Chapter Text
Fresh air and a gleaming stately home, set between swathes of green and brown fields, the sweetness of wildflowers. Two hours in the car is all it takes to bring you to Thornley House, one of your most prized possessions. Such a far cry from the city, the incessant noise and muck. For all its life and excitement, it couldn't ever measure up to this, where order and beauty reign. This, you'll never tire of. The memories here are sweeter, unsullied by business and stress. A safe haven, a refuge you've guarded in near complete secrecy for years.
Though the manor looms large straight ahead, you instead steer the Range Rover down a narrow gravel road, towards the old converted servants’ quarters. Thornley thrives this time of year; wedding season keeps the place and its staff buzzing with life for these warmer months. The little cottage by the west boundary wall is your sanctuary. When your father bought Thornley back in the seventies, the small cottage was much more modest, originally built to house the Thornleys’ head servant and his family. Since then, it’s been faithfully extended so that the new portions are hardly distinguishable from the original structure.
Just as you bring the car to a halt, your ringtone blares, startling you. You're on the cusp of ignoring it, but the name on the screen isn't the one you expect to see. Diana.
“Morning, love,” she chirps. “I'm on my way-”
“Diana, wait,” you cut across her. “Listen, I'm at Thornley. Turn the car around, don't go to the apartment until later.”
The last thing you need is for her to stumble across a confused Ari, alone in your apartment. A sliver of guilt tries to take root in your mind; you pluck it out just as swiftly as it came.
“But, didn't you…?” Diana begins, and you hear the frown in her voice as she puts the pieces together. “Oh, petal. Was it awful?”
“No, no. Nothing like that… I'm just getting away for a bit. The casino's been a lot to take on.”
She takes a long pause, waiting for you to offer more, but her old trick falls flat. You remain silent.
“Right, okay…” she says slowly. “Well, I'll let myself in and tidy up in a few hours. You don't want me to join you up there, keep you company?”
“I'll be fine, Diana. Just a couple of days to clear my head. I'd best get on.”
“Alright, flower. Take care.”
After a moment's thought staring at the now-dark screen, you switch the phone off entirely. That's better. No distractions, no texts that buzz like flies and disturb your few golden days of peace. The girl will manage and, hopefully, come to the same conclusion as you have. That whatever goes on between you is, and ought to remain, impersonal and without feeling. Yes, she's got a sweetness about her, and she's undeniably exciting to be around. Different in a way that makes you feel alive. But you let that cloud your judgement once before, years prior, and vowed never to make that same mistake again.
The image of a young, blonde woman with a shy smile flashes across your thoughts. You discard it before it can take hold.
The cottage is immaculately kept, and you know that the housekeepers have just left by the smell of pine that lingers. Underneath is the old scent of leather and cigars that draws you irresistibly to the library, its beautiful wood panelling and thick, soft carpet underfoot. Closing your eyes, you allow the familiar scent and its memories to filter into your mind, gently taking shape. As a little girl atop your father's knee, enveloped in the sweet smoke of Dominican cigars, leafing through books older than your mind could then comprehend. The memory of being cared for, once; of utter and uncomplicated contentment. A smile works its way over your lips, and you sink down into the winged leather chair by the fire.
Everything you could possibly want is right here. You need only pick up the phone, with its direct line to the main house, and a hot meal would arrive within the hour. Down in the cellar are racks and racks of wine, those precious vintages kept under lock and key. A shower in the gleaming bathroom awaits you upstairs, and an antique four-poster bed which you know will have been freshly made and turned down. They were forewarned of your arrival, after all. A quick call with the manager on the way ensured that everything would be ready for you. Otherwise, you'll be left well alone, save for those who will bring your meals and come to keep the cottage spotless.
For now, peace. And all you intend to do is bask in it. As you sit back and let the aged, pliant leather mould to you, your mind can't help turning over the last twenty-four hours. At first you try to stave off this line of thought. But then, perhaps it's better to get it out of the way, work through these strange feelings piece by piece. Ari, across from you at the dinner table, hanging onto your every word. Her face shining with wonder when she stepped over your threshold, stepped into a world she hadn't ever been allowed to see. And your submission to her, the reversal she brought about with so little effort. A flutter of excitement at the memory stirs in your stomach.
“Stop it,” you scold yourself quietly, whispering even though you're alone.
