Promised
Page 45
‘Water?’
‘No.’
‘Please, sit.’ He indicates the sofa. ‘I’ll just hang these,’ he says, holding up our jackets.
‘Okay.’ Things are strained, our honest words causing a friction that I want to be rid of. Then soft music is with me and I look around, wondering where it’s coming from while absorbing the calmness of the beats and the gentle tones of the male’s voice. I recognise it. It’s Passenger’s ‘Let Her Go’. My mind starts racing.
Miller returns, his waistcoat and tie removed, his collar unbuttoned. He pours some dark liquid into a tumbler, and I notice the label this time. It’s Scotch. He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me again and sips slowly, but then he almost frowns at the glass before tipping the neat alcohol down his throat and placing the glass on the table.
As I knew he would, he tweaks the position then clasps his hands together, looking at me thoughtfully. I’m immediately wary of that look. ‘Why don’t you drink, Livy?’
I was right to be worried. He keeps saying he doesn’t want to get personal, yet he has no problem asking me personal questions or invading my personal space, namely my home and my dinner table. I don’t say that, though, because what I actually want is for this to get really personal. I don’t just want to share my body with him. ‘I don’t trust myself.’
His eyebrows jump up, surprised. ‘You don’t trust yourself?’
I’m squirming, my eyes darting around the room, despite my desire to share this with him. It’s just finding the courage to form the words that I’ve refused to utter for so long.
‘Livy, how many times do we need to go through this? When I’m talking to you, you look at me. When I ask you a question, you answer.’ He takes my jaw gently and forces me to face him. ‘Why don’t you trust yourself?’
‘I’m a different person with alcohol in my system.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ He didn’t need to tell me that. His eyes are telling me all by themselves.
I feel my face flush, probably heating the tips of his fingers. ‘It doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Elaborate,’ he demands harshly, his lips pursed.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I try to pull my face from his grip, suddenly not so keen to share a part of my personal, his approach to my news the reason for my change of heart. I don’t need to feel any more ashamed.
‘That was a question, Livy.’
‘No, that was an order,’ I snap defensively, managing to break free from his hold. ‘One that I’m choosing not to elaborate on.’
‘You’re being cagey.’
‘You’re being intrusive.’
He recoils a little but quickly gathers himself. ‘I’m being intuitive here, and I’m going to suggest that the only times you’ve had sex were when you were intoxicated.’
My colour deepens. ‘Your instincts are correct,’ I mutter. ‘Is that all, or would you like a run-by-run account of who, what, where and when?’
‘There’s no need for insolence.’
‘With you, Miller, there is.’
He narrows bright blues on me, but doesn’t scold me for my bad manners. ‘I want a run-by-run account.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Your mother.’ Those words make me instantly stiffen, and by the look on his face, he’s noticed. ‘When I was forced to hide in your room, your grandmother mentioned your mother’s history.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘She was a prostitute.’ The words fall from my mouth automatically, taking me by surprise, and I chance a glimpse at Miller to gauge his reaction.
He goes to speak but only achieves a stunned rush of air. I’ve shocked him, as I knew I would, but I wish he’d at least say something . . . anything. He doesn’t, but I do.
‘She abandoned me. She dumped me on my grandparents in favour of a life of sex, alcohol and expensive gifts.’
He’s watching me closely. I’m desperate to know what he’s thinking. I know it can’t be good. ‘Tell me what happened to her.’
‘I’ve told you.’
He tweaks his glass again and returns his gaze to me. ‘All you’ve told me is that she accepted money in return for . . . entertainment.’
‘And that’s all there is to know.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘Dead, probably,’ I spit nastily. ‘I really don’t care.’
‘Dead?’ he gasps, showing more emotion. I’m pulling reactions from him left, right and centre now.
‘Probably,’ I shrug. ‘She chased a rainbow. Every man who had her fell for her, but no one was ever adequate, not even me.’
His face softens, sympathy washing over his features. ‘What makes you think she’s dead?’
