58. Adam

58

ADAM

O ne of the many fucked-up ironies of my life is that I’ve seen fit to surround myself with items of great beauty, to identify aesthetics as one of the profound, constant pleasures of this human experience, all the while having robbed another man of half his eyesight.

If anything haunts me, it’s that. Stephen Bennett isn’t blind, but he’s halfway there. If anything happened to his other eye, he’d be blind because of me. And yet I have the gall to continue blithely surrounding myself with beautiful things.

Another fucked-up irony?

His sister is the most beautiful being I’ve ever had the pleasure of feasting my eyes on.

I used to tear myself to pieces with guilt. I took away his fucking eye. For years and years, I had an eyepatch that I kept hidden at the bottom of one of my bedroom drawers like an addict might hide his stash. In particularly dark moments, I’d put it on, covering my left eye for hours or days on end.

This is how Stephen Bennett feels every single day, you callous thug. The discomfort, the inconvenience, the blurred black-grey where half of any view I looked at should be. When I started making serious money, when Anton would drag me on business trips to visit his offices in Hong Kong and New York and San Francisco, I’d squirrel the eye patch away in my luggage and put it on when I had the chance.

This is how half of Victoria Harbour looks, dickhead , I’d taunt myself from my balcony in The Four Seasons Hong Kong. This is how half of Central Park looks. A bit shitty, isn’t it?

The day I stepped foot back in the very same prison where I was once incarcerated, as part of my plan to deliver the same business course through which Anton had once saved my life, was the day I threw that fucking eye patch away. The habit of surreptitiously closing my left eye when I’m overwhelmed still lingers, though.

I do exactly this as I regard my girlfriend in profile. She’s bathed in the dazzling sunlight you only get at thirty-seven thousand feet, and her expression is far more pensive than I’d like to see on a woman who’s being whisked off for what she claims to already know will be the best weekend of her life.

Unfortunately for my masochistic tendencies, we’re close enough that even a one-eyed view of her is perfection.

She’s worried about her brother, and I’m worried about her. I based myself at Alchemy the other night so I could be around her all evening. She insisted on working her full shift despite Gen’s offer to bail, so I planted my arse on the big sofa where Nat scared me shitless with her hypo and caught up on some work. And while she’s given me a detailed run-down of how their conversation went (in a word, disastrous), I know she’s trapped inside her own head.

I fucking hate it.

I lean forward and plant a kiss on her temple, and she gives me a little smile, leaning in towards me. While I’d love us to be travelling alone on my jet, Dr Dyson is sitting down at the other end of the aircraft. Changing time zones is complicated for diabetics, and jet lag is fucking brutal. I’m taking no chances with either the administration of Nat’s insulin as her body clock adjusts to Eastern Standard Time, nor will I tolerate jet lag robbing her of her joy on this trip.

We’ve both already done an IV bag of electrolytes and vitamins to preempt dehydration on the flight, and we’ll do more when we get to our hotel.

‘Brie?’ I enquire. We’ve been grazing on a delicious platter of smoked salmon and all the usual accoutrements, various cheeses, and gluten-free charcoal crackers.

She shakes her head at me. ‘No thanks. I’m stuffed.’

Hmm. I’m not sure the amount she’s eaten would ‘stuff’ anyone.

‘Is your stomach still in knots?’ I ask her, leaning my forehead against hers and sliding a hand around the back of her neck.

‘A bit, yeah. Is it weird that I wish I could be a fly on the wall during dinner tonight and that I’m also really glad I’m putting thousands of miles between us?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It’s not weird in the slightest.’

Stephen and his wife, Anna, have been essentially summoned for an early supper tonight when they pick Chloe up from his parents’ place, and Adelaide appears intent on letting rip a few truth bombs—though none surrounding any meddling I’ve done in Stephen’s life in recent years, thankfully.

I’ve been clear since my earliest days in therapy—in prison, actually—that Stephen Bennett’s forgiveness is not only a gift I can never hope or deserve to ask for, but a validation I shouldn’t need. The only way to move from hating to liking yourself is to accept yourself. So there is no part of me at all that craves anything from him.

This is about Nat, and her relationship with her brother, and the injustice that she should feel judged or even resented by him because of me.