Sighing, you reach for the landline and put in an order to the main house. A proper meal and a walk about the grounds will clear your head. Afterwards, maybe a cool shower and something decent to read. Might as well enjoy these precious hours to yourself, a chance to disconnect completely. The sound of a distant lawnmower, accompanied by the scent of fresh-cut grass, drifts in through the open window. Soothed, you sit back once more. This is the place where worries melt away, where you'll regain yourself and forget why you came in the first place.
***
Where you'd intended only to stay a night or two, your jaunt at Thornley stretches easily into several days. With no business to attend to and your mobile still switched firmly off, your mind seems to knit itself back together, some clarity returning. There's much to be said about the restorative effects of country air and meals made with farm-fresh ingredients. Once or twice you've been tempted to poke your nose into the main house and see how business is faring, but you've put a strict rule in place that you won't bother with such things out here.
Really, you should call Diana. The thought occurs to you one lazy afternoon as you spread out in the shade of a willow tree, a tartan blanket underneath you laden with fresh bread and preserves. In truth, you're starting to feel isolated. Since your arrival you've barely spoken to anyone, only a couple of words exchanged with the staff and manager. Diana's wittering and gossipping will lift a little of your loneliness, and there's sure to be a barrage of emails in your inbox to catch up on. So you switch your phone back on and watch the notifications start to pour in. Emails, mainly, and the odd missed call. A few from your accountant, two from Diana. Not as bad as you'd expected. As you dial in her number, the screen lights up with a name that makes your heart sink. Ari.
Your thumb hovers over the call icon. One swipe to answer or reject, but you find yourself torn between the two. In the end, it rings off before you can decide one way or the other. Barely a minute later, you're alerted to a voicemail. The temptation to ignore or delete it is strong, but not so strong to offset your curiosity and a tiny, irritating twinge of concern. If she's in trouble, you ought to know about it. Not that you intend to get mixed up in any of her personal problems, but still. You let the voicemail play, the phone pressed against your ear.
Her voice sounds breathless, panicked. The words come in staccato, tense syllables.
“Alcina, it's me. I need to talk to you. I think Tom's going to sack me, I… I might have just slapped him. In work. He called me a slag, so he deserved it, but, yeah. It's… just call me back, please.”
Fantastic. The enmity between Thomas and Ari was plain to see from the start, but you had no idea it ran so deep. An unfamiliar swell of protectiveness and anger flares inside you, brought to flame by Thomas’ insult. So, the staff all know what's gone on between you and Ari. What a vile little man Thomas must be to sling words like that around. The cogs in your brain grind away. Ari held her own in that encounter, clearly, but she did assault him, whichever way you look at it. Not that you wouldn't have done the same. It's a question of whether he'll take it further or, like most men with their fragile pride, simply be too embarrassed to even acknowledge it happened. You'll have to go and assess things for yourself, much as the idea deflates your current contentment like a sad, burst party balloon.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you collect yourself and call Diana. It rings only twice before she picks up.
“Hiya, love. Feeling better?” she asks gently, in a tone that usually soothes you, but you're too wound up. “How's Thornley?”
“Fine, yes, fine,” you sigh. “I'm coming back tomorrow, first thing. Casino business.”
“Oh?”
“Explain later. Could you do me a massive favour in the meantime, please?”
“Course. What's up?”
“I need you to deal with the contractors for Graydon’s. Just some refurbs in the office, back of house, that type of thing. I’m going to be quite busy for a while,” you tell her, still massaging your forehead and eyelids. “Nothing terribly complicated, just invoices and the like. If I forward you the stuff, would that be alright?”
It wouldn't be the first time you've saddled Diana with some of the minutiae of your work. She takes it all in her stride, sharp and steady as she is. You suspect she'd make quite a good business partner, if she were that way inclined. But your independence, coupled with Diana's contentment in her role, keeps such an arrangement off the table.
“Consider it sorted, love. I'll pop round and stock up your fridge before you get back.”
Out of nowhere, a lump rises in your throat. She's so helpful, so genuinely sweet. You imagine her to be like an older sister of sorts, find yourself wishing she was your own flesh and blood. She might as well be, for all the years she's been steadfastly by your side.
“Thank you, Diana. I, erm… I really appreciate you, you know,” you say in a voice tight with suppressed emotion. The words come out stilted and unnatural. “We'll go out and do something nice sometime soon, just the two of us. Anywhere you'd like.”
Diana laughs, and you picture her shaking her head fondly. “Aye, flower, that we will. Wine and dine me like you do all the other girls.”
