Royally Screwed
Page 79
I visited a children’s hospital ward once, in a facility that specialized in treating the rarest, most confounding disorders. There was a young girl there—a tiny, bandaged, pretty thing—who was unable to feel pain. Something to do with how her nerves communicated with her brain. At first glance, you would think a life without pain would be a blessing—she’d never have a toothache, a stomach-ache, her parents would never have to dry her tears after a knee-scraping stumble.
But pain is actually a gift. A warning that something is amiss and action must be taken to correct the situation. Without pain, an otherwise minor injury could lead to deadly consequences.
Guilt works the same way.
It’s a signal from the conscience that something is terribly wrong.
Mine eats at me—one slow, sharp bite at a time—in the minutes that I stay in the empty office. It claws at the lining of my gut when I make my way back to my room. It gathers in my throat when I pour myself a scotch, making it almost impossible to swallow it down.
I can’t shake it, can’t stop seeing it—the last look on Olivia’s face. Defeated. Crushed.
It shouldn’t feel like this. I’m the injured party. I’m the one who’s been lied to. Betrayed. Then why do I feel so fucking guilty?
It stabs at me like the jagged edge of a broken rib.
The glass clinks when I set it on the table, then walk to the bookcase and through the corridor that leads to Olivia’s room. But when I push on the bookcase on the other side, it doesn’t give—doesn’t move an inch.
I’d forgotten about the latch.
My mother installed it herself. It was the only time I’d ever seen her with a screwdriver in her hand—and the only time I’d ever heard her refer to my father as a fucking wanker.
They’d patched up whatever they’d been arguing about, but the latch had stayed.
And was apparently now being put back to use.
I push at my hair and stalk out of the room into the hall, down to Olivia’s door. I rap on it hard. But there’s no answer.
A young maid nods to me as she passes and my chin jerks in response.
I try the handle, but that door is also locked, so I knock again—working hard to tamp down the pissed-offness growing with every second.
“Olivia? I’d like to speak with you.”
I wait, but there’s no response.
“Olivia.” I knock again. “Things got…out of hand earlier and I want to talk to you about it. Could you please open the door?”
When a security guard strolls past, I feel like a fucking idiot. And that’s just how I must look. Knocking and pleading outside a door in my own bloody house.
This time I pound on the door with the side of my fist.
“Olivia!”
Thirty seconds later, when there’s still no answer, my guilt goes up in smoke.
“All right,” I glare at the closed door. “Have it your way.”
I stalk down the stairs, spotting Fergus in the foyer. “Have the car brought around.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“When will you return?”
“Late.”
His gaze rakes over me. “Seems like a damn stupid thing to do.”
“Turns out, I’ve been doing damn stupid things for the last five months.” I step out through the door. “Why stop now?”
I put on my own clothes after my shower—my real clothes—worn gray sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt. I don’t dry my hair, but twist it up into a bun, wet, on top of my head. My eyes feel puffy and swollen and probably look even worse. I drag my suitcases out from the closet and start packing—being sure to leave every single piece of clothing Sabine, the stylist, brought for me. They already think I’m a gold digger; I’ll be damned if I give them any more ammunition.
When I’m done, I mean to walk down to the travel secretary’s office, to get a car to the airport and a ticket home. But my legs have other ideas.
They bring me through the bookcase to Nicholas’s room.
It’s silent in that way you can feel there’s no one in it. I see a glass of scotch on the table. I touch it with my fingertips—because he touched it. Then I walk over to his bed—that big, beautiful bed. I sink my face into Nicholas’s pillow, deeply inhaling his scent—that amazing man-scent that’s all him—a hint of ocean and spice.
It makes my skin tingle.
It makes my eyes burn. I thought I was all cried out, but I guess not.
With a shuddering breath, I put the pillow back.
“He’s not here, Miss,” Fergus says from the doorway. “He left earlier.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
I walk up to the brittle, sweet man. “You were kind to me the whole time I was here. Thank you for that.”
As I turn to go, his hand falls on my arm. “He’s a good lad—he can be rash at times, but he has his reasons. Let him come to his senses. He loves ye, lass—as the day is long, he loves ye. Don’t rush off just now. Give him a bit more time.”
The Queen’s words echo in my head.
“Time won’t make this better, Fergus.” I lean over and kiss his wrinkled cheek. “Good-bye.”
