I suck in a breath, all slow and sexy, pushing my fingers into the soft skin of her neck. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, you didn’t. My mistake.”
I decide to let her go now. I’ve had my fix, and there’s no point in pushing her too far. That will only see her telling her mum, her mum telling my mum, and me getting grounded.
“My gran says people can only make you feel bad about yourself if you let them. And I’m not letting you, Robert,” she says, holding her chin up high.
Just when I think she can’t get any cuter, she goes and comes out with something like that. As soon as my hands fall from her neck, she scurries away, and I turn to watch her go.
All I can hope for is that one day I’ll be the kind of guy who can make her stay.
Part Three
Cruelty Is the Symptom of a Deeper Cause
Nine
This has been the longest week of my life, hands down. Robert’s been sulking ever since I deleted those pictures he took of me. Every time I walk into a room and he’s there, I just want to rush straight back out. He’s hardly said a word to me since our confrontation. My copy of The Oresteia that I threw at him is still lying on the grass in the back garden, a silent, unmoved relic of what happened.
For some reason I can’t bring myself to go out and pick it up. I don’t want to remember how it felt when I discovered that Robert is fixated on me in a way that goes far beyond his past bullying. My heart was in flutters, but my stomach was all twists and turns.
I try to make sure Sasha’s with me whenever I’m at home, so at least her chatter can cover up the tension that radiates between me and Robert. I think she’s noticed, but she hasn’t said anything.
It’s Thursday morning now, and I’m getting ready for my final shift of the week at Alistair’s. I don’t have to be there until lunchtime, so I’ve got This Morning on the telly as I work through folding my clean laundry.
Right now Molly Willis is on, singing a sexy-sex song that’s probably a bit inappropriate for this time of day. I can’t seem to get away from this pop star. When the song ends and the camera pans back to Phillip Schofield, the presenter has a look on his face like he’s trying to hold in his laughter.
I wish Phillip Schofield was my dad. He seems like he’d be the perfect combination of caring and fun.
When your dad is absent from your life, you tend to have an obsession with imagining what it would be like if random celebrities were your father.
He does a short interview with Molly, asking her if the current rumours about her being pregnant are true. She’s wearing big purple sunglasses, so you can’t really see her face properly.
“Oh, Phillip,” she says, “I think gorging on a roast beef dinner last week was what led to those rumours. Girls do get bloated every once in a while, you know.”
I don’t know what it is about the way she says it, perhaps it’s the set of her mouth, but she seems kind of sad, despite the fact that she’s smiling.
Phillip laughs and ties up the interview, complimenting her on her current number-one single and music video, which has gone viral online. He also tells her that she doesn’t look at all bloated today. Her toned stomach shows just above her black hot pants.
I finish up my laundry folding and go grab my things for work before locking up the house and heading for the Tube station. When I get to the restaurant, it’s a crazy rush. Danni called in sick two hours ago, so we’re short staffed. I barely have time to breathe as I scurry from table to table, taking orders, delivering food, asking if people need anything else, etc.
My waitress uniform is practically sticking to me by the time my shift ends at seven-thirty. It’s kind of unfair of Alistair to have his staff wearing such tight black skirts during the summer heat. Then again, the restaurant is probably too high-end for T-shirts and shorts.
I’m so glad to be finished with work that I practically run out of the place, totally ready for a nice dinner and an early night. It’s only when I get to the Tube station that I realise I walked out of Baccino’s without my handbag. Reaching inside my skirt pocket, I’m relieved to find that I have my oyster card and my mobile phone on me at least. I’m too tired to go back to the restaurant for my bag, so I decide I’ll just leave it there until Monday.
With this all sorted out in my head, I continue on my way to the platform. However, as I’m waiting for the Tube to come, another unfortunate realisation hits me. The restaurant had been so busy that I completely forgot to have my usual four o’clock break when I take my insulin and grab a bite to eat. I mostly only realise this because of the feeling of sickness that hits me.
Normally I’d find a bathroom somewhere to take my medicine, but since the travel kit I brought with me today is sitting in the handbag I forgot back at the restaurant, that option is out. The feeling of illness comes upon me so quickly that I don’t have the energy to go back for it, but since I have my main supply at home, I decide to keep going and get the Tube. I can hold out for an hour – I hope.
The rumbling of the train approaching only manages to increase my anxiety. A second later someone steps up close beside me. Turning my head, I see it’s Robert, making his way home from work the same as me.
“Lana,” he says in a low voice, nodding his head.
The relief of seeing him hits me fast, and I momentarily forget all about us not talking. “Oh, Robert, thank God,” I breathe, throwing my arms around him.
His face moves in my hair, and I feel him inhale sharply. “Uh, not that I’m complaining or anything, but are you okay?” he asks gently, taken by surprise by my hug.
I pull away. “Yes, no, I mean, I’m just glad to see you.”
An expression of longing shows on his face for only a moment before he wipes it clear. He glances at me now and says, “You don’t look so good.”
He presses his hand to my lower back as we step onto the carriage.