You manage a feeble half-laugh of your own, the first in what feels like an age.
“Long as you don't want me to take you to bed after.”
“Aw, you're no fun.”
Feeling somewhat lighter, you bid her goodbye. There’s nothing to be done about Ari's predicament or the unrest at the casino, not until tomorrow. For now, you intend to wring out every last drop of calm from the remainder of your time here. Force yourself to have a pleasant evening even as your troubled thoughts simmer in the background, waiting to spring up and shatter the peace you've so carefully manufactured for yourself.
The exact thing you sought to get away from is calling you back to the city, and the dread that comes with this realisation is not so easy to quash.
When the next morning comes, you almost trick yourself into thinking none of yesterday's unease ever happened. The four-poster is so comfortable, and there's the faint sound of the housekeepers working downstairs, quietly so as to not disturb you. Then reality comes barging back in, and you remember. With something of a sulky huff, you roll over and retrieve your phone from the bedside; last night you silenced it in an endeavour to get a half-decent rest.
Another set of missed calls, another voicemail. All from Ari. What now? Expecting another plea for help, or a development in her personal war with Thomas, you let the message play.
Heavy breathing and slurred words, the slosh of a bottle as she drinks. Your body runs cold.
“Hi… me again. You're not gonna call back, I know. Too busy for me, yeah? That's fine. That's absolutely fucking fine. Hope you’re having fun. You know, I really loved waking up on my own in that big apartment of yours with no clue where you'd gone. Fuck and chuck, was it? Fair enough. Don't blame you, babe. I know what everyone thinks, I know what you think. But no-one wants to say it, do they? No-one says it to my face, that I’m a stupid, mad little wino who gripes all the fucking time about my dead brother. Well, Maddie did, so I’m just gonna fuck… fucking prove her right. Prove you all right. Happy now? Fuck’s sake. This tastes like shit… I miss you. Wish you’d taken me with you, but you wanted to get away from me, right? You drive me up the fucking wall, Alcina. I don't get you at all. But I’ve fucked up good and proper this time, haven't I? God, my head hurts. Really, really tired now… I can’t… stay awake. Shit… good-goodnight.”
All the while she's coughing, spluttering and, at one point, weeping softly. It takes a few seconds for her to cut the message off, and her shattered breathing is the last thing you hear.
“Oh, shit…” you whisper aloud into the silence of the bedroom. What the fuck have you done? Too late, you realise: the damage couldn't be reversed by slipping away in the early hours after you bedded her. How stupid you were to think so. Distance has had the opposite effect of what you sought. She's beside herself, mired in grief and loneliness and God only knows what else. The call came in late, well past midnight. You were fast asleep by then, while she was drinking herself into an emotional pit from which you can't save her. It's not your job to save her.
Dawn has hardly broken, and you're already scrambling upright to get dressed and downstairs, waving away the offers of breakfast and coffee from the attending staff. All at once you're wired and irritable, wary of what might be waiting for you back in the city. This has gone far beyond your control now, but you can't quell the anger building from a closed-off well inside you. Why did she have to call you of all people? Beneath your anger, fear - potent and sharp. You're out of your depth, but you know you need to do something. Or, at least, to be seen to be doing something.
In five minutes flat you're back behind the wheel of the Range Rover, cursing as you fumble with the keys. Your hands quiver uncontrollably. As you drive, much too fast, you try to rationalise, to sort through this mess in your mind. Ari got drunk and missed you, got tangled up in a depressive episode and called you out of some misguided notion of who you are to her. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing to get worked up over. She'll just need a stern word when you get back, some boundaries set in place.
Once again you kick yourself for fleeing, where a candid conversation in the morning might have sufficed. You've made things ten times worse where you meant to do the opposite. That ice-cold shard of fear sinks deeper as you tear down the empty motorway, hoping to outpace whatever Ari has done to herself. She'll be okay, you keep telling yourself, all the while furious with yourself for caring in the first place.
***
“Where is she?” you demand of David, who flinches as you fling open the front doors of the casino. He and Thomas freeze comically, the latter grasping a mop handle for dear life, as though it'll protect him.
“Erm… well, I don’t actually know,” stammers David, wringing his hands. “She was a bit, erm, poorly last night.”
“Bloody piss artist is what she is,” Thomas mutters darkly.
“Thank you,” you snap at him. “That's all well and good, but not at all helpful. I know she isn't poorly, either. Someone get hold of her - now - and tell me as soon as she gets here.”
