‘Morning,’ I chirp, sliding onto a seat next to her and helping myself to the pot of tea.
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Nan retorts to my greeting, no morning or hey.
‘Wouldn’t bother with what?’
‘The tea.’ She turns her nose up at her mug. ‘Tastes like gnats’ piss.’
The teapot clatters against the cup I’m attempting to pour into, and Miller laughs from across the kitchen. I cast a sideways glance, finding him looking divine in a three-piece suit, this one charcoal grey, his shirt pale blue, his tie matching his shirt. He looks delicious, all groomed, and by the looks of things, ready for work. Perfect. I find his eyes and smile. ‘Twenty-four-carat gold treasure, right here.’
I’m taking the piss. He knows it but disregards my sarcasm and joins us at the table. ‘You’re too kind, Mrs Taylor.’
‘How was your shower?’ she fires back, and the damn teapot clashes with the cup again, so hard I’m certain I must have cracked the porcelain. I swing my wide eyes in her direction, finding that impish grin tickling her lips. The minx!
‘Hot.’ Miller drags the single word out forever, and now I’m swinging my even wider eyes across the table to him. I knew it. He’s fighting a grin. These two are intolerable when put together, getting a thrill from winding each other up. But they are also beautifully loving towards each other.
‘You should’ve had Olivia in to show you how to work the temperature knob.’ Back my head goes to Nan. She’s toying with the handle of her mug, fiddling thoughtfully, playing all naïve. Double minx!
‘I did,’ Miller replies casually, mirroring Nan’s fiddling fingers with his own mug.
‘I knew it!’ Nan gasps. ‘You little devil!’
I give up with the head-swinging business. Neither is taking any notice of my evident shock and my neck’s hurting. I sit back in my chair and let them play their game, a warmth filling me to the brim. Seeing her so alive and vivacious is doing wonders for my current frame of mind.
Miller flashes Nan a stunning smile, bashing down her attempt at a scornful look, and he shrugs. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Taylor. I can’t apologise for loving her to the point it’s painful when I’m not touching her.’
‘Little devil,’ she repeats quietly, her curls swishing around her ears when she shakes her head. ‘You little bloody devil.’
‘Are we done winding each other up?’ I ask, reaching for the cornflakes. ‘Or should I settle in for the show?’
‘I’m done,’ Miller says, taking the liberty of pouring the milk on my flakes. ‘And you, Mrs Taylor?’
‘Yes, all done.’ She takes a sip of her tea and winces. ‘You’re a dreamboat, Miller Hart, but you can’t make tea for shit.’
‘I concur,’ I add, lifting my cup to him and screwing my face up. ‘It’s bad. So, so bad.’
‘Noted,’ he grumbles. ‘I’ve never claimed to be an expert tea maker.’ That mischief creeps back onto his face, making me put my cup down slowly, warily. ‘Ask me about worshipping,’ he suggests.
I cough all over my flakes, drawing Nan’s immediate interest.
‘Hmmm,’ she hums, drilling old navy eyes into me. ‘What’s worshipping?’
I refuse to look at her, centring my attention on my bowl.
‘I’m very good at it,’ Miller declares cockily.
‘You mean sex?’
‘Oh, give me strength!’ I grab my spoon and plunge it into my bowl, taking a huge mouthful of my breakfast.
‘I call it worshipping.’
‘So you really do worship the ground she walks on,’ Nan asks on a smile.
‘Oh, I really do.’
I’m dying on the spot, praying for divine intervention to save me. Impossible. Both of them. ‘Please stop,’ I beg.
‘OK,’ they say in unison, grinning like a pair of idiots across the table at each other.
‘Good. I need to go to the supermarket.’
‘But I like doing the shopping,’ Nan whines, an episode of the sulks on the horizon. ‘You’ll get it all wrong.’
‘Then write me a list,’ I counter, solving the problem in an instant. ‘You’re not leaving this house.’
‘I’ll take you, Olivia.’ Miller reaches over and shifts the sugar bowl a fraction to the right, then the milk a tad to the left. ‘And it isn’t up for discussion,’ he adds, flicking me a warning look.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, not backing down. I don’t care what tone he uses or what looks he flashes. ‘You can stay and watch Nan.’
