Unveiled (One Night 3)

And bury my head a little farther.

‘She’s settled and George is with her.’ I head for the sink and plunge my hands into the soapy water. ‘She seems quite bright, but she needs to stay in bed for a week or so.’ I wash and place the few dirty mugs on the drainer and then swirl my hands around in the sink, vainly trying to locate something else to wash. ‘She’s going to be hard work.’

‘Olivia?’ Miller’s footsteps approach behind me. My eyes close and I give up blindly grappling in the water for nothing. ‘I think you’re done.’ He takes my hands from the sink and starts to dry them with a tea towel, but I shrug him off and grab a dishcloth.

‘I should wipe the table down.’ I slap the sopping material on the table, making Gregory shift back. I don’t miss the cautious look he tosses over my shoulder in Miller’s direction. ‘I need to keep the house spic-and-span.’ My hand works furiously across the pristine wood, wiping up a mess that isn’t even there. ‘She’ll only moan or try to clean up herself.’

Strong hands wrap around my wrists and hold them still. ‘Enough.’

My eyes climb his bespoke suit, up his neck, and onto his shadowed jaw. Blue eyes are sinking into me. Sympathetic eyes. I don’t need sympathy. I need to be allowed to get on with things.

‘I’m not ready,’ I whisper, swallowing down the lump forming in my throat, my eyes begging him to let me be.

‘And I don’t want to expose you to more pain.’ He pries the cloth from my hand, folding it neatly, while I silently thank him and breathe in some composure. ‘I’m staying here tonight, so I’ll need to pop home and collect some things.’

‘OK,’ I agree, busying myself by brushing down the front of my sundress.

‘Yeah, I should be going,’ Gregory pipes up, standing and putting his hand out to Miller, who accepts immediately, nodding sharply. It’s a silent message – something to reassure my best friend.

Their polite exchange at any other time would be so satisfying to see. Not now, though. Now it’s like they’ve teamed up as a last resort . . . to deal with the fragile waif. I can’t help the wave of resentment I feel. This is just a show. They’re not being courteous because they know it’s what I would really love, for them both to be friendly and actually like each other. They’re acting like this for fear of tipping me over the edge.

Gregory approaches and pulls me into a hug that I struggle to return. I suddenly really do feel fragile. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, baby girl.’

I nod and break out of his hold. ‘I’ll see you out.’

‘OK.’ His reply is drawn out, and he moves to the kitchen door, raising his hand to Miller in goodbye.

I don’t see Miller’s response, or whether any more exchanges are passed because I’m halfway up the hallway.

‘She’s a firecracker!’ George laughs, and I look up to see him plodding down the stairs. ‘But exhausted. I’ve left her to have a kip.’

‘Are you going, George?’

‘Yes, but I’ll be back tomorrow at noon sharp. I have my orders.’ He reaches the bottom of the stairs on a huff, his big chest pulsing from the exertion. ‘You look after her,’ he says, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.

‘I’ll take you home, George.’ Gregory appears, waving his keys. ‘As long as you don’t mind sharing a seat with a few tools.’

‘Ha! I shared space with far less desirable things during the war, lad.’

Gregory passes me on a strained smile and opens the door for George. ‘You can tell me all about it on the way home.’

‘It’ll make your toes curl!’

They’re both off up the garden path, George rabbiting about his war days, Gregory laughing tightly every now and then in response. I close the door, shut the world outside, but soon realise that I can’t shut my mind down. I’m fooling myself. Being here, smelling our house, knowing Nan is safe upstairs and Miller is floating around in all of his perfection, isn’t working as I’d hoped. Nan’s shockingly accurate conclusion has only added to it.

The distant ring of my mobile makes me moan, and I make no rush to go in search of it. Anyone who I would like to talk to is either here or just this moment left. I pad back to the kitchen, finding no Miller. Locating my bag, I rummage through it until I find the source of the persistent sound. I hit Reject and notice six missed calls, all from William. I turn it off and toss it to the side, glowering at it.

Then I go in search of Miller. I find him in the lounge, seated on the edge of the couch. He has a book in his hands. A black book. And he’s engrossed in the pages.

‘Miller!’

He visibly jumps and the book snaps shut as I hurry over and swipe it from his hand. ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask angrily, holding it behind my back, hiding it . . . ashamed of it.

‘It was tucked down the side of the couch.’ He points to the edge, provoking a mental image of me dumping it on the sofa when I last tortured myself by reading a passage. How could I be so careless?

‘You shouldn’t have read it,’ I spit, feeling the horrid thing burning my hands, like in a weird sense, it’s coming back to life. I shake that wayward train of thought away before it takes too much more of my attention – undeserved attention. ‘Reminiscing, were you?’ I ask. ‘Reminding yourself of what you’re going to be missing?’ I regret my vicious attack before Miller’s face twists with hurt, even more so when that hurt morphs into anger. That was unnecessary and spiteful. I didn’t mean it at all. I’m lashing out, being unreasonable and cruel to the wrong person.