Page 65 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“So, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be straight off the night shift and in bed asleep by now. God knows I wish I was.”
Sam reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, holding it between two fingers like it might bite her.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She thrusts it at me before she can change her mind.
“Thirty-five Pemberton Square. What is this?” I frown.
“Teddy’s address. In Belgravia.”
“How the hell do you have Teddy’s address? Hasn’t he just moved house to escape the paparazzi? God, you could sell this for a fortune.” I’m holding information those crazy fuckers would almost kill for.
“I went there about a month ago. With Ollie.”
“You’re telling me this now? That you’d already been hanging out with Teddy?”
Sam’s cheeks flush pink. “Look, it’s not what you think. Ollie wanted to see the place, and I was curious. We took an Uber—obviously he wasn’t going to park that bloody Porsche outside a secret address—so I still had it.”
I stare at her, trying to process this. “So you just...showed up?”
“He invited us over. I think he just wanted someone to share it with.” She shifts uncomfortably. “The place is gorgeous, by the way. All that old-money elegance you’d never expect from Teddy.”
“So, why are you giving this to me?”
“Because after yesterday morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Rachel, the only other time I’ve ever seen you this shaken was after—”
Pierre.She doesn’t need to say the name—but she’s wrong. It’s crazy, but ending things with Teddy yesterday hurts far more than watching Pierre walk out. When Pierre left, I felt a flicker of relief, as though he’d handed my life back to me. With Teddy,Icalled time, so the ache is self-inflicted. Every time I picture those bleak brown eyes behind his visor, a fresh wave of pain rolls over me.
“Anyway,” she says quietly. “Perhaps I’m an idiot who thinks maybe you should actually talk to him instead of shutting the door on this.”
“After yesterday, I doubt he wants to see me,” I say half-heartedly, though already a hopeful voice inside argues otherwise.
She gives me a hard stare.
“Okay, maybe it’s worth a try,” I concede, even as the coward in me hunts for excuses.
“I think seeing him is the only way you’ll sort this.”
“Thank you.” I stare at the blue swirl of the address. “I think.”
Sam stands, already backing towards the door, hands buried in her pockets. “I’d better get out of here. I need sleep.” She shifts uncomfortably, grimaces. “Fat chance of that happening now.”
“I mean it. Thankyou,” I repeat.
“Look, don’t blame me if this goes to shit. But—” She gives her head a regretful shake. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not when this is something that might actually be worth going for.”
Entering Pemberton Square is like walking into a Christmas episode ofBridgerton. It’s a perfect Georgian rectangle of cream stucco.
Elegant townhouses rise four storeys high, their large sash windows glowing with lamplight, as if every room is lit simply for effect. Evergreen swags and burgundy ribbons hang from the delicate first-floor balconettes and wreaths decorate front doors framed by fluted columns.
My heels echo off the cobblestones as I make my way past the central garden, sitting within original Georgian railings, their spear points softened by clusters of holly. The magnificent plane tree in the centre twinkles, its bare branches strung with tiny lights that flicker like sparks carried on the cool breeze.
At six o’clock on a Monday night, there’s a hush settled across the square. The temperature’s dropped in here, as if the buildings are holding the winter close. I hug my coat tighter, my breath clouding in the night air. I should hurry. In a few hundred yards, I’ll be standing at Teddy’s door, stepping inside, escaping this cold. But my steps are slow and measured as I replay our final words to each other.
“This is over.”
“It might be for you.”
