Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (52 page)

‘Right,
’
I say slowly. My whole life is falling apart around me. ‘So, Dom went out with me because I reminded him of his dead fiancée.’

‘I’m sure the fact that you look like her has something to do with it, but you
’
re totally different in every way.’

I look at him with disbelieving eyes.

‘Everything about you is different. She was selfish, tempestuous, controlling and impulsive, and you are careful, kind, considerate and deep.’

Oh my God. The way he describes me makes me sound so boring. I cover my eyes with the palms of my hands. What a fucking mess!

Jake comes over and goes down on his haunches in front of me. Startled, I uncover my eyes. Jake at close quarters is an intimidating experience. It’s like being too close to a live wire. Part of me wants to move away.

As if he knows that I am uncomfortable, he fixes me with his mesmerizing eyes and moves in for the kill. ‘Remember, when I said Vivien was no good for him, I truly meant it. You are the perfect match. You balance him and bring out the best in him. You make him happy.’

‘But he wants her. She is his true soul mate. I’m just a poor imitation.’ It hurts like hell to voice the thought. I feel the tears start welling up in my eyes.

‘Ella, listen to me. He was eighteen. She was his first love. Do you remember what you were like when you were eighteen? If he had married her, it would have been a disaster, and they would have ended up hating each other and getting divorced. But because she died, she has become his dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen. A great, lost love. But he has suffered enough. She
’
s gone, and you
’
re here.’

‘I’m nothing to him.’

‘You have no idea what you
’
ve done for him. The demons had completely taken over when you came into his life. You broke them up with your softness.’

I stare at him wordlessly. How much I want to believe him, but my heart feels like it
’
s breaking into pieces. He never wanted me. He was trying to replace her. When he was touching me, he was really touching her.

‘He never really wanted me,’ I sob. ‘The whole time he was pretending I was her.’

He reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. His hand is warm and gentle. And it makes me want to lean into it for the comfort it holds.

‘Ah, Ella. You
’
re not a man. I am. Take it from me. My brother wanted Vivien the way a boy wants a girl. He wants you with the passion with which a man wants a woman. Let him discover that. Give him a chance. There’s a lot of Dom that you
’
ve not seen yet.’ He smiles tenderly and removes his hand.

I stare at him through a film of tears. The kindness and softness that he
’s
showing has surprised me. He always looks so unreachable and aloof.

‘But he doesn’t want to be with me anymore,’ I say softly.

‘If you believed that you wouldn’t be here now.’

I sniff. ‘So what do I do? Wait for him to come to me?’

He shrugs. ‘I won’t tell you what to do, but if I were you I wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of something I wanted. I’d go and fight for it until it was mine or I had died trying. The journey has just begun and the destination could be a very beautiful place.’

He stands, and walks away from me toward his desk. He comes back with a box of tissues. I pull out a couple and wipe my face. Then I stand.

‘I should be going,’ I say.

‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

‘There
’
s no need.’

‘I want to,’ he says with a gentle smile.

I turn toward him. ‘Thank you, Jake.’

‘I’ll always be here for you. Don’t give your ear to the devil.’

To love too much is to lick honey from the point of a knife.

TWENTY-THREE

I
think I was OK while I was in Jake’s house. While I was saying goodbye to Lily and Liliana. I was even OK when Jake closed the car door for me and waved me away.

It hits me when I
’
m on the motorway.

Suddenly my windpipe feels like it is full of concrete. I can’t breathe. I swerve into the hard shoulder. Horns blare. I screech to a stop. I feel as if I
’
m suffocating. I open the car door and stumble out. I lurch to the edge of the road and collapse holding my throat. I take shallow breaths.

On my hands and knees, I pant until I feel my airways open. Cars whoosh past at great speed. Somebody thinks to stop his car up ahead. A man runs toward me. I hold my hand up, the palm facing him to tell him not to come forward. He stops a few yards away.

‘Are you OK?’

I nod.

‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

I shake my head.

‘You sure?’

I nod and smile weakly at him.

‘Want me to wait with you?’

I shake my head again, touched by the kindness of this stranger.

