and there was this weird smell … like metal.’  She pauses.  ‘I tried to wake him up … and then I saw what he’d done ...’  Her voice wavers.  She’s deep in the past now, her eyes unfocussed.

‘You don’t have to tell me.’  I lay a hand on her arm.

She shakes her head.

‘I want to.’

‘But I’m a stranger.’

‘For now.’  She watches me for a moment or two, her bottom lip trembling.  ‘I’ve never talked about this before, not even with my husband.’

Watching me some more, she waits for a sign that she can unburden herself.  With a slight nod, I give it to her.

‘I called the ambulance.  I had to get it done before Dad woke up.  God knows what he would have done if he knew …  And then I got a cloth and tried to make it stop, but it wouldn’t stop.  I thought he was going to die.’  She stares at something on the table top.  ‘They took him away.  That was the last time I saw him, for years.  He never came back and we never got to visit.’

She checks the boys again, the ghost of a smile playing across her face.  It doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘So what happened to you?’

Pulling her arm out of my touch, she leans back.  ‘Me?’

‘Your dad?  Was he the same with you?’

‘Nothing quite so bad.  With Dan out of the picture, I was his next target. He was always more careful, but it didn’t stop him.’  She levels her gaze at me.  ‘I felt the back of his hand.’

‘And Sophie?’

She laughs quietly.

‘Sophie was the apple of his eye.  The special one.  He never touched her.  To this day, she won’t accept what he was really like.  I didn’t even go to his funeral.  She didn’t talk to me for years.’

‘But you’re talking now?’

‘A little.  But we don’t talk about … that.’  She chews at her lip.  ‘Sophie’s not well.  She wanted to get back in touch.  We’ve kind of turned a blind eye to all the crap.’

She frowns, and I decide not to ask any more.  After all, I’ve done the same with my own sister.

‘I heard he’d died.’

‘In his sleep.  Too quick.  Too easy.’  She’s deadly serious now.  ‘He should have suffered more.’

Trailing into silence, she flicks a pencil across the table.

‘Does Dan know that he’s dead?’ I ask.

‘Yes.  And he knows about Mum.’

My forehead furrows.  ‘His mother died?’

‘Liver cirrhosis.  Last summer.  After Dad went, she drank more than ever.  Maybe it was grief.  Maybe it was guilt.  Anyway, she drank herself to death.’

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.  My brain’s far too busy stumbling through the facts and tripping over connections.  Last summer.  When he was miserable.  When a visit from someone sent him over the edge.  When he walked away from his old life forever.

‘It was you,’ I gasp.  ‘You went to see him.’

Her eyes meet mine.

‘I did.  When I knew Mum was on the way out, I traced him.  Somebody contacted him for me, just to see if he was interested, and he said yes.’

‘He agreed to it?’

She nods.  ‘I shouldn’t have left it so long really.  We organised to meet at his office.’

‘So, what went wrong?’

‘I have no idea.  He was on edge right from the start.  It felt like … like he changed his mind as soon as he saw me.  I told him that Dad had died, but he already seemed to know about that.  And then I told him about Mum, and he just flipped, completely lost it, told me to get out.’

‘Why would he do that?’

Turning her mug on the table, she shrugs.

‘I don’t know.  Maybe I reminded him of someone he’d rather forget.  People always say I look like my dad.  That’s my best guess.’

‘Maybe you should try again.’

‘What difference would it make?’  She nods towards my handbag, her eyes clouding with tears.  ‘He ripped up my birthday card.’  She falters, suddenly perplexed.  ‘How did you know I was his sister?’

I hide behind a sip of tea, wondering just how much I can explain, how much I can offer.

‘He’s talked about you.  I think he wants to get back in touch, deep down.’

Her eyes glimmer.

‘He does?’

‘We just need to give him time.’

‘Time?’  She laughs.  ‘It’s already been over twenty-five years.  How much longer is it going to take?’

‘You can’t rush him,’ I interrupt, suddenly panicking.

