I glance over at him. “You texted me?”
“Yeah, I was worried about you. The woman at the station desk wouldn’t tell me anything.”
I don’t know why, but his concern touches me. When he catches my eye I try to give him a smile. It comes out watery and twisted.
Only one text is from Simon. Call me.
I will, I tell myself, I’ll definitely call him, but first I check my voicemails, wanting to know what mood he’s in. Whether I should steel myself for the worst.
“Beth, I thought you’d be home by seven. It’s now... um... half past. We need to leave soon, so hurry back, okay?”
The next one sounds angrier. “It’s now quarter past eight. I’m going over to Bryan’s, you’ll have to meet me there. Call me please.”
The last one was left ten minutes ago, according to the log. “I’ve just spoken to Lara, because I was worried sick you were at the bottom of a ditch somewhere. I’m bloody livid. You promised. You said the clinic wouldn’t affect our lives, then I hear you’re in some police station in South London. Call me when you get out. We need to talk.” It sounds ominous.
The message ends and I delete the call. I don’t want to listen to it again. All I’ll do is try to analyse exactly how pissed off he is. Simon’s a man who holds his emotions close—calm, collected, perhaps occasionally calculating. Unlike me, he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Public school and a stint in the army would have beaten it out of him, if his parents hadn’t already got there first.
“Are you okay, Beth?”
I glance up at Niall, and realise he’s waiting for a response. A glib, feather-light reply lingers on the tip of my tongue, and I’m all ready to tell him I’m fine.
But I’m not.
“Simon’s really pissed off with me. I missed an important dinner with some clients.” I look down at my phone, watching the screen fade to black. “I don’t know why I just told you that. It doesn’t matter, not really.”
“Of course it matters. Let me drive you home and speak with him, tell him it’s all my fault.”
I try to imagine that scenario. Niall standing at the door and explaining to Simon why he’s driven me home. I picture Simon’s thin lips and folded arms as he listens to Niall. Then to my fumbled explanations as to why Niall waited for three hours in the rain just to drive me home.
That’s not going to happen.
“It’s fine. He’ll get over it.”
“You don’t look fine. You look upset and scared.” Niall reaches across and squeezes my hand. “You look like you need a friend.”
That’s exactly what I need. Somebody to talk to, someone who won’t tell me what a let-down I am. I never imagined that Niall Joseph would volunteer for the job. Squeezing his hand back, I look down at my legs, following the criss-cross weave of the dark-wash denim jeans that cover my thighs.
“That sounds good.”
His hand is still holding mine. “Let me take you home first, though. You look exhausted. Things will be better after a good night’s sleep.”
I lean my head on the itchy backrest. The rain patters on the metal roof, like a gentle drum. Our warm breath has steamed up the windows, turning them opaque and white. As a child I used to love to draw my name through the fog, watching the water run down the window in thin rivulets. God, I wish I could go back to those days.
“I don’t want to go home.”
“No?”
“No.”
He pauses for a minute, then leans forward and wipes the windscreen with his hand. “Then where do you want to go?”
It’s almost eleven at night. Raining and cold. My husband doesn’t know where I am. I should go home and throw myself on his mercy.
“Let’s go to a pub.”
“Iris! Hey, Iris.” I turn to see Digby calling after me. He’s wearing a black fedora. His hand rests on top of it to prevent it from flying away as he runs. Most guys would look stupid in his get-up: grey, skinny trousers, red braces and a blue striped shirt. But Digby has an aura of cool that crazy clothes can’t crack.
“Hi.” I smile shyly. It’s still hard to believe these people have finally noticed me, after almost a year of mooning around them.