Page 71 of Hard
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 ofTaken 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?’