‘I need to go to Ice.’
I look at him, knowing he doesn’t mean to actually do any work.
‘I don’t need watching, for the love of God!’ Nan squawks.
‘I beg to differ!’ I snap. It’s bad enough being rubbed up the wrong way by Miller. Nan can quit while she’s ahead.
‘She’s right, Mrs Taylor. You shouldn’t be alone.’
I’m delighted when I see Miller flash Nan a warning look that matches the one he’s just aimed at me, and even more delighted when she doesn’t kick up a stink. ‘Fine,’ she mutters, ‘but you can’t keep me prisoner forever.’
‘Just until you’re feeling fit,’ I appease her. I show my appreciation for Miller’s support with a quick squeeze of his knee under the table, which he ignores, surprising me.
‘I’ll take you shopping,’ he says again, standing from the table and collecting some breakfast things.
That appreciation vanishes in the blink of an eye. ‘Noooo, you’re staying with Nan.’
‘Noooo, I’m taking you to the supermarket,’ he bats back, unaffected by the warning that was rampant in my order and intended to be. ‘I’ve spoken to Gregory. He’ll be here soon, as will Ted.’
I deflate in my chair. Nan snorts her annoyance but remains quiet, and Miller nods his approval at his own announcement. He’s got it all worked out. This isn’t good. I can’t buy a pregnancy test with Miller tailing me.
Shit . . .
After giving Gregory the rundown on Nan and ensuring all her pills are laid out so he doesn’t need to bother with instructions, I’m guided to Miller’s car by my nape and placed neatly in the passenger seat. He seems a little tetchy after taking a call while I spoke with Gregory, all signs of the easy-going man at the breakfast table gone. As ever, it’s like he was never with me in the first place and while the gaps in his signature aloofness are becoming more frequent, his usual habits are muscling their way back. I sense fiddling with the temperature controls won’t be disregarded today, so I let the window down instead. Miller puts the stereo on, killing the difficult silence, and I sit back and let Paul Weller keep me company. I call the house twice en route, each time hearing Nan in the background squawking something about being a whittle arse. She’ll just have to tolerate the fuss.
I start forming a plan in my head, plotting and scheming trying to figure out how best to get a few moments alone in Tesco so I can buy what I need to either put my mind at rest or send it into a faster tailspin. There’s only one way.
After Miller parks and we’ve collected a trolley, we get swallowed up in the chaos of Tesco. We make our way up and down the aisles, me armed with the list that Nan wrote, Miller looking all stressed. I can only conclude that the chaos of our surroundings is the cause. There are abandoned trollies everywhere and the shelves are a royal mess. I inwardly laugh, having a mental bet with myself that he’s fighting the urge to tidy all the shelves. But when his mobile rings from his inside pocket and he takes it out and scowls harder at the screen before rejecting the call, I think maybe it’s not just the pandemonium of Tesco that’s bothering him. I don’t ask who’s calling him because I don’t want to know, and, in fact, I’m still mentally plotting our separation.
‘I need to get Nan some bits from the toiletries aisle,’ I say, feigning casualness to within an inch of my life. ‘You take this and get the last few bits.’ I hand him the list that I’ve cunningly added some items to – items at the opposite end of the supermarket.
&n
bsp; ‘We’ll go together,’ he replies without hesitation, scuppering my plan.
‘It’ll be quicker if we separate,’ I say offhand. ‘I can see you hate being here.’ I tactically use his discomfort to my advantage and head off before he can come back at me, glimpsing over my shoulder to check he’s not in pursuit. I find him staring down at the list with the biggest scowl of all.
Rounding the corner, I take off fast, looking up at the signs above the aisles to find what I’m looking for. It’s only a few moments of scurrying until I land in the correct aisle and I’m staring at box after box of pregnancy tests – all locked away in individual Perspex outer boxes – a stupid security measure. ‘Great,’ I grumble, reaching for the first that guarantees a rapid and accurate result. Flipping it over, I scan the print as I start to walk away, but gasp when I collide with something.