I take a deep breath of confidence, ready to explain something that I’ve avoided explaining to anyone ever. ‘She fell into the wrong man’s hands too many times and I have a bank account loaded with years of earnings that hasn’t been touched since she’s been gone. I was only six, but I remember my grandparents constantly arguing over her.’ My mind is instantly bombarded by images of my granddad’s anguish and my nan crying. ‘She would disappear for days regularly, but then she didn’t come back. My granddad called the police after three days. They investigated, questioned her current beau and the many men before him, but with her history they closed the case. I was a little girl, I didn’t understand, but when I was seventeen I found her journal. It told me everything – in vivid detail.’
‘I . . .’ He clearly doesn’t know what to say, so I go on. I feel a sense of relief offloading it all, even if it means he’ll walk away from me.
‘I don’t want to be anything like my mother. I don’t want to drink and have sex with no feelings. It’s nothing, except degrading and meaningless.’ I realise what I’ve said the second it falls from my lips, but I’ve given Miller no reason to believe there are no feelings from my side. ‘She chose that lifestyle over her family.’ I surprise myself by keeping my voice steady and strong, even if hearing it aloud for the first time ever causes me physical pain.
Miller’s cheeks puff, letting out a rush of air, and he takes his empty glass and frowns at it.
‘Shocked?’ I ask, thinking I could do with one of those shorts.
He looks at me like I’m daft, then stands and paces back to the drinks cabinet, pouring more whisky into his tumbler, this time halfway as opposed to the usual two fingers. And then he surprises me by pouring another glass before resuming his position opposite me. He hands me the fresh glass. ‘Have a drink.’
I’m a little stunned at the glass being waved under my nose. ‘I told you—’
‘Olivia, you can have a drink without getting mindlessly drunk.’
Cautiously reaching forward, I take the glass. ‘Thank you.’
‘Welcome,’ he practically grunts before knocking back his drink. ‘Your father?’
I have to stop myself from spilling a sardonic laugh and shrug my answer instead, making him exhale over the rim of his glass.
‘No.’
‘Please, sit.’ He indicates the sofa. ‘I’ll just hang these,’ he says, holding up our jackets.
‘Okay.’ Things are strained, our honest words causing a friction that I want to be rid of. Then soft music is with me and I look around, wondering where it’s coming from while absorbing the calmness of the beats and the gentle tones of the male’s voice. I recognise it. It’s Passenger’s ‘Let Her Go’. My mind starts racing.
Miller returns, his waistcoat and tie removed, his collar unbuttoned. He pours some dark liquid into a tumbler, and I notice the label this time. It’s Scotch. He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me again and sips slowly, but then he almost frowns at the glass before tipping the neat alcohol down his throat and placing the glass on the table.
As I knew he would, he tweaks the position then clasps his hands together, looking at me thoughtfully. I’m immediately wary of that look. ‘Why don’t you drink, Livy?’
I was right to be worried. He keeps saying he doesn’t want to get personal, yet he has no problem asking me personal questions or invading my personal space, namely my home and my dinner table. I don’t say that, though, because what I actually want is for this to get really personal. I don’t just want to share my body with him. ‘I don’t trust myself.’
His eyebrows jump up, surprised. ‘You don’t trust yourself?’
I’m squirming, my eyes darting around the room, despite my desire to share this with him. It’s just finding the courage to form the words that I’ve refused to utter for so long.
‘Livy, how many times do we need to go through this? When I’m talking to you, you look at me. When I ask you a question, you answer.’ He takes my jaw gently and forces me to face him. ‘Why don’t you trust yourself?’
‘I’m a different person with alcohol in my system.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ He didn’t need to tell me that. His eyes are telling me all by themselves.
I feel my face flush, probably heating the tips of his fingers. ‘It doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Elaborate,’ he demands harshly, his lips pursed.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I try to pull my face from his grip, suddenly not so keen to share a part of my personal, his approach to my news the reason for my change of heart. I don’t need to feel any more ashamed.