‘And you never know what’s round the corner,’ she smiles.  ‘Life’s taught me that.  I’ve got my sister back now, and maybe there’s another chance with Dan.’  She drifts away for a few seconds, gazing down at her mug.  When she finally looks up again, she’s suddenly excited.  ‘If I could see him again, if I could just talk to him, maybe I could win him round.’

‘I don’t know.’

I shift about on my chair, uncomfortably aware that the conversation has taken a new, unexpected turn.  I came here to do nothing more than rebuild a bridge, but now that I’ve given her hope, Layla seems determined to push right across it.

‘You could help me,’ she suggests.  ‘You could fix this up.’

Before the next words creep into the open, my heart gives a leap and the sickness returns.  I shouldn’t get involved.  I really shouldn’t.  But I just can’t resist this woman’s pleas, or the desperation in her eyes.

‘I suppose I could,’ I murmur.  ‘Leave it with me.  I’ll see what I can do.’

It’s almost eight o’clock by the time the sat nav brings me back to Lambeth House.  Lunch with Layla and the boys, followed by tea and chat with my parents, followed by rush hour snarl-ups on the way back into London haven’t helped at all.  I glance up at the penthouse, wondering what on Earth’s waiting for me up there.  One seriously pissed off boyfriend is my best guess.  But never mind, I’m just going to have to face the music.  And whatever type of music that turns out to be, it’s all going to be worth it in the end.

The garage doors slide open automatically and I drive into the gloom, only to find a stranger waiting for me: a giant, suited goliath of a man, standing impassively next to the lift door.  Edging the car back into its space, I kill the engine.  As soon as I get out, the goliath approaches me, holding out a huge spade of a hand, palm upwards.  I examine him closely, noting the shaved head, the iron-like eyes, a straight, humourless mouth.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, my voice quivering.

‘Security, miss.  May I have your keys?’

‘What?’  Instinctively, my fingers tighten around the fob.  ‘But this is my car.’

‘And Mr Foster would like me to look after the keys.’

So, that’s it then.  The start of the retribution for today’s wilfulness.  He sends in some sort of Terminator creature to confiscate my freedom.  I should have seen that coming.

‘Where’s Beefy?’ I ask with feigned innocence.

‘He’s been replaced.’

And I should have seen that coming too.

‘So, what’s your name?’

‘You can call me Spencer.’

‘As in your first name?’

‘As in my surname.  I’ll be your bodyguard from now on.  I’ll need those keys.’

As if to make a point, he thrusts the hand forwards.  I take another peek at his eyes and immediately, I know I’m about to get nowhere in this particular stand-off.  With jittering fingers, I give him the fob.

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ I complain.  ‘I’m a grown woman.’

Without responding, he opens the back door of the Jag.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Mr Foster’s waiting for you.  I’m to drive.’

‘But where?’

‘A restaurant, just round the corner.  It won’t take a minute.’

And from the look on his face, I’d say this is a second stand-off I’m not going to win.  Reluctantly, I slide onto the back seat, watching as the door closes and the Terminator takes his place behind the wheel.  The car pulls back out of the garage, taking a left down the embankment and veering into a side street.  Before I can even begin to calm down, we draw to a halt outside a restaurant: nothing swish or posh, just a cosy little local establishment, and Italian judging by the green, white and red flag fluttering above the front door.  Before Spencer can do anything, I’m out of the car and staring in through the window at a clutter of plain wooden tables, all candlelit, some of them taken.  On any other day, this would be the perfect location for a romantic dinner, but right now my stomach is threatening to turn somersaults, especially as there’s no sign of Dan.

‘Miss?’

My bodyguard holds open the door.  With a grimace, I shuffle past him.  As soon as I cross the threshold, I’m met by a small, round, black-haired waiter.

‘Miss Scotton?’ he asks, his Italian accent playing havoc with my name.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Foster’s waiting at the back.’

He guides me through the restaurant, round the edge of a bar and into a back room where there are no tables, only booths: four of them in all, and all of them empty apart for the one at the end where I find Dan studying his mobile, a glass of water in front of him.  Suddenly aware of me, he looks up, puts the phone into his jacket pocket and stands.  Curling an arm around my waist, he smiles with an unnatural warmth and kisses me on the cheek.  Instead of the normal reaction, my body seems to freeze.  It’s clearly all for show.

