Chapter 31

Now that I was in Nix’s company, the tears fell sporadically.

One second, they were there. The other, they weren’t.

Dressing for the plane back to London, I was fine, singing along to Florence + The Machine with angst. The ride over, I’d checked emails and sent them out forLuca’sboxing match in a couple of weeks. After asking Nix to read through and archive anything I wouldn’t want to see right now.

Because, soon, when the numbness left and the anger hit, I might.

I’d taken my anti-anxietymedsbut on Nix’s plane, everything was too much. The second one of my ears popped, it was game over.

I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about.

The fact I was raped? The fact the whole world knew about it?

That I knew what happened in these cases? That everything about my life was about to be scrutinised?

I didn’t know. My body ached with fear at the unknown, of what might happen next.

Nothing had changed. I hadn’t seen anything more, though I didn’t doubt it was out there.

Then, in the car from the airport to our apartment, I was okay again. I even cracked a joke, which alarmed Nix more than anything. His eyes widened, and the laugh that came from his throat was more of a shocked choke than anything remotely humorous.

I couldn’t keep up with my feelings. I was probably giving him whiplash.

His phone chimed and he turned it on silent. Apart from a few contacts, including his mother and me, his phone was always on silent.

“Is she okay?” I asked, taking his hand in the backseat.

He nodded, locking it and giving me his full attention. “She just wants to see me. She’s in London and knows I am too.”

“You can see her,” I said. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“You’re my priority,” he told me and squeezed my hand.

“Invite her round,” I urged. “I can go to my brother’s or something.”

“Well, she doesn’t want to just see me,” he hedged.

“Me?”

For some reason, I’d never even considered she knew who I was. Aside from being his publicist, but she’d probably seen the multiple articles ‘confirming’ our relationship by now.

My own mum had texted and called me, grovelling, but I’d ignored her like I had the last few months.

It wasn’t that her boyfriend had outed me.

It was that he’d also done something specifically against Nix. Against my job.

And her messages didn’t blame David.

MUM: It was a misunderstanding. Please understand that.

MUM: He didn’t mean to.

MUM: You weren’t clear enough that we weren’t to discuss your life with anyone.

My mum had always wanted to be loved.

Just not by me.

“Mum’s been dying to meet you for months,” he said. “She wants to check you’re okay too. But I told her you probably want some space.”

But he needed her. As much as he was a comfort to me, she was to him.

“Invite her round,” I said again before tapping on his phone for it to light up.

When we got into our apartment, I wanted so badly to just roll onto our bed and sleep, exhausted by the rolling feelings, but Nix made my peppermint tea as I changed into my pyjamas.

“I have something for you,” he said and placed my tea down on my bedside table. From his bag, he pulled out a bundle in thick, brown gift wrap before placing it beside the mug. “Go on.”

Cautiously, I peeled off the sticker that kept the paper together and then pulled out a pink leather jacket. Livid read across the front, the same sponsors as the one he had on his leathers.

I tried to speak, to thank him, but the words fell flat in my mouth.

“It’s custom,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a brag as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I may havesnuckyour old leather jacket to the design team and asked them to make it a bit bigger — everymotorsportjacket needs to be a bit bigger. But—but if it doesn’t fit or you want any adjustments, we can— ”

“Stop,” I said quietly before slowly turning it over, secretly hoping to see 18 there on the back.

It read 23.

“Twenty-three?”

“Well, unfortunately, you couldn’t have my number,” he said with a small smile. “It would have given us away. So I went for our apartment number. No other rider is using that.”

“What would you have done if they were?” I asked, stepping closer to him.

“I would have to think of something else,” he said, looping his arms around the back of my thighs. “My home address, your lucky number, your year of birth…”

“What’s my lucky number?” I didn’t even know I had one.

“Well, my number, obviously. So, guess that wouldn’t have worked either.” He stroked my calves as I stroked the leather. “I want to see it on your Instagram. I want at least a hundred people in the comments asking what twenty-three means.”

