Amy is married.
We all went to the ceremony where Amy and her lovely husband Scott tied the knot at Hazlewood Castle last September. I travelled with Mina, and we met Jon there. We drank too much champagne and danced till our legs were sore, and Mina threw up in a bush on the way to the taxi.
More importantly, Amy and Scott seemed happy. They seemed happy then, and they seemed happy in the photos Amy posted on Instagram only last week of the trip they took to celebrate their first anniversary. I can picture the way Scott was looking at her in the photos: like she was the only woman on the planet. I remember thinking that I wanted that. A wave of nausea rises up my throat, and I hold onto Bram for dear life.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but eventually my sobs subside, and he pulls away, leading me to a bench set behind one of the buildings on the harbour front, further away from the bandstand. His eyes meet mine over the top of his sunglasses, steady and serious.
‘You were together?’ he asks, carefully, like I might start crying again at any moment. ‘I feel like a dick for flirting with you now.’
I shake my head. ‘No, we weren’t together. I mean, not officially. We kissed once, and I thought… God, I don’t knowwhat I thought.’ My voice sounds tight through the grip of embarrassment. ‘That he liked me? That we’d end up together? I probably made it all up in my head.’ The words are tumbling out unbidden. I wouldn’t ordinarily admit this stuff even to a friend, let alone someone I’ve only just met, but something about the steady grip of Bram’s hands on my shoulders, or the groove of concern between his brows, makes me feel so safe that I can’t keep it in. ‘He had a nickname for me, told me that we’d go out sometime, just the two of us… I guess I thought he liked me too. But?—’
‘He led you on,’ Bram says simply, cutting me off.
I shake my head. ‘Bram.’
‘Bram nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘That was a shitty thing to do.’
I chance a look back at Jon, who’s still kissing Amy with far too much enthusiasm for a public place. There’s a roll of something in my stomach. Jealousy maybe, or pure rage.
‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. ‘It was.’ I steel myself against the truth– against the years of my life where I didn’t see it. ‘And the worst part is that she’s married– happily, too, or so I thought.’
I feel Bram stiffen as I say it, and he whips back around to look at the two of them making out like teenagers. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel every inch of the fury that rips through him as he watches. It’s in the way his hands leave my shoulders and clench into fists in his lap– the way his breath catches for a second before he blows it out slowly, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
There’s something close to despair in the way that he swears under his breath, and I don’t know why. All I know is that I want to try and make him feel better, just like he’s done for me. Twice now, in fact.
‘Bram?’ I say, softly, and I see his eyes dart back to meet mine behind his sunglasses, wide and wild.
‘Mhmm?’ he mutters through the clench of his jaw.
I chance a smile. ‘You were flirting with me?’
He doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, and I start to panic that I’ve misjudged my comment, but then all at once his energy changes, and he bursts out laughing. His face softens, creasing with his amusement, and the hand that had been clenched into a tight fist reaches out for me, settling softly on my forearm.
‘Apparently not very well,’ he says, humour back in his voice, followed by a smile that I could write poetry about.
I smile back as his hand moves down to grab mine again, and this time I don’t feel a single shred of guilt about the way the contact sends ripples of electricity across my skin.
‘Come on,’ he says, and he pulls me back to my feet. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
Chapter Fourteen
BRAM
‘Right,’ I say as I stop in front of the duck-egg-blue door. ‘You need two things. The first is in here.’ I nod to the shop behind me, and Lucy’s face pinches in curiosity. Her cheeks are still pink from crying, small flecks of make-up smeared under her lower lashes where she’s tried to wipe them. If anything, I think it makes her more beautiful– real and raw. I could kiss her right now, but I remind myself of what a bad idea that would be. Instead Ijust smile and push open the door of the shop.
It smells amazing in here, warm and sugary sweet, and there’s a little brass bell over the door that rings dramatically every time it’s opened. The sound takes me right back to my childhood, sneaking in to buy penny sweets with the pocket money my dad brought me when he was off the boat.
My chest tightens with the memory, piling on top of the tight knot of anxiety I still feel after seeing Moriarty in the flesh. Because yes, it turned out that he and Lucy’s boss were one and the same. Ofcourseshe’d have to be pining over some idiot like that.
I haven’t seen him in over a decade, and there was a part of me that expected him to have some kind of sinister, supernatural energy about him, like maybe he was a vampire too, and that’s why human me could never stand to look at his face. I mean, it would make sense– he’s press after all. Bleeding people dry is practically in their job description.
But no. He’s just a prick.
‘What’s your favourite flavour of fudge?’ I ask Lucy, trying to distract both of us from our dark thoughts.
Her smile is slower than usual, but it’s there. ‘If I say vanilla, will you laugh?’
‘No.’ My brows pull together. ‘Why would I laugh?’