‘Glad you could join me.’

He signals to a leather bench and I sink onto it.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.

‘Same as you.’

He turns to the waiter.  ‘Acqua.’

With a nod, the waiter scurries off, leaving me alone with Mr Mean and Hot and Moody.  Seating himself opposite me, he stretches an arm across the back of the bench and says nothing.  Instead, he simply rests his gaze on my face, his irises dark and inscrutable.  In a split second, my heart rate seems to triple.  Willing it back into submission, I watch as the waiter returns, leaving a glass of water on the table.  With a shaking hand, I take a sip, place the glass down and look back at Dan.  As if he can see right into the depths of my soul, he examines me, and I shiver, reminding myself that there’s no way he can know where I’ve been, or what I’ve been up to.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.  Somebody needs to break the silence, and it might as well be me.

‘We’re having dinner,’ he replies without a smile, just a cold edge of irritation in his voice.

‘Why here?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re mad at me.’

‘Fucking furious.’

‘So that’s why we’re here then?  Because you don’t trust yourself at home?’

I search his face for a reaction.  All I get is the slightest hint of a frown.

‘Is that what you really think of me?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know what I think of you.’

He tilts his head back and takes in a breath.

‘We’re here because I booked a table.  And for your information, I arranged this meal before you went off on your little jaunt.  It was supposed to be a romantic gesture but it’s obviously been ruined.  I’ve been out of my mind with worry all day.’

‘What was there to worry about?’  I swallow back a lump of nerves.  I hate this deception, but it’s all for the best.  ‘I went to see my parents.’

‘Really?’

He watches me some more.  Instructing my face to behave, I send up a silent prayer that he’ll be satisfied with my answer.

‘Really.  But you probably already know that.’

‘Of course I do.  Satellite tracking systems are wonderful.  Why couldn’t you just tell me you were going to Limmingham?’

Quick.  Come up with an excuse, woman, and make it good.

‘I didn’t want to mention the place.’  Shit.  That’ll have to do.  ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

‘And that’s all you did?’

‘Yes.’  I should leave it at that, but I don’t.  ‘You can call them if you like.’  Bugger.  That really is giving the game away.

‘Why would I need to call them?’

‘You might not believe me.’

‘Of course I believe you.’

I’m not so sure about that.  Maybe a little more explanation is in order.

‘I went to apologise, to sort things out after what happened.’

His eyes examine mine, probing for the slightest tell.

‘You left your mobile at home.’

‘I forgot it.’

‘And you left your bodyguard in a side street.  Did you forget him too?’

‘He was annoying me.’

‘He won’t annoy you any more.  Thanks to your actions, he’s no longer employed.’

We’re interrupted by the waiter’s arrival.  He speaks to Dan, in Italian of course, and Dan replies.  I simply let him get on with it.  I have no idea what’s going on, and even less interest.  Suddenly, I’m seething.  As soon as the waiter leaves us, I launch my attack.

‘You got him sacked?’  I scowl.

‘He didn’t do his job properly.’  With a slip of the mask, he scowls right back at me.

‘He’s got a kid.  He needs the money.’

‘You should have thought of that before you blew him out.’

‘If I’m going to be shadowed by a piece of meat, I want Beefy.  I don’t like the new man.’

‘And I want you protected properly.  Beefy made a mistake.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘Yes, we do.’

I grind to a halt.  I’m not exactly sure he’s talking about Beefy any more.  I definitely need to waft the conversation in another direction.  I’ll make damn sure I get Beefy back some other time.

‘So, are you going to punish me for this?’

‘Punishment only extends to sexual matters.’

‘No spanking then?’

‘Oh, I’d love to give you a spanking.’  He half-smiles.  ‘A proper spanking … on the bench.’

A flutter of want is quickly followed by shot of panic.  As appealing as it is, if he spanks me tonight, then I’ll only end up in some weird sort of trance, spilling the beans left, right and centre.  And there’s no way that’s going to happen.

