Chapter 6

I lose sight of him inside, and the nerves flutter in my belly. I feel like a

kid again, a stupid kid. Maybe it’s because I’m acting like one, buckled in

tight in some stranger’s car, trusting everything will be alright because he

saw off some guy who was about to steal my V card in exchange for a

crappy half-smoked cigarette.

That’s what stupid kids do, right?

Stupid kids do stupid things.

I see him pay the cashier, I see him smile at her. He has a nice smile, the

kind of smile that makes me feel like a silly girl with a crush. I’m sure I’d

be crushing on a guy like Nick if I wasn’t in such a ridiculously crap

situation right now. The cashier’s smiling right back, and I imagine he gets

that a lot. You would if you were a guy who looked like him.

I pretend to be fiddling with my cardigan as he comes back to the car.

He puts some bags in the back and slips back in without a word. I don’t try

to make conversation. I don’t try to justify my stupid birthday decisionmaking processes.

We head out of Brighton. The roads turn to streets, and streets turn to

lanes, and we’re at big wooden gates at the foot of an incline. They open as

the car pulls up to them, slide right to the side to let us pass. Neat. The

driveway is gravelled and opens up into a parking area, one of those nice

ones where the gravel crunches under your feet. I bet it’s that fancy pink

stuff in the light.

His house is big. Really big.

Nicholas Lynch must be rich. I mean it’s obvious he’s rich. The car. But

I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking straight enough to think about

it.

He turns off the ignition and gets out. Opens my door for me.

“Home sweet home,” he says. “I’ll take you to Newhaven in the

morning, we’ll sort things out, Laine, don’t worry.”

I nod, and climb out. The gravel is the crunchy type, just like I thought.

He grabs the bags from the back, and I look at the house. It’s a barn

conversion. Big windows line the lower floor. He locks the car and leads me

to the front entrance. It’s big and heavy with a wrought iron knocker. It

creaks as he swings it open. I always wanted one of those when I was little

– a big door knocker that would make a big thumping sound.

I’d have loved a house like this.

A proper home for a proper family.

I wonder if he has a family.

He gestures me inside and I feel awkward, my toes still squelchy from

the rain. My pumps are soaked. I ditch them and go barefoot, and he doesn’t

seem to care that my hair is dripping down my back and onto his posh

wooden floor. He leads the way through to a kitchen. It’s huge and beamed

and has one of those fancy range cookers, a granite island, too.

“What would you like to drink, Laine?”

“Just water, please.” My voice sounds weak.

He takes a bottle from the fridge, pours it into a glass. The nice mineral

stuff. His fingers touch mine as he hands it over, and they are warm. Big.

“Thanks,” I say. “For rescuing me. That guy… he was…”

“A waste of life. Scum.”

I take a breath. “I’m such a complete idiot. Like Kelly Anne would ever

stick around after a couple of tequilas.” I laugh but it sounds pathetic.

“What a dufus I am.”

“She left you on your birthday. She’s the dufus, Laine.”

He slips off his coat, and I realise how tailored it is. He has a shirt on,

white. It fits him so perfectly, like those people you see in expensive watch

adverts. He could be one of those.

He rustles in one of the bags and pulls out a bunch of flowers, a cream

cake, too. I watch mute. Like a fool. He digs around in a drawer and turns

his back to me to block my view.

When he turns back around there is one of those little striped birthday

candles stuck in the icing. It’s lit, this tiny little flame flickering away.

I don’t know why it makes me want to cry.

His eyes are so dark. It wasn’t just the shadows in the car. He

approaches and I’m not even watching the candle, I’m watching him.

“Happy birthday, Laine. Sorry, it’s the best I could do. They didn’t have

much of a birthday selection at the petrol station.”

The flowers are carnations. Red ones. The cake is chocolate. An eclair

with that thick dark icing I love best.

It’s the best birthday cake I’ve ever had. The thought pricks at my eyes

and my throat feels scratchy. Ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

Drunk, and high on adrenaline, and tired, and scared, and happy.

“Thanks,” I say, like that could ever cut it.

But it does. It does cut it. He smiles like it’s enough.

“Make a wish,” he says.

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