2. Two

Two

I reluctantly pull on black jeans and a jumper, tie my hair into a ponytail, and step into my Nikes. By the time I get outside, Big Steve is already waiting in his black BMW on the other side of the road.

I climb into the passenger seat, and he starts the car.

"I'm sorry we got off to a bad start," he says. "Do you think we can try again?"

I stare out of the window. I suppose what he did came from a good place. In his own way, he was looking out for me. "Yeah, why not."

We take a left and head towards Mayfair. Now that I've cleared the air with him, my mind turns to Art's other 'friend.' "What's Tara's problem other than she wants to shag him?"

Big Steve raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, well … she ain't exactly subtle about it. She's been itching to tell you about the club since the first time we walked in on you both at the hotel. I tried to keep the fact that you and he were an item from her for a while because I know she can be vicious when she wants to be."

"They've already slept together, haven't they?"

Big Steve throws me an uncertain look, as if he's worried he might put his foot in it.

"It's okay. You're not being disloyal. Art told me they did."

"Yeah, but it was a long time ago. It wasn't serious or anything. They met at a club he used to go to."

It might have been years ago, but the fact that Tara strips at the club Art owns niggles at me, and I can't shift it. "He doesn't … you don't think he still likes her, do you? That's why she's working there?"

Big Steve gives a deep, gruff laugh. "I don't think so, love. That's dead and buried. For him anyway." He must catch the dubious look on my face because he carries on, as if to make his point, "It's just a business for him. He's not there all the time, ogling up the girls, if that's what you think. He's never usually there. The manager oversees the girls and the running of the place. Anyway" – he flashes me a cheeky smile – "why would he have burger when he's got steak at home?"

I think that's a compliment.

"Then, why was he there last night?"

Big Steve gives me a reassuring grin. "Art's a good man. Trust me on this one."

He sidestepped my question, but I decide not to push it. It's not Big Steve who should be giving me answers after all; it's Art. I'll keep any further questions for the man himself.

As we park outside Art's apartment, the events of last night seep back into my mind. The hollow, empty look in his eyes as I left threatens to haunt me forever, and my stomach swims with nerves. This could go either way. But I need answers. I convince myself I'm doing the right thing and climb out of the car.

I push open the glass doors with Big Steve following close behind. A young male concierge who I don't recognise is sat behind the desk in Derek's usual spot.

He looks up and gives me a polite smile. "Good afternoon, madam."

"Hi. I understand there were complaints of a noise disturbance from apartment thirty-two last night. Has there been any more bother?" I smile politely and steel myself.

When I left last night, Art sounded as though he had gone crazy.

"Ah, yes, Derek mentioned something." He nods. "No, madam. There have been no further complaints. In fact, Mr Black currently has a visitor."

I frown. I doubt he's in the mood to entertain, given the amount he drank last night. "A visitor?"

"Yes, madam. She arrived about five minutes ago."

My blood runs cold. "She?"

The concierge smiles, oblivious to the hornet's nest being stirred. "Yes, madam."

My hands ball into fists as I glare up the staircase. I feel sick. I don't need to ask for a description. There's only one woman who would make an appearance today. Tara. She's come to pick apart the last threads of our relationship.

Anger propels me up the staircase at speed. Big Steve's with me, telling me to "calm down" but I'm not listening. I'm going to catch them red-handed. I'm nobody's fool, as they're both about to find out.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey hangs in the air and turns my stomach as I unlock the door and charge into the apartment. I head down the hall, a woman on a mission, glancing in every room as I go, steeling myself for what I'm potentially about to find when I reach the living room. And stop.

Art's lying facedown, collapsed across the sofa, wearing nothing but black boxers. His arm dangles off the edge of the seat. A tall, slender, older lady with a salt-and-pepper bob stands in the kitchen. She's wearing wide-legged navy trousers, and a sparkly brooch is pinned to a lilac cashmere pashmina draped over one shoulder. She's got an air of sophisticated elegance about her, which only comes from age and money.

The woman looks at Big Steve and smiles. "Hello, Steven. Nice to see you again," she says in a well-spoken, soothing voice.

He nods his head in acknowledgement. "Barbara."

Her blue eyes survey me with interest. "Hello, I'm Barbara, Art's mother. I don't believe we've met."

His adoptive mum? What's she doing here?

"Is he out cold then?" Big Steve asks before I can introduce myself.

Barbara sighs. "I'm afraid so. I've tried to wake him. I was going to pop the kettle on and make him a black coffee to see if that might bring him round before I start clearing up." She casts a worried glance about the trashed apartment.

There's a fresh dent in the wall. Drops of bright red blood are splattered across the parquet floor, leaving a trail to the sofa. An empty whiskey bottle is smashed on the kitchen counter, and shards of glass glint across the white marble top. That would explain the sound of breaking glass last night when I left. The place is a right mess. And he's injured.

I nibble my thumbnail, my nerves in shreds. "He's bleeding. There's a dent in the wall and blood on the floor."

"Stupid sod." Big Steve grabs Art by the shoulders and hauls him onto his back.

His eyelids are closed, and his usually tanned face is pale and pinched, emphasising the grey smudges beneath his eyes. The smell of stale alcohol oozes from his pores, tainting the air. Even in sleep, he frowns, brow creased, as though he's in some restless dream.

Big Steve gives him a shake. "Come on. Wake up."

He doesn't respond, and panic slices through me. He's had a lot to drink for a teetotaller. Please let him be okay.

My eyes dart to his chest to check that he's still breathing. "Is he unconscious?"

"No, he's drunk himself into oblivion," Big Steve grumbles. "Art!" he shouts. "Wake up."

Nothing.

Big Steve sighs impatiently and takes a step back, gesturing a hand toward the lifeless body. "You try."

I hesitate. "I'm not sure."

"Go on," he urges. "If he wakes for anyone, it's gonna be you."

I kneel on the floor beside him, tentatively reach out a hand, and gently stroke Art's brow. His flesh is cool and clammy beneath my fingers, not warm and inviting like usual.

"Art, wake up," I say softly.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, his breathing changes, and his eyelids flicker.

Big Steve smiles. "See."

He parts open his eyes and stares back at me. For a few seconds, he doesn't seem with it. Then, his eyes open fully as he registers I'm here, and I see my Art staring back at me. Not the one from last night. The one I've fallen in love with.

"Come on, big fella. You need to get to bed and sleep this off."

Barbara and I step backwards as Big Steve wraps an arm around Art's waist and hauls him to his feet, manoeuvring him through the living room and down the hall to the bedroom.

Now what?

It's not the ideal time to meet Art's mum. And I realise I still haven't introduced myself.

"Erm … nice to meet you. I'm So—"

"Sophie." She beats me to it and gives me a knowing look.

Before I can ask how she knows who I am, Big Steve reappears. "All sorted." He grins, his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. "He'll be right as rain once he's slept it off."

Art's mother thanks him.

He gives us both a nod. "I'd best be off. See you later."

Barbara offers him a warm smile, and we both murmur, "Goodbye," as Big Steve heads for the door.

"Shall I make us some tea?" she suggests.

I smile politely. I don't really feel as if I can say no. "Yes, please. That would be lovely."