39. Thirty-Nine

Thirty-Nine

T he afternoon sun is fading behind the clouds by the time I park up on the side of the road. I throw an anxious glance at my phone, lying silently on the passenger seat, willing it to spring into life. I've no idea how long I've been driving around the streets of London. I've lost count of the number of times I've called Art's phone, only to be directed straight to his voicemail.

Something doesn't feel right. My suspicious thoughts have been replaced by the very real fear that something bad has happened.

I chew my thumbnail as my mind frantically spins. Art going AWOL on top of receiving Theo's letter mean my nerves are a tangled mess. Right now, I need him more than ever. I need his arms wrapped around me and for him to kiss my head and tell me everything's going to be okay.

Where the hell is he?

I mentally revisit all the places I've driven past on my hunt for him. All the haunts we've ever visited or that he's mentioned in conversation – Dark Desires, Le Gavroche, two of the local Go Fitness gyms. He definitely didn't seem to be in the mood for visiting his mum when he walked out of the apartment earlier, and I even called the hotel to check, but he wasn't there. I'm desperate, which is why I've ended up here. It's the only other place I've ever heard him talk about, but it's the one place I know for certain he won't be.

I push my head back against the padded headrest and look at the building with the dark frontage and blacked-out windows. Above the two black entrance doors hangs a large black sign with silver embossed letters spelling out, Savage . The S I just went along with it. And in fact, I've been to a club, just not the one you thought I had."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"I'm stating a fact." He wears a wounded expression as he glares at me. "You do think I fucked her, don't you?"

"We promised no more lies," I snap.

This isn't what he wants to hear.

Anger dances in his eyes. "I'm not doing this out on the street. I'll see you at home. We need to talk."

The last sentence hangs ominously in the air as he storms off across the road, not waiting for me to respond. I stand on the pavement, vibrating with anger as I watch him climb into his car and pull away with a squeal of tyres. He clearly thinks I'm being unreasonable.

What the fuck?

I don't remember the drive home and barely hear Derek's cheery welcome as I slowly climb the stairs to the apartment. My mind is consumed with dread as niggling doubt preoccupies my thoughts while my insecurities and feelings for him wrestle it out.

Why did he meet her?

Why did he meet her at that bloody club?

I feel sick with nerves as I push open the door, to be greeted by silence. I discard my keys on the hall table and walk through to the living area.

We both want answers. I sure as hell do, and if he wants to talk, we'll sit down and discuss it like proper grown-ups.

As the hall opens out into the living area, I come to a halt because what I expect to find and what I do find are two very different things.

I expect to see Art sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, looking pissed off. But I don't.

There's no sign of him, but I know he's been back to the apartment. I know that for a fact because there are tiny pieces of paper littered all over the coffee table and parquet floor.

I frown. Why the hell has he made a mess and then vanished?

My eyes swing to the empty kitchen counter.

The letter.

Panic grips my heart like a vice as I look back at the paper confetti scattered all over the floor.

The letter from Theo.

Art read it.

In my rush to leave the apartment and go looking for him, I forgot to move it.

Fuck!

I yank my mobile from out of the back pocket of my shorts and frantically dial his number. The phone rings out … once … twice … three times.

For a moment, I'm worried I'm going to be directed to his voicemail again, but eventually, he picks up. There's no hello. Apart from the background noise of a car engine, the line is silent, but I can't hide my relief that he's answered.

"Where are you?"

He doesn't reply for what feels like eternity but can only be seconds. This isn't a good sign, and what comes next sends a chill down my spine.

"Did you always know your ex was still in love with you?"

"No. I need to explain …"

"There are things that you haven't told me about you and him, aren't there?"

My fingers clench around the phone, and I close my eyes because I can't say no … I can't lie to him. I've been a bloody big hypocrite.

My silence provides him with his answer because he carries on, "And there was me, thinking that I was the only one who hadn't been entirely upfront about the past."

The image of Aisling's hand on his shoulder from this afternoon is burned into my mind. Her smug smile, her look of contempt for me.

"I tried to talk to you about it, on the way back home from Ibiza, but you stopped me. And what about now? What about this afternoon?" I throw back.

"It's not what you think at all. You've got it all wrong. But you seem to have already made up your mind." His hostile tone stabs at my flesh. "Do I know all of Sophie Ward or only half of her?"

His questions are cementing my fears that he's thinking everything I thought he would. Discovering the letter is pushing every one of his buttons. I know it.

"If you haven't told me about this, what else haven't you told me about?"

"Nothing, Art. Listen …"

"Do we trust one another?"

"Of course—"

"Do we?" he cuts me off. "You've been angry with me for not being honest with you, and all the time, you've not been honest with me. I don't know what to think about that. And you … you believe I'd fuck someone else."

I need to speak to him. I need to explain.

Attack is the best form of defence, and I immediately go there. "You've got all of me, Art. I'm still here. We promised no more running. Where the hell are you?"

"We also promised no more lies," he says darkly. "I've kept my side of the bargain. Have you?"

To be continued …