‘The good thing is we’ll be five hours behind,’ I tell her now, tipping my face up so I can brush my lips over her forehead. ‘I’m sure your mum will update you when they’ve gone.’ I really hope for her sake that’s true. I’d love to see her enjoying everything I have planned for tomorrow and beyond with the weight of all this gone from her shoulders.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘New York should be very Christmassy,’ I say, hoping for a subject change. ‘Hopefully it should get you in the mood.’

I pull away enough to see a genuine smile flash across her beautiful face. ‘Oh my God, I’m going to die from excitement.’

‘What do you usually do for Christmas?’

She shrugs. ‘I just spend it with my folks. Stephen and Anna tend to alternate between seeing our family and hers, but her parents are going on a cruise this year, which is great for us—it’s Chloe’s first Christmas.’

I grin. ‘Sweet. Christmas is always a lot more fun with kids around.’

‘Yeah.’ She snuggles against me on the spacious cream leather sofa. ‘I can’t wait. I have a feeling Mum’ll go crazy on the present front.’

I laugh. Adelaide definitely will.

‘What do you do?’ she asks. There’s a quiet, tentative tone to her voice as if she’s treading carefully.

‘I usually have Dad and Quinn over for dinner, and then they stay the night. I cook, and it’s usually pretty quiet.’

Quiet is a euphemism for sombre. There are far too many ghosts at our Christmas dinner table. Ellen loved Christmas so much. One Christmas Eve, she got herself so overexcited that she threw up.

‘Do you ever hear from your mum at Christmas?’

‘No. She knows that’s not an option.’

She snakes an arm over my stomach and around my waist. Considering how light and delicate it is, it feels wonderfully anchoring. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘No.’ I hesitate. ‘She’s in Scotland, I think. I was so worried she’d come looking for Quinn when she got out of prison, but she didn’t. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, when I had enough money, I hired an investigator to track her down and keep an eye on her. She was in Aberdeen when he found her, working odd jobs. She’d been fired from a job in a hotel bar, shock horror.

‘Anyway, he’s on an annual retainer. He knows where she is, and he knows not to tell me unless he sees her making a move anywhere near London—then he’ll call me straight away. I never want to see her again, and I know Dad and Quinn don’t, either.’ I stroke the arm on my stomach over her cashmere sleeve. ‘It’s best this way.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s so shitty, but I get it.’

I hesitate. ‘You know, if you wanted to come by over Christmas, then I’d love you to meet them. I don’t want to drag you away from your family, but maybe when you come back to London—Boxing Day? No pressure,’ I add hastily. We usually trek down to Croydon to visit Ellen’s grave on Boxing Day, but maybe we can move things around this year. Try to make some new memories, and even, if Nat’s up for it, bring her along on our little pilgrimage.

I’d like both my sisters to meet the woman I’m falling hard for .

She straightens up and I instantly drown in her big brown eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Of course. They’d love you.’

‘Do they know about me?’

’Quinn does,’ I tell her. ‘Dad doesn’t… yet. I didn’t want to tempt fate.’

Her mouth turns down at the corners, like she’s in pain on my behalf, and she leans in to press a soft kiss to my lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere. And I’d love to meet your family.’

‘Good,’ I murmur against her mouth.

‘I do have an important question, though,’ she says, pulling back and brightening.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Do you decorate your house for Christmas? I can’t imagine how beautiful it must look.’ She gives me a grin so hopeful that I feel like I’m kicking a puppy when I answer.

‘Not really. I get someone in to put up a tree in the hallway, but that’s about it.’

Her face falls. ‘Seriously? No garlands? Adam, that’s awful! You could go so crazy on that staircase with tons of fresh greenery.’

I shrug. ‘It’s only me there most of the time. And the staff, obviously. I can’t be bothered.’

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, and I laugh and straighten up in my seat.

‘Miss Bennett. I happen to have the enquiry form from the guys who do the tree sitting in my inbox. Would you be at all interested in running with this special, festive project? I think we could find a way to expand the remit if you think you’re capable of assuming more responsibility?’

She sits bolt upright. ‘Seriously? You’ll let me kit your entire house out?’

‘I’ll let you brief a team of professionals on how to kit my entire house out, yes,’ I clarify, sliding my iPad towards her and wondering exactly what I’m letting myself in for. Nat’s a very classy woman with excellent taste. I’m assuming she’ll do an incredible job.

Far more importantly, this is the kind of smile I’ve been trying to put on her face for the past two days.