‘That was a question, Livy.’
‘No, that was an order,’ I snap defensively, managing to break free from his hold. ‘One that I’m choosing not to elaborate on.’
‘You’re being cagey.’
‘You’re being intrusive.’
He recoils a little but quickly gathers himself. ‘I’m being intuitive here, and I’m going to suggest that the only times you’ve had sex were when you were intoxicated.’
My colour deepens. ‘Your instincts are correct,’ I mutter. ‘Is that all, or would you like a run-by-run account of who, what, where and when?’
‘There’s no need for insolence.’
‘With you, Miller, there is.’
He narrows bright blues on me, but doesn’t scold me for my bad manners. ‘I want a run-by-run account.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Your mother.’ Those words make me instantly stiffen, and by the look on his face, he’s noticed. ‘When I was forced to hide in your room, your grandmother mentioned your mother’s history.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘She was a prostitute.’ The words fall from my mouth automatically, taking me by surprise, and I chance a glimpse at Miller to gauge his reaction.
He goes to speak but only achieves a stunned rush of air. I’ve shocked him, as I knew I would, but I wish he’d at least say something . . . anything. He doesn’t, but I do.
‘She abandoned me. She dumped me on my grandparents in favour of a life of sex, alcohol and expensive gifts.’
He’s watching me closely. I’m desperate to know what he’s thinking. I know it can’t be good. ‘Tell me what happened to her.’
‘I’ve told you.’
He tweaks his glass again and returns his gaze to me. ‘All you’ve told me is that she accepted money in return for . . . entertainment.’
‘And that’s all there is to know.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘Dead, probably,’ I spit nastily. ‘I really don’t care.’
‘Dead?’ he gasps, showing more emotion. I’m pulling reactions from him left, right and centre now.
‘Probably,’ I shrug. ‘She chased a rainbow. Every man who had her fell for her, but no one was ever adequate, not even me.’
His face softens, sympathy washing over his features. ‘What makes you think she’s dead?’
I take a deep breath of confidence, ready to explain something that I’ve avoided explaining to anyone ever. ‘She fell into the wrong man’s hands too many times and I have a bank account loaded with years of earnings that hasn’t been touched since she’s been gone. I was only six, but I remember my grandparents constantly arguing over her.’ My mind is instantly bombarded by images of my granddad’s anguish and my nan crying. ‘She would disappear for days regularly, but then she didn’t come back. My granddad called the police after three days. They investigated, questioned her current beau and the many men before him, but with her history they closed the case. I was a little girl, I didn’t understand, but when I was seventeen I found her journal. It told me everything – in vivid detail.’
‘I . . .’ He clearly doesn’t know what to say, so I go on. I feel a sense of relief offloading it all, even if it means he’ll walk away from me.
‘I don’t want to be anything like my mother. I don’t want to drink and have sex with no feelings. It’s nothing, except degrading and meaningless.’ I realise what I’ve said the second it falls from my lips, but I’ve given Miller no reason to believe there are no feelings from my side. ‘She chose that lifestyle over her family.’ I surprise myself by keeping my voice steady and strong, even if hearing it aloud for the first time ever causes me physical pain.
Miller’s cheeks puff, letting out a rush of air, and he takes his empty glass and frowns at it.
‘Shocked?’ I ask, thinking I could do with one of those shorts.
He looks at me like I’m daft, then stands and paces back to the drinks cabinet, pouring more whisky into his tumbler, this time halfway as opposed to the usual two fingers. And then he surprises me by pouring another glass before resuming his position opposite me. He hands me the fresh glass. ‘Have a drink.’
I’m a little stunned at the glass being waved under my nose. ‘I told you—’
‘Olivia, you can have a drink without getting mindlessly drunk.’
Cautiously reaching forward, I take the glass. ‘Thank you.’
‘Welcome,’ he practically grunts before knocking back his drink. ‘Your father?’
I have to stop myself from spilling a sardonic laugh and shrug my answer instead, making him exhale over the rim of his glass.