Leaving their gormless, shocked faces behind, you make straight for the office and lock the door behind you. Despite having driven here, you're breathless and exhausted. The office is just as dingy as when you left it, depressing bleak walls and a damp, stale smell. Crumbs on the desk, probably Thomas’ doing. You'll have to confiscate his key and change the lock. All of this darkens your already awful mood, and a headache starts up behind your eyes. There's nothing to do but wait and see if Ari turns up, what state she'll be in. To think that mere hours ago you were waking up at Thornley, only mildly worried about a workplace altercation. That, you could have handled smoothly enough. Now this. A bitter sense of deserving this, just a little bit, starts to sneak in.
It’s almost a relief when David comes to knock on the door, and you summon him inside brusquely. He's red in the face, a mixture of shell-shocked and shifty.
“She's here?” you ask impatiently while he catches his breath.
“Yeah. She's not in a good way. She, erm, might've overdone it a bit last night, you see, and her phone got broke-”
“But she's okay?” you demand.
David pulls a face, halfway between confusion and fear. “Well, I guess so. Just… can you go easy on her? She had a rough night.”
You snap back, “I'll handle this how I please, and I don't need your input on the matter. She can have ten minutes to get herself together.”
He shuffles his feet, cowed. “Right. Yes, sir - ma’am - boss.”
Turning your back, you lean your elbows on the desk. Close your eyes, try to figure out the best angle of approach. But rational thought is impossible; you’re still furious, and, beneath it, frightened. This is a mess, and it's almost wholly of your own making. The fear you've been grappling with feeds into your anger, the much preferable emotion of the two. Anger is simple, easier. Fear isn't in your vocabulary. That which makes you weaker must be discarded, or turned into something else entirely. To let it show would be an admission of wrongdoing or, worse, of caring. She can't be led to believe that you're anything more than her boss.
“That's ten minutes,” you mutter, raising your head. “Come on, then.”
David startles, then darts out of the door ahead of you. He disappears into the casino and you hang back for a moment to draw yourself upright and set your shoulders. This is a matter of disciplining your staff, nothing you can’t handle. You try for an expression of detached neutrality as you stride through the doors, but you can feel that you're scowling. And when you do clap eyes on Ari, your temper flares even hotter.
She's a sorry state even from this distance, with a pathetic, hangdog expression on her bloodless face. Her uniform is hopelessly rumpled; she looks a foot smaller and ten years older as she stands there, perspiring heavily.
“You. Office. Now,” you order with a click of your fingers, swallowing a surge of revulsion. Not wanting to look at her any longer, you turn on your heel and start the way you came. From here you can smell the stale whiskey coming off her in waves, and the stench grows more potent as she catches up with you. Barely containing your emotions, you barge through the staff door, then stop to unlock the office.
“How was your trip?” Ari asks in a tremulous voice.
“Shut up. Get in,” you say, and she slouches inside with her head held low. A petulant look twists her features, ashen grey and shining with sweat. The sporty deodorant she's chosen mixes unpleasantly with the alcohol fumes, and you breathe through your mouth to avoid it. She continues glowering up until you slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame, and her expression changes to one of alarm. Your rage is eclipsing all else, including any consideration for her condition.
“I hope you know what a mess you've caused. I had to drive back immediately,” you say, looking her squarely in her bloodshot eyes. “That little message of yours.”
Ari gulps audibly, swaying on the spot.
“What message?” she all but whimpers. “My phone is broken.”
“I know,” you snap. “David told me.”
She looks perplexed, and there's a long pause before she next speaks. “Oh, okay. What did I say?”
Of course she doesn't remember. How very convenient. You swear under your breath as you retrieve your phone, stab and swipe at the screen until the message starts playing again, at full volume. In something of an accusatory gesture, you turn the screen towards Ari's terrified face.
As she hears her own voice slurring through the loudspeaker, her swaying becomes more pronounced, and what little blood was left in her face drains away. Her lips are almost completely white. The message is, if possible, even worse the second time round. All of her self-pity and misery pours out into the damp office, reverberating from the walls. Then, mercifully, it’s over, but still seems to hang in the air long after the voicemail ends.
Ari stares at you in the wake of her own voice, her mouth slightly open. You glare back, and she drops her head pathetically.
“I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, Alcina. I didn't mean…”
Oh, fuck off.
“Didn't mean what you said?” you finish for her, practically spitting out the words. “Don't give me that bullshit.”