There aren’t any seats left, barely even enough room to stand, so I lean my shoulder against Robert’s chest as he holds onto one of the safety bars beside him.
“I’ll be okay once I get home. It was really busy at Baccino’s today, and I forgot to take my insulin. Then I was so tired that I forgot to grab my bag before I left. So now I just really need to get home so that I can take it and get something to eat. Basically, I feel like shit.” My words all tumble out too fast.
His face gets softer as he pulls me close so that I’m leaning on him properly and he’s taking all the weight of my body. “Jesus, are you sure you’ll be okay? You’re sweating quite a bit.”
He runs his thumb over my temple.
I give him a half-hearted smile. “That might just be the heat.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, eyes travelling over my features. “Does this kind of thing happen a lot?”
“Never. I never forget my insulin. Making sure my blood sugar is good is a big priority for me. It’s just been a really tiring week.” I turn my face so it’s resting in the crook of his neck. I feel too sick to be nervous about getting close to him now, needing the comfort of his strong body more than I need to be angry about the pictures he took. He goes tense and then relaxes as he brings his arms around me.
“Is that my fault?” he asks against my hair.
“Partly,” I tell him honestly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have deleted your pictures. That was awful of me. I was just so flustered by them – shocked.” I was also, in the very, very back of my mind, flattered beyond belief. But I’ll never admit that out loud.
“Hush now,” he says, petting my hair softly. “We can talk about it later. Let’s just focus on getting you home.”
I close my eyes and let him hold me, taking advantage of his closeness to breathe in his scent. I’m almost certain he’s doing the same thing. He’s got one arm over my shoulders, the other along the curve of my spine, just nearly brushing my bottom, but not quite. I move my nose against his neck and he pulls me tighter, his who
le arm like a vice around my waist now. I sink my arms around him, too, and a low rumble emanates from his throat.
I think I feel him touch his lips to my hair, but I can’t be sure. The journey seems like it goes on forever, not only because I feel sick, but also because I’m so completely aware of each time Robert moves his body, bringing some new sensation to our embrace. His hip touching my hip, his cheek on my cheek. I think we both pretend to adjust ourselves just so we can tentatively touch in new places.
People get on and off at each stop, but I feel so thoroughly surrounded by him that I hardly notice. We make the changeover at Kings Cross, Robert keeping his arm around me the whole time. We’re only a few stops from Finchley when suddenly the train comes to a halt in the middle of a black tunnel. My eyes widen in fear as I glance at Robert. There’s obviously been some kind of a delay. I just hope it’s not a long one. He takes my chin, making me look into his eyes as he rubs my lower back to soothe me as the driver’s voice comes across the speakers.
“May I have your attention, please? There’s been a temporary signal failure on the line. I’d like to apologise for the delay. We hope to be up and running again as soon as possible.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s going to be okay, Lana. Just relax,” he tells me, his deep voice doing something to the pit of my stomach.
I should get sick more often, if only to bring out Robert’s caring side like this.
“God, I’m so glad you were at the station at the same time as me,” I whisper to him. “This would have been hell if I’d been on my own.”
“Well, you’re not on your own and you’re going to be home soon,” he says soothingly.
A moment of silence ensues, with the passengers around us grumbling over the delay. We’re in a spot where you can’t get any signal on your phone, too, which makes it that much worse. Nobody can call people and let them know they’re running late.
“I love how you smell,” Robert says, breaking our quiet moment. He turns his head and bends down a little so he can run his nose along my neck. It feels so good that I can’t even summon up the energy to protest.
All I do is mumble, “Mm-hmm,” keeping my eyes closed, as if that will allay my embarrassment.
In the end it takes about fifteen minutes for us to be up and running again. When we get out at our stop, Robert immediately hails a taxi to bring us the short distance to the house. He pays the driver and then helps me to the front door before surprising me by scooping me up into his arms and carrying me upstairs to my room.
Laying me gently down onto the bed, he asks, “Where do you keep your medicine?”
A wave of dizziness comes over me as my head sinks into the pillow. “First drawer,” I answer drowsily, pointing to the nightstand.
He pulls it open and rummages around before he finds my kit as I slip off my shoes and unzip the side of my high-waisted pencil skirt.
Robert sits beside me on the bed, looking lost as he peers at an insulin pen. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, as though this is the first time in his life he’s felt bewildered.
“I can do it,” I reassure him tiredly. “Will you please just help me out of this skirt?”
When sickness hits, I have no space left in my brain for modesty. Right now I just want to feel better, and if that means Robert seeing me in my underwear, then so be it.
He bites on his bottom lip. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
Leaning forward, he puts an arm around my waist, lifting me easily as he pulls the tight skirt down over my hips and off me. Sitting there in my knickers, which are thankfully a nice black pair, I undo the last few buttons on my blouse and pull it up my stomach. Then I set to work on testing my blood sugar.
Robert watches in fascination when I prick my finger and a drop of blood seeps out. His eyes drift to my underwear and bare skin every once in a while, his breathing shallow. Jeez, is he turned on by this cold and clinical process? By me sitting here sick, tired, and sweaty in my bed? If he is, then I don’t understand the appeal.