I pulled off my coat to put on his gift. He watched me carefully, probably waiting to comfort me the moment I broke again.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to look at myself in the mirror. But I hardly saw me. I saw him. Looking up at me, head cocked to the side, the tiniest glimpse of a smile. One I wouldn’t have been able to catch when we first met. “Thank you, thank you. This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The fit was perfect—baggy around my arms, ballooning at the sleeves that comfortably cuffed my wrists even in my jumper. The colour was almost the exact shade of my lipstick, not that he would have done that on purpose, but…

Nix could have just picked theCiclaticolours and been done. He could have got the standard version online and given meAlv’snumber. But he hadn’t.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him when he said he loved me, it was that I didn’t know if anyone had ever shown their love for me in such a single moment.

I didn’t know how someone did such a thing.

But it was clear before me.

And it soothed my racing heart, like when Dad putVapoRubon my chest and I was finally able to breathe again.

Around him, I could breathe.

“I also have these,” he said, letting me go to rummage through his bag again before pulling out a piece of paper. “Here is the list of therapists, as promised. I also made a file online that I emailed to you so you can click on the links for more information. It’s alphabetised.”

And not only did he love me, he knew me.

I bit my bottom lip, trying to stop it from wobbling, as I looked down at the paper.

“The majority of them, er, specialise in working with sexual assault survivors. But I didn’t pick just those in case you didn’t want to talk about that,” he rambled, pointing a finger at specific names. “Though there is one woman that specialises in that but also has experience as a grief counsellor and—”

“That would be good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said with a grateful nod, scanning through the detailed paragraphs he had written about them, the typos and asides obvious he was putting down the details he thought were important. “Can they be online?”

“Most can be over the phone, yes,” he said and I couldn’t help but feel proud at how much research he had done .

We arranged a meeting with a therapist named Trina and spent the evening watching sitcoms. I needed one afternoon where I didn’t think and got caught up in horrific reality TV—lives that were messier than my own.

In the morning, Nix was panicking. “Flowers,” he said. “Ah, shit. I haven’t got any flowers.”

“What?” I asked with a short laugh. “Why do you need flowers?”

“There should be flowers on the table. I should have at the very least got you flowers,” he muttered to himself, head in the cupboard, getting out a plate. “Fucking hell, why didn’t I get flowers!”

“Nobody died,” I said. “Why do we need flowers?”

“I should be buying you flowers every day.” He shook his head as the toast popped in the toaster.

“I don’t… I don’t want flowers,” I laughed. “Hey, I have some dried flowers in our bedroom… or some fake lilies in—”

“Oh god, not lilies,” he practically choked on the words. “They symbolise death. My mum would throw an actual fit.” He dropped the buttered toast on the plate he put before me. “Eat. I’ve got to run to the shop.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said as he pulled out a shopping bag from under the counter.

He straightened and turned menacingly, his face serious. “Livid, you haven’t eaten properly for days,” he said. “This is the third day where I’ve only seen you eat a handful of mints.”

“Not hungry,” I repeated.

He lifted my chin and analysed me carefully. “I could send someone to India to get you thataloogobifrom our hotel that you liked, or thechurrosfrom France in that little cafe.”

“You are so extravagant,” I laughed and shook my head, releasing myself from his touch. “How about we just order a takeaway this evening?”

“And you’ll eat it?”

I didn’t know if it was my nerves at the trial tomorrow or the general ache in my chest. Or knowing people were out there talking about me and that I was too much of a coward to google my name again. But there was nothing in me that wanted to eat. I was full and painfully empty.

“I promise,” I said and stood from the stool to kiss him.

But it was then that a strong female voice, with a slight accent I couldn’t place, called out, “Nixon!” from the lift.

His eyes widened. “ Merde .”

He breathed in deeply, clearly nervous, as heels clicked towards us. He took my hand and stepped slightly in front of me.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and I tried to contain my smile. I didn’t have to bother, he was staring at the arch from the lift. For once, he was actually nervous.