Her eyes snap back up to yours, and there it is. A flicker of anger, hardly matching yours, but still there, mixed with indignation.
“Oi, don't speak to me like that. I'm not a fucking child,” she says, a hint of bite in her hoarse tone. “I got drunk and said some shit, and now I've apologised. What do you want? Should I bloody grovel or something?”
“For fuck's…” you start to whisper, almost inaudibly. The office chair squeaks as you shift your weight. Annoyingly, she's got a point: what do you want from her? A promise to never pull a stunt like this again would be nice, but you're not in a position to demand such a thing. You barely know one another, and any pretence that this is purely professional is quickly sliding away. Ari looks at you clearly for the first time, and you fight not to let your thoughts show on your face.
She moves in, speaking quietly. Her eyes are shining. “I was really upset when you left me alone. And I'm finding it hard to believe you had a sudden business emergency, right after we spent the night together. I bought it at the time, but now…”
“Yes, okay. I lied,” you say, before the urge to dismiss her grows too tempting. “There was no business to attend to. Happy?” The last word comes out harshly, a demand. A horrible feeling of the walls closing in starts to come over you.
Ari wraps her arms around herself, shivering in spite of the sweat shining on her face.
“Alcina, I don't care that you lied. Everyone does it. I care that you left, that you didn't pick up my calls.” Her face resolves itself, momentarily, into something more recognisable beneath the pallid mask. “We had a nice night, didn't we? Did I do something wrong?”
A tidal wave of guilt threatens to engulf you. She must have been sitting with this all the time you were away, wondering if she was at fault for your departure. In a sense, you suppose she was, but not in the way she thinks. Worse, there's a tiny, savage part of you that wants to shake her, tell her firmly: I cannot be what you want. I am not to be trusted, or liked, or relied upon. You were only ever something to play with. Even as you bury the thought, you know you're a bastard for conjuring it up in the first place.
You hear yourself as though from very far away, feel your hands grasping at your hair. “No, no, of course not… you didn't…”
The lie is burning you from the inside. It's no good; you can't carry on blundering down this route, not with her reproachful eyes on you. She knows, but you need to set her right. The fault lies with you, of course it does - that doesn't stop it from being so damn difficult to admit.
“It was a beautiful night,” you say slowly and deliberately, with a sense of stepping through a door from which there will be no return. “You were amazing, truly. It was me, I woke up and I got… overwhelmed. Things happened so quickly, and I needed space to get my mind right. It had nothing to do with you.”
There seems to be a great gulf, a disconnect between you and the words you're saying. The truth has a familiar bitterness, and there's no relief to be had from disgorging it. Only a great weight settling over your shoulders as Ari takes you in, looking as though she might cry. Then she starts swaying again, almost stumbling; you get rapidly to your feet at the sight of her eyes going glassy, like she's about to faint. Her breathing is irregular and panicked.
“Christ, you're…” you half-gasp, stepping into her space. “We need to get you home.”
You wrench open the door and yell for David at the top of your lungs. Ari makes an odd wheezing noise behind you, like a dog with something caught in its throat. David appears in moments, flushed bright red from exertion. He looks at you, then at the open office at your back, his mouth slack.
“I'm taking her home. Tell Thomas I’ll speak to him when I get back.”
“You alright, mate?” he calls out to Ari over your shoulder, craning to look at her on his tiptoes.
“Mm.”
You sigh crossly and clamp an arm around Ari before steering her out of the office, past a still-bewildered David. She seems happy enough at your side, even if she is set to keel over at any moment. You bundle her into the Range Rover, and only then does she pipe up.
“Ooh, nice,” she remarks, grinning; once again, she looks almost like the girl who first caught your attention. You fight your own smile at the absurdity of it, in spite of yourself. This levity is short-lived, as your thoughts are dragged irresistibly back to what on Earth you're going to do about her. Drop her home, let her sober up and hope it all goes away? Maybe you would have, once, but you're gripped by a need to at least try and pull her out of this mess. Not too involved or emotional; merely helpful, as any decent boss would be. Hospitality staff are notorious for their issues with substances, after all. How deep hers run, you couldn't guess. But taking a look at how she lives might help you figure it out, enough to decide how to proceed.
About halfway to her flat, Ari points out of the window at a drive-thru and asks meekly, “Can we…?”
“Absolutely not. Straight home,” you say sharply. “And I'm coming in with you.”