He raises his hand in some kind of acknowledgment and, turning around, starts to walk away.

‘Hey,’ I call out.

He turns back.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s all right,’ he says, and with a backward wave returns to his car. I watch him drive away. I sit by the side of the road, and, with the engine of my car still running, I burst into a flood of tears. When it
’
s all over, I get back into my car and drive home. There, I stand in the shower and let the water wash away my pain. I wrap myself in a robe and call Anna. I tell her everything.

‘I’m coming over,’ she says. ‘Put some shot glasses in the freezer.’

‘Oh, Anna,’ I sigh, tears filling my eyes.

‘We need to get drunk. It’s been ages.’  

She arrives at my doorstep with two bottles of her father’s homemade gooseberry vodka. She gets the cold glasses out of the freezer and pours us a shot each. The sweet, sharp taste is like summer in a glass.

I down another shot and put the glass on the coffee table with a thump. One bottle is rolling on the floor and this bottle is almost half empty.

Anna claps her hands excitedly. ‘I know what. You should become the coffee beans,’ she slurs.

I frown blearily. ‘The coffee beans?’

‘You know. From the story on the Internet about the grandmother, the broccoli.’ She stops, her eyes narrowed. ‘No, wait. It wasn’t broccoli. It was carrots. Yeah, that’s right, the carrots, the eggs and the coffee beans.’

‘I don’t know the story.’

She sits straighter. ‘This woman gets cheated on—’

‘That’s not my situation,’ I protest immediately.

She waves her hand airily. ‘Just wait for the end, will ya?’

‘Go on.’

‘She goes to her grandmother and asks for her advice. The grandmother puts three pots of water on the stove. Into one pot she puts broccoli.’

‘Carrots,’ I correct.

She nods sagely. ‘I was just checking to see if you were listening.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Now that we
’
ve established that you
’
re paying attention, we
’
ll carry on. And in the other two pots she puts the other two ingredients.’

‘Eggs and coffee beans.’

‘Exactly.’

I sigh. Even though I am so drunk, I can’t get Dom out of my head.

‘She lets all the ingredients boil for twenty minutes.’

‘Why twenty minutes?’

‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’

‘Go on,’ I say, and reach for the bottle again.

‘She takes all the ingredients out, and basically shows her granddaughter that the carrots went in strong and hard and came out soft and malleable. The eggs went in soft and came out hardened. Only the coffee beans elevated themselves to another level, released their fragrance and flavor, and changed the water. So all three objects faced the same suffering and adversity, but each reacted differently. When the situation gets hot, you have to decide which are you.’

I put the bottle down. ‘I feel like the carrots at the moment.’

‘That’s today. What will you be tomorrow and the day after?’

I drop my forehead into my palm. ‘Oh, Anna. My life is such a mess. I thought I was in such a good place—and now look at me! My world was like a bubble waiting to pop.’

‘Hey, look on the bright side. At least she’s dead.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

‘Yeah. At least she’s not around to disturb your fragile peace of mind with cruel physical comparisons.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I have a raging aversion to
all
my boyfriend’s exes. Like, seriously detest, abhor, and hate them. I get so jealous that I can’t stop pouring over their Facebook photos to examine their tans, their smiles, their outfits, in the hope of finding faults so that later I can subtly criticize them while in conversation with my boyfriend.’

She stops and picks at her nail polish.

‘In fact, one or two I’ve hated so much I even fantasized about breaking into their houses and stabbing them while they slept in their beds.’

‘Really?’ I ask, shocked.

‘Absolutely. It’s petty and childish, but I can’t help it. It’s like an addiction because I
’
m so insecure. I feel as if I
’
m in competition with them. I’d much rather a dead girlfriend who looks like me.’

‘No, I’d rather have an ex who
’
s alive. I can’t even consider pouring over her Facebook pictures to subtly criticize her because she
’
s been put on some kind of pedestal. I mean how do you compete against a dead woman?’ I ask garrulously.

‘God! I hate exes. Alive or dead, they’re just trouble. Talking about exes, I forgot to ask before, have you heard from your stalker?’

I shrug. ‘I think I frightened him off.’

‘No more midnight phone calls?’