MarieArmaswasn’t looking at us, instead her footing as she walked down the three steps from the walkway to the kitchen. Her grey hair was in a neat, short bob that fell just to her shoulders. Our whole house was neutral, a few tan colours across to the dining room on the other side of the open room she was walking into, but she was colour, standing out against the neutrals in her loose red trousers and blouse.

I expected her to run straight for her son, but her aim was me, ignoring Nix and practically swatting him out of the way. My hand slipped from his.

“Olivia,” she said, voice brimming with sympathy. She was taller than me, though that wasn’t hard, but despite how put together — and how definitelyunputtogether I was — she wasn’t imposing or intimidating as she hesitantly took my hands, giving me time to reject her advance. “I am so sorry. So sorry, Olivia.”

Nix had her eyes. Deep pools of blue I could swim in. Drown in. His tanned skin had to come from his father for she was paler than me.

What did I say to ‘sorry’? When Nix had said it, he meant it. He felt responsible.

When people had said it after my dad passed, I’d felt the same. What could I say? What did you say to an ‘I’m sorry’ when it was no one’s guilt to bear?

It’s okay? Because it wasn’t. None of it was okay.

I was not okay.

I’d smiled and laughed. I’d nodded along. For a year, I’d acted like I was completely and utterly okay. Rejected the idea I could be otherwise.

“Anything you need,” she was saying. “Whether it’s somewhere to stay that’s away from London or simply a hug.”

I nodded and managed to rasp a “thank you” before clearing my throat. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this. A secret and in our kitchen.”

She shook her head. “Can’t be helped.” Then she lifted herself on her tiptoes to kiss Nix’s cheek. He bent to help her.

“Coffee, Maman? ”

She nodded. “Always. So, what are we going to do about this shit show?”

Nix turned slowly from the other side of the counter as I sat on the stool again. She sat next to me.

“ Maman, ” Nix warned.

“She’s a miracle worker,” she laughed, crossing her legs. “She got you on the cover ofSportsChatfor a positive reason. I’m sure there are things we can do to stop this from getting any worse.”

“That was mostly Luca—”

“Nonsense,” she laughed and took out a notebook from her bag. “You need to learn to take a compliment. Is my son not giving you enough?”

Nix rolled his eyes, placing the coffee before his mum. She nodded a thanks and cradled the mug, dragging it close to her.

“He gives me plenty,” I offered.

“See, Maman ? Plenty.” He bent to kiss me on the cheek.

She watched us, head slightly cocked to the side. “I’m not in the habit ofsugarcoatingthings. Do you want my thoughts?”

“She hasn’t been on any socials,” Nix told her, a hand on my shoulder. “Hasn’t read many articles either.”

“I’d like to hear your thoughts,” I said. I might have gone into hiding for a couple of days, but I’d struggled to not log in and see everything.

“To summarise, spoke to someone about all of this — this drama — and you can definitely get a book deal. Fucker’s dead now, isn’t he?”

I flinched.

“I won’t speak well of the dead if they didn’t live well ,” she clarified. “Fucker’s dead. So, no trial will go ahead, but we can still sue those who are using your name. It’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“I mean… it is against their code of practice to publish anything that could lead to the identification of a sexual assault victim,” I explained. “But they were clever in posting my name only when it came to me being his publicist who apparently had brought the information forward.”

“And did you? Bring it to them? ”

I looked up at Nix.

“To protect me,” he answered with a sigh, pain in his expression as he swallowed again.

“Protect you?” she snapped. Her face dropped, mouth open as her face paled further. “Your father. Jules. Fuck, Nixon,quelest tonproblème?Incroyable. ” What is your problem?

But then she really went full steam, her words so fast I blinked as she — I could only assume by her glare — tore her son a new one.

This time when I looked at Nix, it wasn’t for support, but to give it. His touch on my shoulder became a massage of comfort. “She’s just telling me how irresponsible I am. And that I better propose to you on the spot.”

He didn’t need to tell me that part. He really didn’t need to tell me that part.

“Look at what she’s done for you!” Marie screeched, standing. “And yet I don’t see a ring! Not even a single flower anywhere!”