Ari twitches in your peripheral vision, and doesn't speak another word for the rest of the drive. Once again you pull up outside the sad, grey block of flats, grimly relieved that you're not in the Rolls-Royce this time. Ari lets herself in with a fob and proceeds up to the second floor, then starts jabbering as she nears her door.
“It's a mess,” she stammers. “Really, it's grim in there. Give me five and I'll straighten up a bit…”
You just glare at her until she unlocks the door, and push ahead of her into the flat. The first look is bleak, and the smell is even worse. She's tried to make the place homely; faded throws on the threadbare sofa and armchair, a couple of trinkets on a set of broken shelves. Nothing masks the cracked plaster in the walls, the prison-like appearance of the meshed windows. And strewn all around are the remnants of Ari's bender: takeaway boxes, suspiciously dark patches on the carpet, and a mostly empty bottle of whiskey sitting on its side. You swoop in to grab it and leave her standing uselessly in the sitting room as you stalk through to the kitchen, ostensibly to look for more booze to confiscate.
Out of sight, you let out the shuddering breath you'd been holding as you tried not to breathe in the smell of sweat and whiskey. Yes, you're mildly disgusted, but more than anything, shocked to your core. Why did you think it was a good idea to come here? The depth of this problem, the gravity of it, has plunged you into a well of panic. As you cast your eyes around the dingy little kitchen area, your fears are confirmed. Bottles, mostly depleted, line the window-sill, crushed beer cans heaped in the recycling bin. Opening the fridge, you find more: wine, beer, cider. There seems to be no preference for the kind of drink, save for the alcohol content. You press your shaking fingers to your lips, try to steady yourself. From the living room, silence; Ari mustn't have moved at all.
You set to work gathering everything in a carrier bag unearthed from a cupboard, but as you fill it, you know you won't have found everything. Doubtless Ari will have hidden some of her booze, and you can't very well go ferreting around the entire flat. You put on a neutral face as you reemerge into the sitting room, raising your voice.
“This is what I could find. It's going in the bin,” you tell her, glad to see that there’s some colour returned to her sickly face. Her smashed phone on the floor catches your eye. “Oh, and I'll send a courier with a new phone for you before evening.”
“You don’t have to…”
Again, a glare to silence her. “It's not a gift. I need to be able to contact you, and so does everyone else.”
“Thanks…” she mutters as you reach the open door, craving fresh air and space to think.
“Don't think for a minute you're off the hook,” you shout back from the landing and, before she can answer, you're stomping down the metal stairs, away from the mess and disarray. The carrier bag is heavy, clinking softly from the bottles and cans. Your heart finally slows to a calmer pace as you climb into the car, your thoughts a tangle of misgivings and worry. This goes far beyond the typical bad habits of hospitality employees. Little ripples of shock keep running down your spine; Ari's ghastly face flickering behind your eyes, that bulging bag of alcohol on the passenger seat. And the first night you met her, the whiff of spirits that you found merely intriguing at the time, now just another piece of this dismal picture.
Calm down. She's okay.
For the first time, you allow yourself to feel relief, the release of tension; she is okay, for the most part. You didn't find her collapsed or paralytic. She let you into her flat, looked on meekly as you took her booze away. That's something. You can't hope to fix the issue at its root - that's far beyond your jurisdiction - but you've done all you can. All that's left to do is drive away with a hard knot in your stomach, one that you know won't so easily be shifted.
***
Back at the casino, you find Thomas and David muttering to one another at a table, while the rest of the staff dart around them. They look to be deep in a discussion that they don't wish to be overheard. Incensed, you approach them unnoticed from behind, and clear your throat loudly.
“Mother's meeting, is it?”
They both jump out of their skins, and Thomas swears as he whips around too quickly, rubbing at his neck.
“Just on a break, boss,” David chirps, falsely bright and casual. “Ari alright?”
Ignoring his question, you cast cold eyes over the pair of them. “On a break while everyone else is rushed off their feet? Get to work, please. David,” you add, as he heaves himself off the stool, “a moment, if you would.”
He fidgets as Thomas stalks away. You lean up against the table and drum your fingers on it, considering your next words.
“I get the sense,” you begin carefully and quietly, in a measured tone, “that Ari's got a few problems she's dealing with. Would that be right?”
He sticks out his lower lip, moving his head side to side. “S'pose so, yeah. You know her brother died, just shy of two years ago, I think it was. She was cut up, obviously, they were dead close. But as far as I know, she's alright these days. Fond of you, I reckon,” he adds.
