Page 21 of Love and Loathing

TEN

Evie was staring athim, a tiny crease on her smooth brow. He was fairly sure his expression gave nothing away. He wasn’t one of those drunks who got clumsy or stumbled or slurred their words. He’d often been told it was hard to tell at all. In fact, many of his previous girlfriends, Liv included, had complained fiercely that after a few drinks he became completely unreadable, face and eyes a void. Which never failed to surprise him. Because what he most often felt like was a small boy lost in a very large supermarket, trying hard not to cry.

“The Prestwick suite,” he explained, “turns out to have very thin walls.”

Evie frowned, confused. Then she got it. “Oh.” Then louder, grimacing: “Oh!”

She stepped back, gesturing into the room. He took a step or two inside and she closed the door, then went to sit on the edge of the bed, looking at him. He stayed where he was and leant back against the door.

“I won’t stay long,” he said.

“From the look of Domnall, you’ll probably be safe to go back in two or three minutes.” She laughed. He couldn’t join in.

“Or,” she said, grinning, “we could go to your room, jump up and down on the bed and make pretend sex noises?”

“No offence, but I’d rather find a dark corner to crawl into and die.”

“Fair enough.”

She looked at him for a moment, head tilted. She was in pyjamas—unsurprisingly, given it was one o’clock in the morning. Dark blue, he thought, not quite able to tell in the dim light, only moonlight in the room. But it was a full moon, the sky clear, her curtains open on all of the three windows that lined the large bedroom. Her bed was large, too, Jacobean and dark-framed, though the rumpled covers looked modern. Not quite silk, he thought, looking at her pyjamas again. A loose top skimming small breasts, short shorts, loose around her thighs. Cotton, blended with silk. No, not silk at all. That wouldn’t be vegan. But the fabric was smooth and soft, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The room was cool, one of her windows opened to the deep September night, and her nipples were hard, beautifully pert.

“On a scale of one to five,” Evie said, seeming unaware of his study—it had only been a glance, though in his drunken state it felt like he had lingered longer. He would have quite liked to linger longer. Anything to take his mind off what was happening in the room next to his. “On a scale of one to five, how drunk are you?”

“One to five? DEFCON six.”

She laughed softly. “Thought so. Hang on.”

Getting up, she padded barefoot to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. But he shook his head as she held it out to him. “I’m alright.”

“Sure?”

Giving up, she put the glass down on the bedside table nearest where he stood, then got into the bed—into it properly this time, snuggling under the covers on the far side, where presumably she normally slept.

“It’s cold,” she said, by way of explanation.

“It is,” he agreed.

“You could get in?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You look extremely uncomfortable, standing there.”

“I feel far worse on the inside, believe me.”

Ah. OK. There was drunk Aubrey. Admitting that. Even welcoming the soft pity that swept Evie’s face. He swallowed, throat dry, looked longingly at the glass of water. It was only water. Couldn’t hurt. It was all Evie had been allowed at dinner. He swallowed again, forcing down something sharp, and went over to the bed. Picked up the water. Evie patted the pillow next to her.

“At least sit down. Give it thirty minutes and go back. You’ll be safe then, surely.”

He just nodded, opting not to think about it, then sat down on the bed, above the covers, back against the headboard, forearms resting on his bent knees. Very muchnotgetting into bed with Evie.

He felt her eyes on him while he drank. When he set the glass back down, she said, “I have to ask… Why Liv?”

“It’s always been Liv.”

“But…why?”

He let out a breath, looked down at her head on the pillow. “Do you believe there’s even the tiniest part of me that wants to talk about it?”

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