Chapter 23

 

Sitting in my home office, I find myself typing a note. A note to Paisley. It’s not a love letter exactly. Though I will admit to feeling the first stirrings of something. Not in the letter, of course, or even out loud; it’s still early days. But I will say that I can’t ever recall feeling like this for a long time. Maybe even ever? And it’s fucking scary. Can a heart grow to accommodate more? Adapt? And if it is possible, why didn’t my ex feel the same when Sorcha was born?

Why do my thoughts always come back to her? Love to hate. Hate to love. They say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, but I’ve seen the YouTube videos.

So I type. It’s not exactly loving or cathartic. More like filth.

 I’m not sure if I’ll ever send it, but I type it all the same.

Paisley, I can’t get the image of you yesterday out of my head. The white shirt I could see the lace of your bra through. The dark skirt hugging your curves. Do you know, I sometimes think your arse deserves a frame? It’s like a work of art.

I have a request, too. For our next date, can you wear the little black belt—the one with the gold buckle? Does it make you think of being tied as much as it makes me think of tying you? Wear it for me if it does.

No pressure, love.

Love? Is this love or an obsession? It’s hard to tell now that I’ve cracked the seal; now that I’m allowing myself to think. Allowing my thoughts of Paisley to breathe.

I want to watch you cross the room in those heels you love so much, letting your swaying curves torture me. I want you. Always. But I also want to look after you. I want to be the wall that protects you from all harm. Your home and your sustenance. Yes, that’s right; I want to feed you more than just my cock. And I want to cook for you. Don’t worry—it won’t be fruit.

I’ll sit you at the table with a glass of wine, then drop the napkin across your thighs while pretending not to look down the neck of your blouse. And as we eat, I’ll imagine all the things I want to do to you, waiting for a sign that you want those things, too.

I’ll wait for you to climb on my lap.

Wait for you to wrap your fingers in my hair.

Wait for the kiss that tells me what you need.

I’ll make you crawl to the bedroom. Watch your arse as you make your way there. I want to strip you. Take my time peeling you from your clothes, unravelling you like the treasure you are. I want to love you with my body. Mark my possession of you with my teeth. Hold you in my arms. Love you all night long. Love you all my l—

My fingers are frozen above the keyboard as I realise with a jolt of panic where my thoughts are heading. But then my phone begins to ring. Saved by the bell.

Or Mac.

‘Was I supposed to pick you up?’ I turn my wrist to check the time, his next words not really computing. Not quite making sense.

‘No, listen. This might be a wee bit of an odd thing to say, but that girl you were talkin’ about. Did you say you met her at that wedding you went to?’

‘Aye. Why?’ This isn’t like Mac. He doesn’t fish for information, and he rarely sounds spooked. If he’s got a question, he’ll ask it. If he has a grievance, he’ll probably get satisfaction on the rugby field. A grab of the balls. A punch in the ribs.

He sighs, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I’m no’ bothered if you’re getting your end away or as celibate as a monk. Your business. Not mine. Not Will’s. But we had the kids out for breakfast in Covent Garden, and I read something in the newspaper while we were there.’

‘Mac, whatever it is, just say it. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Not anymore, at least. He’ll meet Paisley soon enough. They all will.

‘Aye, so. This girl you’re seeing. She doesn’t happen to be engaged, does she?’

‘No.’ My answer is immediate and partly a growl. ‘Why d’you ask?’

‘That poncy singer Ella’s so fond of—the ginger bawheid? He’s had an accident. Wrapped his Aston Martin around a lamppost while off his face.’

Oh, fuck. How many singing ginger bawheid’s can there be? So it sounds like Paisley’s ex-fiancé, but why is Mac calling me?

‘I remember Ella saying you’d mentioned he sang for the bride and groom that day?’

‘He did, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘Just that he was there. And you met her there.’ He pauses, letting the implication settle before he begins again. ‘Just do yourself a favour and have a look at one of the Sunday papers online. Maybe stay away from the tabloids, aye?’

Before he’s even finished his sentence, I’ve closed my email and brought up one of the Sunday rags, greeted by a paparazzi shot of a very bedraggled ginger singer being bundled into the back of a police car.

I start to read the article, blood beginning to boil in my veins.

 

Exclusive!

Robin Reed Looks “Devastated” Following Car Accident

Said to be “distraught” from the recent split with his fiancée.

 

Everyone’s favourite Brit Boy, the crooner Robin Reed, has been ordered to rehab by his management after a car crash involving three vehicles during the early hours of this morning.

Robin, allegedly under the influence of an illegal substance, was seen being placed in the back of a police vehicle to be taken to Wembley Station for further questioning.

According to management sources, Robin has been suffering from stress and anxiety after recently splitting with his American fiancée of two years, Paisley Byrne. In a further twist to the story, it’s understood Byrne reportedly had an affair with London property magnate, Keir McLain, which allegedly led to the breakdown of their engagement.

As I scroll down, there’s a photograph—a photograph of me taken at Sorcha’s school, which is bad enough. But I’m not the only one in the frame; Sorcha is, too. I’m helping her out of the car, and though her face is distorted, it’d be easy enough to tell what school she attends given she’s in her uniform. A distinctive, private school uniform. The thought makes me feel ill. Some fucker has been following me—following me while I was with my child. And this image predates the ginger bastard wrapping his car around a lamppost yesterday, so what’s it all about?