Dismissing his last statement with a wave of your hand, you continue. “Well, it doesn't seem to me that she's all that… stable, right now. I mean, last night… I hate to ask, but does she do that kind of thing very often?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “She likes a drink, yeah - don't we all? But something must've been eating her, that's all. Reckon she's feeling much better now that she's seen you.”
“I've taken all her booze,” you scowl. “It seemed the best thing to do, for now. But you're to be my eyes and ears, understood? If you think anything is going on with her, no matter how innocuous it might seem, you come straight to me. Yes?” you demand, and he quails under your gaze.
“Yessir,” he mumbles. “I'll, erm, go and help Tommy, then…”
“I won't be here for the rest of the day. Make sure I don't come back to a mess in the morning, please, David.”
You leave before he can offer up anything else; mostly, because you're not convinced you could bear to hear anything else. Graydon's, once a glittering symbol of a new, exciting start for you, has begun to occupy a rather more depressing place in your mind. Briefly and frantically you wonder if it might be wiser to sell up, even at this early juncture. But the shame of failure, the admission of failure itself, would never leave you. And there is the matter of Ari, and your burgeoning sense of responsibility for her.
When did you last feel this way? Not since Kate all those years ago, not since your father was still alive to witness the way you crumbled and cringed away when the circumstances overwhelmed you. Even now you can remember with clarity your terror, your hopelessness as she sat, sobbing, on the edge of a hotel bed. You feel nothing, conversely, for the concierge who died in front of her. Harry, he might have been called, or Hugh. Did Ari feel anything like what Kate did, when you left without warning? Is it happening all over again?
Don't, you tell yourself sharply, don't go back there.
Diana is waiting for you at home. She lets you sit in silence, and you refuse her offer of a drink, taking a mug of herbal tea instead. She cooks calmly and quietly, but you catch the odd concerned glance at you over her shoulder. Finally, you clear your throat and sigh.
“I'm exhausted,” you say, because it's all you can think to express what is spilling over inside you. “It's been a long day.”
Smiling sadly, Diana turns and places a hand over yours, which is trembling on the countertop. You have to suppress the urge to snatch it away, an instinctual response to comfort.
“I know, flower. Shall I run you a bath and leave you to it?”
You shake your head, trying to beat back the pressure of tears behind your eyes.
“Could you stay over? Just for tonight?” you ask, mortified by how small and broken your voice sounds.
“Oh, love,” she murmurs, enfolding you in her warm arms. “Course I will. You settle down and I'll find us a film, yeah? How's that, petal?”
Nodding, you let her hug you until your tremors subside, and the lump in your throat eases. As you return to a kind of equilibrium, your thoughts quieten and condense into a clearer state. You can handle this; you've handled worse. First, to deal with that which you can control: making sure Ari has the time and space to get herself together. A week off will hopefully see her right. The new phone should be with her by now, handed off to a courier an hour or so ago by Diana. As for the rest, that's down to Ari and whatever support system she has in place. Parents, maybe, or friends, though you haven't the foggiest idea who she has to rely on. Are you one of those people, now? A slightly frightening idea, in truth. But you've insinuated yourself, for better or worse, into her life, and to cut her adrift now would be an act of cruelty even you couldn't muster.
Fond of you, I reckon.
If it's true, if she has become attached…
Diana sleeps peacefully in the guest room, having bid you goodnight some hours ago. You sit bolt upright in the sitting room, still in front of the TV screen, which has long since gone blank. Through the window behind you, the city lies sparkling. Somewhere in it, perhaps Ari is also sleepless at this late hour. You find yourself wondering which light in the distance might be from her window, knowing there's little possibility you can even see her flat from here. Still, it's a small comfort, in a way; you're too tired to question the feeling.
Through the cracks in your defences comes the question that's been hovering, ghostlike, on the edge of your thoughts.
Are you attached? Impossible, surely, after such a short time. It's been so long since you last let anyone get close. Do you even know how it feels anymore, what you're supposed to feel? All you do know is that Ari, for all her faults and worrisome traits, has come to occupy a space in your mind much larger than you’d anticipated.
You're in this now, whether you like it or not. Fear and anticipation mingle in a heady, volatile combination. You cradle it gently, wary of a chemical reaction that, if allowed to happen, will surely upend your entire life. You can't help but wonder: Will it spill over? Will you be able to contain it at all?