‘Sorry!’ I blurt, the box tumbling from my hand. The plastic casing creates a deafening clatter when it meets the floor, the box jumping around at my feet. And another pair of feet, too. Feet I don’t recognise. I don’t like the chill creeping up my spine, nor the sense of vulnerability that suddenly engulfs me.
‘My apologies.’ The man’s voice is posh and he’s wearing an expensive suit. He’s bending down to pick up the box before I can register his face, and he spends a few seconds resting on his haunches, looking at the pregnancy test, spinning it in his hand repeatedly while humming his interest. I haven’t seen his face yet, only the back of his head as he remains crouched at my feet. I definitely don’t recognise the grey-flecked hair, yet something is screaming that he knows me. He had every intention to be in this aisle with me – the aisle mainly full of women’s toiletries. I may be in a busy supermarket, people everywhere, but I can feel danger thick in the air around us.
The stranger lifts his face as he rises. His eyes are bordering black and harbouring all sorts of unspoken threats. He has a scar that runs from the centre of his right cheek all the way down to the corner of his mouth, and his thin lips curve into a fake smile, deepening it. It’s a smile that’s intended to lead me into a false sense of security.
‘I believe this is yours.’ He hands me the box, and I will my hands to stop shaking when I take it. I know I’ve failed in my attempts when he raises a sharp eyebrow, still keeping a hold of the box as I accept, probably absorbing my trembles.
My eyes drop, no longer able to meet the harshness of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ I gulp back my fear and sidestep him, but he moves with me, blocking my path. I clear my throat, anything to get the strong assertiveness I’m desperately searching for and that I desperately hope fools him. ‘Excuse me.’ I step to the other side this time, and so does he, letting out a little chuckle.
‘We don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, do we?’ He moves in, getting way too close to my personal space, doubling my fretfulness.
‘No,’ I agree, attempting again to dodge him and, yet again, getting blocked. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly lift my eyes until they meet his face. He’s the epitome of evil. It’s screaming from every single fibre of his ominous being, and it has me wilting on the spot. He smiles down at me and reaches out, taking a stray tendril of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. I freeze, immobilised by terror.
He hums thoughtfully . . . darkly . . . sinisterly. Then he dips and brings his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sweet girl,’ he whispers. ‘We finally meet.’ I jump back on a gasp, my hand flying to my hair and brushing away the traces of his breath while he remains slightly dipped, a malevolent sneer pulling at the edges of his thin lips as he regards me closely.
‘Olivia?’ I hear my name being spoken in the distance, unease in the familiar tone, and watch as the stranger straightens and casts his eyes over my shoulder, that smirk widening. Spinning on the spot, every breath leaves my lungs when I see Miller striding quickly towards me, his face straight but a wealth of emotion in his clear eyes – relief, fear, caution . . . anger.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, energy surging through my dead muscles and firing my legs into action, taking me a few paces forward until I’m hiding in his chest, my arms bunched between our bodies. He’s quivering. Everything about this situation is shrieking hazard.
Miller’s chin is resting on the top of my head, one arm holding me tightly against him, and there’s a stone-cold silence amid the hype of activity around us, like we’re stuck in a bubble and no one except the three of us are aware of the peril and hostility polluting the supermarket air. I don’t have to look to know he’s still behind me; I can feel his presence as well as I can feel Miller trying to squeeze some comfort into me, and the hardness of Miller’s tense muscles against me is a clue. So I remain concealed in my comfort zone.
It feels like a lifetime before I feel Miller relax a little, and I chance a peek, looking over my shoulder. The man is strolling down the aisle, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, browsing the shelves like he frequents the supermarket daily. But just like Miller, he looks out of place.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asks, placing me at arm’s length and scanning my blank face. ‘Did he touch you?’
I shake my head, thinking it very unwise to tell him anything that could set my human bomb ticking. I don’t think I need to, anyway. Miller knows that man and he knows what I’ve just encountered without my confirmation. ‘Who is he?’ I finally ask the question that I really don’t want to know the answer to, and if I go by the pained look on Miller’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me. Or confirm it. He’s the immoral bastard.