Sources close to the pair are said to be “saddened” and “dismayed” that the bubbly twenty-five-year-old makeup artist has begun to work in the adult entertainment industry since the split.

Fuck off. Now they’re trying to paint Paisley as someone working in porn? What the fuck! The back of my office chair creaks as I scrub my hands through my hair. How did I not know her surname? It’s a strange thought, a little abstract even, as I struggle to get a fucking handle on the rest. I know a lot about her, I remind myself. Small things. Personal and ridiculous things. I know she has an aversion to fruit. Loses her shoes. That she’s kind and caring and great with kittens and little girls

I don’t read anymore. Because it’s bullshit—pure and simple. What I do instead is pull up the online edition of each Sunday newspaper’s front page. The story is on every. Fucking. One. What’s worse, the tale seems to get more lurid and phony with each telling. It’s like a game of Chinese fucking whispers.

She wasn’t still with him when he grabbed her that night—she couldn’t have been. Could she? He wouldn’t have given up because I threatened him. . . no. Think, Keir. The rest is bullshit. So she works for a porn company, but the bastards made it sound like she was selling her arse—that she was having sex on screen.

I’m not the reason for their breakup—that was because the twat couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I run my hands through my hair, pulling at the ends. None of this is right or sane. But what must she be feeling, having her character torn apart like this? I don’t have long to wait before I find out. As I pick up my phone to call her, the thing starts to buzz in my hand, her name flashing up on screen.

‘Paisley, where are you?’

I don’t hear her voice immediately. Instead, there’s static and a lot of swearing coming from a woman who isn’t her.

‘Fuck off! Get away from my front door! You bastards are trespassing! I shall call the police.’

I hear Paisley cry out, my heart tightening like a fist. I push up from my chair and start to pace around the room.

‘Paisley? Paisley, darlin’? Are you okay?’ A lot more scuffling and shuffling follows, indistinct questions being shouted over the noise.

‘Paisley! Over ’ere!’

‘Have you heard from Robin, Paisley?’

‘Is he an addict?’

‘Have you sent your apologies to the inhabitants of the other cars?’

‘Paisley, who’s your favourite co-star in porn?’

‘Is it true you’ll be starring in the remake of Taken Hard Two?’

I’m literally pulling out all of my hair here when the call cuts out.

‘Fuck!’ I bounce my phone off the palm of my free hand. ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ Then I hit her number again, whispering a small prayer as the call connects.

‘No, give it to me,’ Paisley calls out. ‘It’s Keir. I can see his name!’

A man grumbles, and a minute later, I hear her voice.

‘Keir? Are you there?’

The fist around my heart eases immediately. ‘Aye, it’s me. Are you okay? Who was that?’

‘Who? Oh, Max, Chastity’s brother. But the tabloids, they’re outside like a pack of rabid dogs out for blood.’ Her breath hitches. Is it a sob? ‘We were just out for coffee, and then on our way home, they pounced! They said something about Robin having an accident. Do you know anything about it?’

‘I’ve just read about it. He’s okay.’ The absolute fucker. ‘But . . . ’ I don’t know how to say it. How to tell her. ‘They’re not saying very nice things about you.’

‘Me?’ She sounds shocked, pained, incredulous. ‘What have I got to do with his accident?’

‘They’re saying you left him.’

‘Hell yeah, I did!’

‘That he was under the influence of drugs because he’s depressed.’

‘And that . . . that it’s my fault?’

‘Darlin’, they’re making it sound like you’re starring in Chastity’s shoots.’

‘That I star in porn?’ She sounds saddened, her voice small. And I have neither the heart nor the balls to tell her it’s worse than that. To tell her that one paper in particular made it sound like she’s a high-class prostitute.

‘Oh, my Lord. What am I going to do?’

Already, my mind is working in overdrive. ‘Do you have a solicitor . . . a lawyer, I mean?’

‘No, I . . . wait.’ There’s conversation on the other side of the phone, words I don’t quite catch before she’s back. ‘Chas says she can consult her family guy.’

‘I feel like I should come over there.’ My heart does, at least. My head, not so much.

‘No, don’t,’ she advises softly. ‘It’s not necessary. Besides, this isn’t your problem.’

‘I might not be the root cause, but I can see how I can’t have helped. I smashed his nose, for a start.’

‘Bones and cartilage heal, Keir. Hearts, too.’ I don’t know what she means by that, but I don’t get a chance to protest or question as she carries on. ‘Look, you have your own reputation to protect. A child to think about.’

She’s right, of course, and when I look up, said child is at the door to my office, the ball of calico kitten cradled in her arms. My head immediately swings to the window behind me as though I could sense the black presence of the press lurking there. Loitering in the hedgerows, hiding in the flowerbeds, just waiting to spring out and embroil my child in this mess. Ridiculous.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Aye. I am.’

‘Look, give it a few days. Let things cool down.’

‘That sounds . . . ’ Like a relief. A huge relief. And a copout and everything in between. I want to be there for her, hold her in my arms, protect her with my being. I’m a big lad—I can take care of myself—but can I protect Paisley and Sorcha at the same time? Probably not.

Which makes me feel like a total shit.

‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come over? Or maybe you could pack a bag and come stay here?’ As much as the thought appeals to me— all the people I want to take care of, safe and under one roof—I’m not sure it would be for the best. But I want to do something—I want to help.

‘This isn’t your fight,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I know this is hard for you to hear, but you said it yourself; I’m trouble, Keir. You can’t fix this.’