We ate at a table in the hall. Despite the dour surroundings and being clear about the whole friends thing, it didn’t alter the fact I was sat having dinner with a very attractive man. I took a moment while Dylan fetched napkins to admire my beautiful engagement ring, wonder how my precious brother was doing, and sternly remind myself that if Dylan knew I’d mentally flapped my hands in front of my face when his hand brushed mine as he’d passed me a plate, he would boot me right back out into the storm. He would not want to be friends with the kind of woman who, being engaged to one man, had immoral thoughts about another while sharing a pizza in the church she planned to get married in.
I grabbed hold of those thoughts with both hands, stuffing them back in the forbidden corner of my mind where my childhood hopes, worst memories and murderous plans lived.
Everything back under control.
Hah! You keep telling yourself that, Faith and one day, you might actually believe it.
‘Cheers.’ Dylan leaned across the table to chink my glass. ‘You were amazing earlier. Saved the day.’
‘Cheers. And thanks for inviting me. You saved my day from a potential cheese puff overdose on the sofa. And I enjoyed being in charge of a kitchen.’
‘I don’t just mean in the kitchen. Not many people are comfortable making conversation with some of those guys. You didn’t bat an eyelid at their more bizarre behaviour. Or the flirting.’
‘Err, hello? Nobody flirted. They were just grateful for the pie.’
‘The bloke with theDoctor Whoscarf wouldn’t leave you alone the whole time you were clearing tables.’
I helped myself to another piece of pizza. ‘Maybe so, but repeatedly grabbing a person’s backside isn’t classed as flirting.’
‘Right. That might explain my lack of success with women…’
‘Really?’ I couldn’t help laughing at that comment. ‘I think there must be another reason you’re still single.’ I mean, come off it, how did that happen?
He took a moment to wipe his hands on a napkin. ‘Yeah. It’s a long story.’
‘I like hearing stories.’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe another time.’
‘Okay. I’ll hold you to that.’
We ate in silence for a couple of minutes while I tried to stop wondering what Dylan’s long story might be.
‘I meant it, though,’ Dylan said. ‘It’s a rare gift to mix with people like the Uppertons and some of the guests today and get along with all of them. You should do something with that.’
I put the half-eaten pizza slice back down on my plate. ‘Right. One, I don’t get along with most of the Uppertons. I’d tell you what Perry’s mum called me at Christmas dinner but I don’t want to wreck your high opinion of me. Two, I can mix with messed-up people struggling along the bottom rung of society because I used to be one. I’ve lived with people like that. And for a short time, I had nowhere to live at all.’
He looked at me, deadly serious. ‘Can you tell me about it?’
Could I? Could I tell someone? Could I tell Dylan? I stole a peek at those soft, clear eyes and thought I could try.
‘I left Brooksby and took a train to London. I thought I’d find work there. But obviously I didn’t in the first couple of days, and within a week, my money ran out. I spent thirty-one nights sleeping rough.’ I paused, took another drink of juice. ‘I did some stuff I’m not proud of, the kind of stuff desperate women do, in exchange for food and some shelter. It was November. I don’t know if I would have survived otherwise.’
Dylan’s hand slid across the table, towards mine, veering at the last moment to fiddle with the pizza plate. I ignored how badly I wanted to feel the strength of his rough fingers wrapped around mine.
‘I had an injury. Not from then: from before. But unsurprisingly, it got infected. Eventually, when the fever grew so bad I knew I’d die if I didn’t get help, I crawled to the nearest doctor’s surgery and passed out on the doorstep. I spent a week in intensive care. Another on a normal ward. One of the nurses found me a place in a women’s shelter. That gave me an address, so I could find a waitressing job, and once I had work, I found a room to rent.’
‘How old were you?’
‘I turned eighteen in the ICU.’
Dylan breathed the kind of word I’m sure church ministers aren’t allowed to say. I could see his knuckles turn white where he gripped his glass.
‘Who hurt you, Faith?’
I opened my mouth to answer and found I couldn’t speak. Who hurt me? Kane, my mum for staying with him so long, Snake, Sam, the girls at my new school who didn’t want to be my friend because I spoke funny and wet myself, the teachers who failed to notice my life falling apart after Grandma died, the man who paid for my body, the neighbours at the bedsit, the boss at the strip club, and his countless clientele. Would that do for starters?
And I hated it. I hated having been a victim. Loathed the power these people had wielded over me. Raged that the me I called Anna still lived inside. That no matter how hard I fought, or worked or put the barriers up, they still hurt me.