“I send flowers to my mum every week,” he stage-whispered.

She tapped her pen against the notepad, ready to write. A move I often pulled in meetings with clients that pissed me off.

I’d done it many times with Nix in the early days.

“But I was just on my way to get some,” he said.

“With your top off in the middle of December?” His mum cocked a disbelieving brow.

He nodded, put in his place, and walked off to our bedroom.

“Right,” she said, puffing. “You tell me if this is too much. But let’s get you out of the mess my son has created for you.”

“I did it myself,” I told her, hands heavy on my lap. “He didn’t know.”

She shook her head and tutted. “He’s out of that now, thank god. Now his dad’s dead. And his brother, Jules, despises him, so I doubt he’ll want Nix involved. I’ve never been happier for someone to die.”

Fucking hell.

“Although… anyway, piece of shit he was,” she muttered. “Tried to ruin everything my son accomplished. That way of life…” She sighed, staring at the picture of Nix as the wallpaper on her phone. He was a teenager on adirtbikewith the brightest grin. He’d had braces since, his little teeth were crooked.

My teeth had been crooked too.

And, the bizarre intrusive thought was, would our kids need braces like we did?

My mind was reeling with the emotions. Clearly.

“He’s lucky to have nothing more to do with them,” she said as her phone went blank. “And lucky to have you, obviously. So, to the matter at hand. Book deal?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I have a lawyer friend who would be more than happy to sue them,” she said, already searching through her contacts. “As you said, they’ve gone against that conduct they have. You are identifiable. You’ve been identified. By scummy bloggers, but still identified.”

I nodded along. Nix was so laid back in comparison to her.

She must be why he was so relaxed. She was a tornado, but instead of causing chaos, she seemed to sweep it away from everyone else, taking it with her.

I wanted to be her.

I couldn’t imagine this strong, determined woman having breakdowns to her son.

Which was naive and awful of me because some people saw me as strong and determined.

And I crumbled often.

No. I had to stop thinking of everything so negatively.

Nix dressed, kissed me goodbye and left me in her presence.

By the time he returned, I’d made a list of celebrities I knew that I thought would support me and his mother had gone through the trial. She showed me some supportive articles, weaning me on to the less supportive.

Articles where another woman had come forward to explain her own relationship withVinny.

Hashtags like #JusticeforLivieQuinn and #BelieveHer.

Then came the big ones. #MediaBlackout#NotMyNews.

Those newspapers that had reported my name were under heavy scrutiny, and two of them were in the upcoming trial.

My heart was racing. This would impact the case. There was no doubt about it.

And, though my stomach clenched with a nervous fear, there was a slight twinge of excitement. This might help.

This had no choice but to help.

I braved it by getting out my phone and going on my emails, searching forOluchiEkubo, the MP who had encouraged Parliament to change the laws on news articles and harassment by journalists. She should be aware.

Nix had a shopping bag around his wrist and both hands full of different bouquets of flowers. He didn’t interrupt us but laid them out on the table before grabbing a vase and scissors and snipping away.

Marie whispered, “Does he have any idea what he’s doing?”

Nix was flustered, hands hovering over the stems, unsure what to grab. He looked over the piles of flowers, clearly overwhelmed but gave me a gormless smile when he saw us watching.

“Oh, yes,” I lied. “He makes the arrangements himself. Picks all of my favourites.”

He’d gone for whites and pinks.

Marie stared at Nix cutting off the leaves from the stems before glancing with a frown at her son’s expression of concentration, a glimpse of his tongue between his lips.

I’d always wanted to know if his tongue was hanging out of his mouth when he was racing on the track.

We had stopped talking, watching Nix prepare the flowers. He turned the vase to face me, “Ta-da!”

I grinned so hard it almost hurt.

“But that’s not even the best part,” he said and picked up the bag from beside his feet. “They didn’t have cherry blossom, but they did have this!”

From the bag, he retrieved a box ofLegosthat made a cherry blossom branch.

My chest felt ever so warm. My smile hurt.

And, yet, I couldn’t help the stinging behind my eyes.