I look up at him as I’m readying the insulin pen, and his eyes are fixed on the old needle marks on my belly. When he notices me looking, his eyes grow warm and he reaches out, running his hot palm tenderly over the scars. We stay locked in the moment for a while, him touching my marks and me watching him. I’ve never had anyone caress me like this before. He just seems so reverent.
“I have to take my insulin now,” I whisper, breaking whatever it is we’re doing. He nods and removes his hand from my stomach.
I think he winces slightly when I finally get around to sticking the needle in. Once I’m done, I clean up and put everything away before falling back into my pillows.
“Do you need to eat now?” Robert asks after a couple minutes of silence.
“Yes,” I answer softly. “Could you make me something? It doesn’t have to be anything fancy…”
He cuts me off. “I’ll make us dinner. You don’t move a muscle — just stay here and relax.”
Standing, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. He leaves, and my heart is going crazy as I relive those moments on the Tube, our hesitant but desperate need to touch one another. Using my temporary sickness to be close. God, what a mess we make.
A few minutes later I can smell chicken and garlic wafting up from the kitchen. I climb from my bed and go into my en-suite, throwing on my nightie and washing my face and hands with some cold water and soap. When I get back to my bed, I crawl under the covers.
“Ah, naughty! I told you not to move,” says Robert as he returns to the room a little later, having changed out of his work suit and into a T-shirt and jeans. He’s carrying two plates containing what looks to be a chicken stir fry.
“I had to freshen up,” I reply, before adding, “That looks and smells delicious, Robert. I didn’t know you could cook.”
He shrugs and grins. “I get by. Here, eat up.” He hands me the plate and a fork before seating himself beside me on the bed with his own dinner.
I eat the food slowly, still a little bit shaken from my slip-up earlier. As I told Robert, I rarely forget my insulin, if ever. My mum has always drilled it into me to have a regime and stick to it. I mean, she’s been calling me every night since I got here, and every night our conversation ends with her asking if I’ve been taking care of myself and eating properly.
I need to figure out a way to be around Robert that doesn’t mess with my head, making me forget myself, because God help me, I do want to be around him. Things move in slow motion when I’m with him, and at times it can be totally euphoric. I’ll watch his hand move, anticipating if he’ll try to touch me. Or I’ll notice him shift his body nearer to mine, until he can’t get any closer.
Robert’s fork clanks onto his plate, disrupting my thoughts. He’s already finished his dinner, and I’m only halfway through mine.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, tenderly brushing my messy hair away from my face.
“Yes, it just takes a while for me to adjust after a scare like that,” I reply.
He nods, his brown eyes consuming me. He scoots close and puts his arm around my shoulders, giving them a soft squeeze. “You certainly gave me a scare. I don’t like seeing you sick.”
“It goes with the territory,” I tell him. “I need to be so careful all the time. It’s exhausting.”
“You can’t let loose,” he adds.
“Exactly,” I say, eating one more forkful of the stir fry before setting it aside.
“My behaviour this week can’t have helped,” he goes on.
“It didn’t, but I’m at fault, too. I shouldn’t have deleted those pictures. Even if I don’t like being the focus of them, or the method you used to capture them, they were yours, and I destroyed them.”
He smiles wistfully at the loss and turns his head down to mine. “Well, I can always take more.” His thumb brushes back and forth over a tiny spot of skin on my shoulder.
My heart speeds up. “
What do you want with pictures like that, anyway? They don’t make any sense.”
“They make sense to me. Big scenes are all well and good, but I’m a details man. It’s the small things that fascinate me.”
“That’s very…artistic. I’ve never thought of you as an artist, but now that I think of it, you kind of are. The way you use a camera is different – unique. You don’t take shots like most people do, all plain and straightforward. Your stuff is always from a certain angle another person wouldn’t think to shoot from.” I pause to see him sucking in my words like they’re the essence of life. “As I said, they’re artistic,” I finish, feeling self-conscious now.
His smile spreads wide across his face as he squeezes my shoulders tighter. “Ah, you see me, little red. I wasn’t sure if you did, but you do.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, with Sasha’s name flashing on the screen. I pull away from Robert to answer it. “Hey, Sash, what’s up?”
There’s noise and music in the background. It sounds like she’s in a pub or a restaurant. “Hey, kid, you home safe and sound?”
“Yeah, I’m in bed, actually. I had a rough day health-wise, so I’m getting an early night.”
At this Robert lets out a low purr and begins rubbing my shoulder. I elbow him to shut up.
“What was that?” Sasha asks.
“Uh, just a movie I’m watching on my laptop.”
“Oh, okay. Well, are you all right? You don’t need me to come home, do you?”
“No, I’m good. A night’s sleep and I’ll be right as rain.”
Robert chuckles now and purrs again. I elbow him harder. He begins kissing my collarbone and I melt.
“Cool. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, but the guys at work organised an impromptu night out, and I got roped into coming along. I’ll be home late, if I don’t end up sleeping on someone’s couch.”
“Okay, Sash, enjoy yourself,” I say.
“Sleep well, kid,” she says before hanging up.