He leaned across and grabbed the box of tissues from the side table. I took one from him and sat back, trying to take deep, calming breaths. The air came in shallow gasps.
Jake sat there, contemplating me, waiting for me to finish – and probably unsure what to do next. This was not, I was quite certain, what he had imagined when I had invited him over.
What had he imagined?
The thought distracted me long enough to catch my breath. I came back to the surface. Treading water. Yes, this was better. And Jake was still sitting there, his face close to mine, gazing at me with those brown eyes that looked green by firelight. His lips were parted, just a tiny bit, but enough that I knew exactly what he was thinking.
I slowly leaned in towards him.
‘No, Izzy…’ He clamped my shoulders in both hands and my head was jerked back upright. ‘This is not… I mean, that’s not what… You don’t want…’
‘Oh, god.’ I cringed, closing my eyes so I didn’t have to see his embarrassment.
Perhaps the roses hadn’t been from him after all. But how badly had I misread the situation?
‘I’m sorry, I just…’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m flattered, but this is…’ He patted my knee in a matey, not-here-to-take-advantage type way. ‘This wouldn’t be right.’
‘Jake, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘No need to apologise,’ he chuckled, maintaining a safe distance. ‘Tell you what: let’s agree to never mention it again.’
That sounded like a good deal. I smiled sheepishly.
‘There you go!’ He gave me a chummy pat on the arm as he smiled back at me. ‘Listen, it’s probably best that I go now. We can pick up again on this discussion tomorrow,’ he said, putting way too much emphasis on ‘discussion’.
‘No, you don’t have to leave!’ I said. ‘Stay! I want to talk about Amy.’
My words were slightly slurred, and I wondered if he noticed.
‘I do, too, but I think you need to rest first.’
He was making me sound like a crazy lady and the worst part was, he was looking at me with pity.
Jake got up to leave. ‘Goodnight, Izzy. I’ll let myself out. Get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow.’ He stepped out into the rain, pulling the door shut behind him.
My rage flared – at myself, for throwing myself at him, but also at Jake for knocking me back. He had been giving me all the signals, hadn’t he? Maybe I’d got him completely wrong. But did he have to be such a nice guy about it? And the pity? That just made me feel even worse.
And Amy. I was mad at Amy. She had ripped up my life with her insane last wishes, dumping a whole load of her shit on my shoulders and expecting me to give up everything that mattered so that I could clear up her mess. It wasn’t fair. Hot, angry tears rolled down my cheeks. I threw the empty wine glass against the closed door and watched it shatter.
Adam answered my FaceTime on the third ring. It was 3 a.m. in Hong Kong and he was out with Thierry and Mathilde and a group of friends, who all waved at me through the tiny screen. That’s where I should have been – that was my life. Fun and glamour and money, working hard to play hard. Not this – pain and grief and responsibility, and confronting truth that only hurt more the deeper I went. Between sobs, I tried to tell Adam what had happened, but the music was loud – even from out in the street where he’d gone to hear me better – and I knew I was keeping him away from the party. We said goodbye and I went back to my self-pity.
I was bored with wine and needed something a little harder, so I poured myself a scotch. The fire was getting low, the embers glowing a livid red. I piled another log on and pulled the throw over my legs. I had find out what happened to Amy so I could get out of here, soon. Between my mum, the kids and the mess Amy had left, I was going certifiably mad.
Chapter Twelve
I rolled over and the room was suddenly full of light, shocking me awake. It took me a moment to realise I was still on the sofa. The cushion I’d been sleeping on bore the imprint of my face with two mascara-blurs for eyes and a little wet patch where the lips should be. My mouth was dry and everything was blurry, and I realised I’d slept in my contact lenses. For god’s sake, Izzy. It was only mid-week.
I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. The fire had gone out at some point and I’d pulled a second throw onto the sofa rather than dragging myself upstairs to bed. The empty whisky glass sat on the side table like evidence. I’d refilled it several times before finally crashing out, and the rim was smudged with tell-tale lip marks. I padded into the kitchen to fill it with water. There were sparkles of broken glass all over the floor, and it took me a second to remember –
Oh god. Jake. The shame burned in my throat.
With the small dustpan and brush, I swept up the broken glass. It had been one of the pretty green glasses, and I felt awful that my drunken rage had got the better of me. Every movement hurt my head.
Maybe it would be better if I went to Amy’s and watched Betsy there. The last thing I needed was a bored, angry eight-year-old cooped up in this tiny place with me. What time was it anyway? I glanced at my phone – it was already after ten. Why hadn’t my alarm gone off?
I had three missed calls from Mike. I called him back, and he answered on the third ring.
‘Izzy,
