Page 27 of On Circus Lane

“But?”

He grimaces. “He’s managed to convince Jack that the indiscretion was mostly Jack’s fault which, if you know Jack, is an easy button to press. Steven’s wandering around like he’s the Angel Gabriel, and Jack thinks it’s all his fault. No, I don’t like that.”

“Ugh,” I say.

“That about sums it up.” He scratches his head. “Sorry to go on, but he’s my friend. I want everything for him. He’s wonderful.”

He’s not the only one, I think.

He carries on speaking earnestly. “I’d love to tell Steven what I think of him, but Jack wouldn’t like it, and he’d probably feel obliged to stick up for Steven. I don’t want to force him towards the prat and away from us. He’s going to have to see for himself.”

“It’s probably the only way.”

“Here you are.” Freddy’s voice comes from behind us. I turn to find him watching us, his eyes bright and curious. “Is this hide and seek?”

“No, why?” Tom asks.

“Because if we’re doing that, bagsy us let Steven hide, and no one looks for him.”

Tom grimaces. “I’m down for that, but why at this precise moment?”

“He just told Georgina that plaid doesn’t suit a woman with her hips.”

I blink. “Is he casual with his life?”

“No, just a cunt,” Freddy says.

I snort and then follow them out of the wynd and back into the bustle of the street. My feet hurt like fuck, but Tom’s company is more than worth the pain.

Chapter Four

BEE

The next morning, I come awake in slow stages like a hedgehog emerging from hibernation. I didn’t close the curtains last night, and the room is full of soft grey light. I twist in the warm sheets and fumble for my glasses on the side table. Once they’re on, I lie with the duvet tucked over my shoulders, looking out of the window.

Edinburgh is laid out before me in shades of stone and tan. Huge, thick clouds scud across the sky, making the tree next to the apartment dip and sway as if dancing. Occasional shafts of sunlight cut through the clouds, making the windows on nearby buildings sparkle as if under a spotlight.

I stretch and groan. My feet are killing me. Lifting the sheet, I poke my leg out and examine my foot. It’s red and sore, with crusty patches where the blisters have burst.

Shit. I need to buy some walking boots. I shudder at that horrid thought.

I settle under the duvet again and consider last night. We’d all been tired, particularly the drivers, so we’d ordered a takeaway and had an early night. I’d sat with Ivy, and although Tom was on the other side of the room, I’d still been conscious of his every move.

“It’s just a bit of a crush,” I say aloud, then throw the covers back and limp to the shower.

Half an hour later I hobble out of the bedroom wearing my skinny jeans and a T-shirt that proclaims,Good Boys Always Finish Last. My heart skips uncomfortably when I see Tom slouched on the sofa, watching television with a plate of toast resting on his flat belly. He’s barefoot and wearing jeans with a grey T-shirt that echoes the colour of his pretty eyes.

His face brightens when he sees me, and then he reads the T-shirt and laughs. “Just what all the well-dressed men about town are wearing nowadays.”

“I might have to cover it up, or everyone will want one.” I tug on the hem for about the fiftieth time since I put it on. “Ivy bought it for me from Kos. I’ve grown a bit since then.”

I limp towards the kettle, switch it on, and lean against the counter, gazing intently at it as if I can make it boil faster with the sheer force of my concentration.

I look over my shoulder at Tom and find that his smile has dropped. He’s gazing with some horror at my feet. I look down and wince. They’re a big cluster of puffy skin and sores. They look worse after the shower rather than better.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Bee, they look painful.”

“They’re not great,” I admit. “I think I might need to buy some walking boots today, which is not something I thought I’d ever say.”

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