Page 9 of Untamed Heart
She slapped the table as though some kind of epiphany had blasted through her thoughtful reverie.
‘Yes! Oh my God, Lots, I couldSOsee you doing that – you’re Insta perfect, you know what you’re doing, always immaculate . . . there’ll be a ton of brands that’ll want your face plugging their stuff. Do it!’
My heart lifted at her enthusiasm, her crooked grin and wide eyes.
‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, my voice almost lost under the music and the voices in the bar. ‘You’re the best.’
‘I know,’ she giggled, reaching over and kissing my cheek. ‘Why don’t you go over to Kyle’s place, get it off your chest and tell him you’ll be making millions by the summer flogging beauty products? Plus, you’ll very likely get laid too and frankly, you could do with it.’
I broke, dissolving into alcohol-giggles, leaning on her arm as I tried to stand.
‘Okay, okay, enough. I’ll do it.’
‘Atta girl,’ she replied, gripping me with equal fervour as we swayed over to the door. ‘He’s not my type but I’ve got eyes. I bet he looks even better with his suit off. Go enjoy yourself.’
We walked our separate ways, the impression of her warmth lingering as I attempted to keep a reasonably straight line down the road. As the length of my journey to Kyle’s place in Battersea dawned on me, I turned and lifted my arm to hail a cab – then lowered it a second later. I was unemployed; time to act like it.
Back on the tube, I wound my way back west, gently numb thanks to the alcohol. Vaguely I thought about food but dismissed it. What I needed was support, arms to lean into and take the weight. By the time I reached Kyle’s road, a solid twenty-minute walk from the station, my feet were on fire and the slow throb of a headache was beginning to pound behind my eyes.
The tall, Edwardian terrace glowed white in the amber lamplight, each house slightly different but all well kept. Neatly trimmed trees and ornately tiled paths led up to every one, millions of pounds’ worth of cars lining either side of the road. As I drew closer to Kyle’s house, a graduation gift from his grandparents, I craned my head to check for lights on inside. None.
Steeling myself, I opened the gate and walked to the front door, heart sinking. Shit. He was still out. Checking my phone and noting the time – 11.43 p.m. – I paused. He was always saying how he was useless after eleven anyway, and with work tomorrow, it wouldn’t be long until he was back.
Sighing, I lowered myself onto the steps by his front door and sat there in the shadows trying, for the millionth time, not to feel bitter or paranoid about my lack of key. It was a small thing, but somehow it mattered more than I wanted to admit. And now, alone in the creeping cold with my head and heart wrung out, it loomed over me: the memory of offering my key to him, feeling as vulnerable and small as it was possible to feel, the fleeting panic in his expression that he tried so desperately to hide.
He’d explained, reasoned it out, even become tearful about his own fears around commitment, the significance of giving me a key. And somehow, for reasons now buried or unreachable in the back of my mind, I’d let it go. He cared for me and that was enough; his gifts and gestures were relentless proof.
‘Christ, what did he do?’ was all Hestia could say when it began with the first designer handbag, then the ridiculously over-the-top bracelet from Boodles.
I’d rolled my eyes, both of us all too aware where Hestia’s deep-seated prejudices came from – a rocky upbringing, her mum bullied and coerced by Hestia’s stepfather. It coloured her view of relationships, especially given her bisexuality. As far as Hestia was concerned, women were far superior and many straight men were the lowest of the low, to be trusted only in exceptional circumstances.
Stifling a jaw-cracking yawn, I pulled my knees in and rested my chin on them. So much had shifted in the last twenty-four hours. Kyle would be home soon, he might even be in a cab right now. As my eyelids drifted shut, the sound of sirens in the distance and strains of music from the pub at the end of the road lulled my consciousness into sleep.
The laugh was bright, a peal of bells in the silence. My tiredness fought it, but the chilled night air prickled my skin, forcing my eyes open. A jolt of pain through my neck, the product of my awkward slump against the wall, yanked me into reality.
Swearing to myself, I checked my phone.
2.45 a.m.
I frowned, blinking at the screen, holding it closer as though the numbers would suddenly make sense. How the hell was it almost 3 a.m. and he wasn’t home?
A second, deeper laugh sent an entirely new sensation across my skin, hairs rising as my eyes widened.
I tried to stand, legs wobbling as I rose. Reaching out to place my hand against the wall, I craned my head to see down the street.
There, walking towards the house, was Kyle.
One arm thrown casually around a woman’s shoulders, her long blonde hair spilling over his chest, his other hand reaching over to her smiling face, pulling her chin up towards him as he leant in to kiss her.
I forgot how to breathe, my fingers turning into claws against the cold bricks. Instinct propelled me forwards, away from the front door and down the side of the house, into the narrow passage between the wall and hedge. Deep shadows held me as my insides threatened to fall apart.
Their sounds mingled as they reached the path, the words and footsteps blurring together over the thundering of my heart. I let myself fall into a crouch, unable to draw enough breath to stay standing.
‘. . . I don’t know, oh God, maybe it’s in my other bag. I couldn’t bring it though, they’d know . . .’
Her voice was velvet, a silky American undertone with British pronunciation. Kyle laughed again.
‘Here it is,’ he said, a softness to his words that punched my gut.