Jane Stiltonhouse, the travel secretary, is at her desk when I fill her doorway. “I’m ready to go home now.”
She’s surprised at first—and then elated. “Marvelous.”
But pain is actually a gift. A warning that something is amiss and action must be taken to correct the situation. Without pain, an otherwise minor injury could lead to deadly consequences.
Guilt works the same way.
It’s a signal from the conscience that something is terribly wrong.
Mine eats at me—one slow, sharp bite at a time—in the minutes that I stay in the empty office. It claws at the lining of my gut when I make my way back to my room. It gathers in my throat when I pour myself a scotch, making it almost impossible to swallow it down.
I can’t shake it, can’t stop seeing it—the last look on Olivia’s face. Defeated. Crushed.
It shouldn’t feel like this. I’m the injured party. I’m the one who’s been lied to. Betrayed. Then why do I feel so fucking guilty?
It stabs at me like the jagged edge of a broken rib.
The glass clinks when I set it on the table, then walk to the bookcase and through the corridor that leads to Olivia’s room. But when I push on the bookcase on the other side, it doesn’t give—doesn’t move an inch.
I’d forgotten about the latch.
My mother installed it herself. It was the only time I’d ever seen her with a screwdriver in her hand—and the only time I’d ever heard her refer to my father as a fucking wanker.
They’d patched up whatever they’d been arguing about, but the latch had stayed.
And was apparently now being put back to use.
I push at my hair and stalk out of the room into the hall, down to Olivia’s door. I rap on it hard. But there’s no answer.
A young maid nods to me as she passes and my chin jerks in response.
I try the handle, but that door is also locked, so I knock again—working hard to tamp down the pissed-offness growing with every second.
“Olivia? I’d like to speak with you.”
I wait, but there’s no response.
“Olivia.” I knock again. “Things got…out of hand earlier and I want to talk to you about it. Could you please open the door?”
When a security guard strolls past, I feel like a fucking idiot. And that’s just how I must look. Knocking and pleading outside a door in my own bloody house.
This time I pound on the door with the side of my fist.
“Olivia!”
Thirty seconds later, when there’s still no answer, my guilt goes up in smoke.
“All right,” I glare at the closed door. “Have it your way.”
I stalk down the stairs, spotting Fergus in the foyer. “Have the car brought around.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“When will you return?”
“Late.”
His gaze rakes over me. “Seems like a damn stupid thing to do.”
“Turns out, I’ve been doing damn stupid things for the last five months.” I step out through the door. “Why stop now?”
I put on my own clothes after my shower—my real clothes—worn gray sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt. I don’t dry my hair, but twist it up into a bun, wet, on top of my head. My eyes feel puffy and swollen and probably look even worse. I drag my suitcases out from the closet and start packing—being sure to leave every single piece of clothing Sabine, the stylist, brought for me. They already think I’m a gold digger; I’ll be damned if I give them any more ammunition.
When I’m done, I mean to walk down to the travel secretary’s office, to get a car to the airport and a ticket home. But my legs have other ideas.
They bring me through the bookcase to Nicholas’s room.
It’s silent in that way you can feel there’s no one in it. I see a glass of scotch on the table. I touch it with my fingertips—because he touched it. Then I walk over to his bed—that big, beautiful bed. I sink my face into Nicholas’s pillow, deeply inhaling his scent—that amazing man-scent that’s all him—a hint of ocean and spice.
It makes my skin tingle.
It makes my eyes burn. I thought I was all cried out, but I guess not.
With a shuddering breath, I put the pillow back.
“He’s not here, Miss,” Fergus says from the doorway. “He left earlier.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
I walk up to the brittle, sweet man. “You were kind to me the whole time I was here. Thank you for that.”
As I turn to go, his hand falls on my arm. “He’s a good lad—he can be rash at times, but he has his reasons. Let him come to his senses. He loves ye, lass—as the day is long, he loves ye. Don’t rush off just now. Give him a bit more time.”
The Queen’s words echo in my head.
“Time won’t make this better, Fergus.” I lean over and kiss his wrinkled cheek. “Good-bye.”
Jane Stiltonhouse, the travel secretary, is at her desk when I fill her doorway. “I’m ready to go home now.”
She’s surprised at first—and then elated. “Marvelous.”