I’m not sure whether Miller sees me make my silent conclusion or whether he simply doesn’t want to settle it, but my question goes unanswered and he’s quickly pulling his phone from his pocket. One push of a button and a few seconds later, Miller’s talking down the line. ‘Time’s up,’ he says simply, before hanging up and making a grab for my hand.
But he pauses his urgent string of movements when something catches his attention.
Something in my hand.
Every defeated bone in my body gives up on me. I make no attempt to hide what I’m holding. I make no attempt to conjure up an excuse. He’s blank, just gazing down at the box for the longest time before he eventually lifts empty blues to my watery eyes. ‘Oh Jesus fucking Christ,’ he exhales, the tips of his thumb and index finger meeting his forehead, his eyes clenching shut.
‘I don’t think the morning-after pill worked.’ I choke over my words, knowing I don’t need to elaborate and that he won’t demand it.
His hand rakes through his waves, pulling them all back from his face, and his cheeks puff out, adding to the display of shaken actions. ‘Fuck!’
I flinch as a result of his curse, my earlier terror being replaced by nerves. ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.’
‘Fuck!’ Miller seizes my nape and pushes me towards the end of the aisle, where I find our full trolley waiting. He chucks the box in carelessly, takes the handle of the trolley with his free hand, and starts leading us to the checkout.
My movements are automatic, my muscles working without instruction, maybe appreciating the delicate situation or maybe noting Miller’s explosive mood. I’m placing things on the conveyor belt at the checkout, quiet and wary, as Miller repositions everything according to how it should be. Leaving him to it, I go to the other end and begin packing the bags, but I’m spared that task, too, when Miller takes up position beside me and begins to remove and repack everything. So I stand like a spare part while he does his thing. His jaw is a constant source of ticking, his hand movements fast but ever precise as he shoves our buys into carrier bags before dumping the full ones in the trolley. He’s trying to restore some calm into his crumbing world.
After paying a dopey-eyed cashier, the trolley and I are reclaimed and we’re being pushed on firmly until we escape the confines of the bustling supermarket. But Miller’s unease doesn’t lessen, though I’m uncertain of the main cause now – me and my shocking revelation or that creepy man and his unnerv
ing surprise visit.
At that thought, my eyes start darting everywhere.
‘He’s gone,’ Miller says to the open air before him, just as we reach his car. ‘Get in.’
I do as I’m bid without complaint, letting Miller load the boot of his car alone. It’s not long before we’re speeding out of the car park and joining the main road, the atmosphere unbearable, but there’s no escaping it. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, suddenly worried that he’s no intention of taking me home.
‘To Ice.’
‘But Nan,’ I argue quietly. ‘You can take me home first.’ I’ve no desire to accompany Miller to Ice. I’d rather commence with my favourite pastime of late and wedge my head a bit farther into the sand.
‘Wrong,’ he fires back resolutely, leaving no scope for negotiation. I know that tone. I know this behaviour. ‘We haven’t got time to fuck about, Olivia.’
‘Taking care of Nan isn’t fucking about!’
‘Gregory will take care of her.’
‘I want to take care of her.’
‘And I want to take care of you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I haven’t got time for your sass right now!’ He pulls a hard right and screeches down a side street. ‘None of this is going away unless I make it.’
My heart rate slows. I don’t like the determination that’s written all over his hard features or lining his gravelly voice. I should be feeling a sense of relief that he’s full of fortitude to fix things. Problem is, I’m not sure how he intends to do that, but the little voice in my head is telling me I might not like it. And where will he start, anyway? Give me five minutes and I’ll produce a list of the shit to be dealt with, but then we go back to our original problem: What takes priority? Something tells me that my suspected pregnancy won’t be at the top of that list. Nor will the appearance of my mother.
No. Everything is telling me that our encounter with the ominous guy in the supermarket is reigning supreme on our list of shit. The immoral bastard. The man who Miller has been hiding me from. The man who holds the key to Miller’s chains.