‘Not tonight.’

‘Why not?’  He cocks his head.  ‘Scared you might say something?’

We’re interrupted again, this time by a waiter carrying two plates of ravioli.  He places the dishes in front of us, takes a bow and scurries away.

‘That was quick.’

‘I’d already ordered.  He just asked if we’re ready for our food.  This is the best ravioli in London.  I thought you’d enjoy it.’  He gives me a small, evidently sarcastic smile.

Grabbing the salt, I liberally sprinkle it over my dinner before slamming the cellar back down and picking up a fork.

Dan eyes me with disapproval.

‘You don’t need salt on it.  You’ll spoil the taste.’

‘It’s already spoilt by you being an arse.’

I stab at a square of ravioli, raise it in front of my mouth and inspect it before taking the plunge.  And oh dear God, it’s amazing.  If I wasn’t currently locked into a battle of wits with a man who’s clearly ready to explode, then I’d be groaning in food ecstasy.

‘I’m not being an arse.’  He spears a square of his own and begins to eat.

‘I’d say you are.  A big, fat controlling arse.’

And that does it.  The façade crumbles.  Confusion and disbelief battle for prime position on his face and when they’re done with jostling, they simply give way to anger.

‘How?’ he demands.

‘You’ve taken my keys.  I’d call that controlling.’

‘I gave you a car,’ he growls.  ‘I gave you freedom.  I also gave you protection.  You don’t get to use one without the other, not at the minute.’

‘Freedom?  How can you call it freedom when you’re spying on me every step of the way?’

He slams down his fork, sits back and glares at the bar.  ‘For fuck’s sake.  Okay, so maybe I’ve started off a little heavy-handed.’

‘Heavy-handed?’  I laugh.  ‘I’d say so.  Normal boyfriends don’t spy on their girlfriends.’

‘I told you.  It’s not spying.’

‘Why can’t you just be normal?’

‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

We glare at each other.  I have no idea what’s going through his mind, but I soften a little, reminding myself that he’s anything but normal, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s hardly his fault.

‘Besides,’ he goes on.  ‘Normal boyfriends don’t have the likes of Ian Boyd to worry about.’

Seriously wishing that Ian Boyd would simply vanish from the face of the Earth, I push out a massive sigh.

‘And I’m not paranoid, so you needn’t start on that.  Let’s stick to the real issue here.’

‘Which is?’ I demand tartly.

‘Trust.’

I just can’t help it.  That’s a rich statement, coming from the king of secrets.  I burst out laughing.

‘Shush.’  He casts me a warning glance.

‘No, I will not shush.  You’re talking to me about trust?’

He picks up his fork and points it at me.  ‘I trusted you, and you threw it straight back in my face.  Now, I don’t know what you’ve been up to …’

Seeing as I’m not prepared to be lectured, I cut him off in mid-flow.

‘I’ve already told you where I went, cloth ears.’

He spears a slice of pasta.  ‘And it doesn’t add up.’

‘There are plenty of things about you that don’t add up.’

‘Such as?’

Oh, where to start?

‘Italy.’

His eyebrows squeeze together.  ‘I told you the truth.’

‘Not all of it.’

‘And what makes you say that?’

‘Women’s intuition.’

‘Good old women’s intuition,’ he sneers.

And that gets me going.  No man on Earth has the right to sneer at women’s intuition.  He’s dicing with death.

‘I tell you what, it’s taken me a while but I’m finally learning to use it.  And I can see it in your eyes when you’re keeping things back.’

He pauses, for just a little too long, his lips straightening.  And then he repeats his words: ‘I told you the truth.’

‘Of course you did … to a point.  You tell the truth, but you just don’t tell all of it.  This happened before, Dan.  I ignored the clues and you were hiding one big fuck-off secret from me.  Well, guess what?  I’m not ignoring the clues any more.’

His eyes widen.  He shakes his head.  And then he shifts his attention to the fork, turning it over, again and again, watching it glint in the light.