“What for?”
“You told me this would happen. That we couldn’t keep control. I should have listened to you.”
“I was thinking the kids would run in the gallery and talk too loudly. Not this.”
A smile threatens at his lips. “You set your sights way too low.”
“Maybe next time we can aim for grand larceny.”
“Hey, I thought we said there wouldn’t be a next time.”
Good point, I think. One night in a police station is more than enough; I don’t want to go there again. Not that I’ll be allowed to, if Simon has anything to do with it. Maybe he’s right. I can’t seem to do anything right. Daisy is still in hospital, Cameron is still headed for a life of crime, and I appear to be doing everything I can to mess up my marriage.
“I need to call my husband.” I don’t know why I can’t say his name. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”
“We should get out of the rain,” Niall suggests, dipping his head so I can’t see his expression. “My car’s over there. I can give you a lift home.”
“I’ll call a taxi.”
“Don’t be silly.” He’s already walking toward his car, an old, beat-up Ford Fiesta. I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but this rusty, downtrodden vehicle wasn’t it.
It’s unpretentious. For some reason, that warms me inside.
“Is this yours?”
“Yeah.” He presses his key and the locks click open. “Why?”
Because I think of you as a glamorous genius. Because I expected your car to be more rock and roll.
Because I love the way you constantly surprise me.
“No reason.”
Inside, it’s damp and musty, like a pair of shoes left out in the rain. He’s tried to disguise the odour with an air freshener that hangs from the mirror, but the cardboard tree is no match for the more powerful smell. I sit down on the fabric passenger seat, kicking an empty plastic Coke bottle with my feet. The car is full of rubbish—used wrappers, stacks of papers, even a couple of canvasses.
“It’s a bit of a mess.” He states the obvious.
“It suits you.”
Niall gives me a “what’s-that-supposed-to-mean?” look and turns on the ignition. Even though the dial is turned right up, the heater pumps out cold air. He leans forward and turns the fan down. “It should warm up in a minute.”
My handbag is on my lap. I unzip it and take out my iPhone. I turned it off when we arrived at the station, mostly to preserve a battery that can no longer hold its charge. It takes a moment for the screen to light up. As I stare down at it, a huge rock of fear settles at the bottom of my stomach, curdling the contents until I can almost taste my own nausea.
“You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. I’m scared my husband hates me, and that he’s left a message to that effect on my phone. I feel like a kid waiting outside the headmaster’s office. The phone trembles in my hand as alerts begin to flash across the top of the screen. Ema
ils from clothes websites I used years ago, tweets I’ve been mentioned in.
There are also four texts and three voicemails. Like the scaredy-cat I am, I check the tweets first. Someone from the clinic has asked if I’m okay. Some guy I’ve never heard of before has started to follow me. There’s a retweet of a book I recommended.
I read the texts next.
Where are you? Simon’s just called me. That one’s from Lara.
I’ve just spoken to Niall Joseph. Cameron Gibbs probably deserves locking up. Give me a call when you get out, okay? Lara, again.
I hope you don’t mind, Lara gave me your number. How are you holding up in there? Niall.