Trouble was, once he’d remembered all that, he couldn’t seem to stop remembering stuff he really wasn’t feeling up to coping with. Crap. Shitting, sodding, bollocking crap.
He sat on the bed, rubbing his ankle and wishing he could rub his life better. He’d made a right arse of himself.
Christ. Jory.
What the hell must he think of Mal after last night’s little shit-show?
Oh God. Mal didn’t want to think about it. With his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to meet his own gaze in the mirror, he hobbled into the bathroom, where he bashed his elbow on the doorframe and almost fell in the bath.
And then, because clearly he wasn’t suffering enough yet, he walked out of the bathroom to find Tasha waiting for him with the least sympathetic look ever on her face. “Wanna make a bit more noise? Cos I think there’s still people back in London who didn’t quite hear you crashing around up here.”
Mal winced. “Keep your voice down, yeah?”
“Aw, we not feeling so good?” Tasha’s voice got even louder, because she was an evil witch who hated him.
“Not so much, no.” Mal leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Was it as bad as I think it was?”
“Depends. Do you think you got shit-faced, snogged Jory’s missus, then nearly killed yourself and had to be rescued by the bloke you cheated on?”
“Crap.” Mal’s eyes flew open of their own accord as another memory hit and jolted him from humiliation to hope. “But he kissed me, yeah? When you and him found me? That happened, right?” Because that kiss . . . He could have dreamed that, easy.
It was way too good to be in Mal’s fucked-up life. Just like the bloke who’d given it to him.
Tasha paused. “Look, we were all dead worried about you, you know. Me and him and even her, from what Jory said.”
“‘Her’?”
“The missus. She went up to see him after you bogged off. Told him you was upset and all.”
“Did she tell him it was an accident?” Mal asked hopefully.
“What, you mean like your tongue accidentally falling in her mouth? I dunno, do I? We were a bit more worried about finding you last night.” Tasha folded her arms. “He thought you might’ve walked off a cliff like his old man.”
“Oh fuck, no.” Mal screwed up his eyes, then stopped when he realised how much worse it made his headache. “Wait, he told you about that?”
“Weren’t you listening? We were out of our bloody minds. So . . . look, the snogging? You and him, I mean. Not her—and fuck, babe, what were you even thinking? You gotta not read too much into it. I’m just saying, there’s a difference between Thank fuck you’re alive and Come back, all is forgiven.”
“I know, all right? I know.” But Jory had kissed him like he’d meant it. Like he didn’t care about all the shit Mal had pulled.
“Thought you didn’t think you and him should be together, anyway?”
“I didn’t, but . . . Last night, yeah, when he walked in on me and Kirsty? It was like . . . And then when he came to help me when I called him and he was so fucking happy to see me . . . I dunno, babe. It’s totally doing my head in.”
Tasha put her arm round his shoulders. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Mal nodded miserably.
“Then why don’t you go for it? Tell him you’re sorry you snogged his missus, do a bit of grovelling, and see what happens. I know you’re worried about making stuff awkward for Dev, but after last night, how much worse can it get?”
“What if he doesn’t like me? Like I like him?”
“Babe. He likes you.”
“But how am I supposed to know if he likes me enough? Enough to want me back?”
“Well, duh. You ask him?”
“Yeah, but . . . What if it’s the wrong answer?”
“Then you deal with it.”
“What, man up and keep a stiff upper lip?”
“No, you wanker, you come back, have a good cry, and we’ll binge-watch The Walking Dead, cos there’s nothing like zombies for getting over a broken heart.”
“Will you make me hot chocolate?”
“For you, babe, I’ll even put real sugar in it. So pull up your big-boy knickers, take a headache pill, and go get him, tiger.” She paused. “But maybe get dressed first. And brush your teeth cos, seriously, your breath is rank.”
All right for Tasha to talk, Mal thought moodily half an hour later as he shut the pub door behind him and blinked in the sudden brightness.
She wasn’t the one putting her heart on the line. And she didn’t know as much as she thought she did.
The day, once he got used to it, wasn’t actually all that bright. The weather had well and truly turned. The sky was the colour of a garage floor, mucky grey with blacker splodges like the clouds had been leaking oil. They looked like they were only a rat’s whisker from leaking water too. Mal hunched in his hoody and hoped he wasn’t going to get another drenching. It was going to be a long walk up to Roscarrock House with a duff ankle. Although the William Morris–patterned walking stick he’d borrowed from Mrs. Jago’s hall cupboard (her knees gave her gyp in the winter) was pretty cool. Mal had always liked his pre-Raphaelites, especially the ones with all the knights and the big flowsy ladies falling asleep all over the shop.
A car horn beeped loudly just behind him. Mal winced—paracetamol and codeine could only do so much—and turned to see Jago in his battered old Land Rover, scowling through the side window at him. “You going up to Big Guns?”
“Uh . . .” Right.
