chapter EIGHT
THEY would pay.
Connie was quite sure of it.
He would ruin her family, of that she had no doubt. The shame she had wreaked on them would be nothing, nothing compared to what Nico would do when he found out the truth.
All of the truth, for she knew more.
She had seen the papers, had held them in her hands, and knew there was much more to this than parents giving up their baby.
‘Get your things,’ Nico said, and she was about to say no, but maybe she was too tired to process things properly. Perhaps by being there she could prevent him from finding things out because, Connie knew, the outcome could only be devastating. ‘We leave now.’
‘I can’t,’ Constantine said. ‘I can’t just leave Henry …’
‘He treats you like a slave.’
‘He’s an old man,’ Connie said. ‘And slave labour or not, I signed up for the job.’
‘Then you leave in the morning.’
‘I doubt the agency can get a replacement any time soon.’
‘Oh, they will,’ Nico said darkly.
‘I can’t …’ She wanted to go; there was a part of her that was tempted to just escape, to go home, to hide at his property and heal, and there was part of her too that needed to be there, to stop the train wreck that would surely happen. But there was another reason that she was scared to go.
One reason.
And Nico knew it and he faced it.
‘We need to talk,’ Nico said. ‘There are things we need to discuss.’ He looked at her lank hair, her puffy face, could feel the exhaustion that seeped from her, and his harsh voice softened. ‘But not now,’ he said, ‘not yet—not till you are ready.’ He saw hope flare in her dull eyes as he tossed her the lifeline, and he willed her to take it. ‘You have my word. For now all you have to do is deal with the basics.’
‘The basics?’
‘Be a mother,’ Nico said. ‘And when you’re not being a mother, you rest.’
How sweet those words were, how tempting, how blissful it sounded. She wanted to close her eyes right now, to just sink into them, not think of problems, the hows, the whys, the hell that surely would follow.
She wanted what he offered.
‘Rest,’ Nico said. ‘We’ll leave in the morning. For now you should sleep.’ But Connie shook her head.
‘I have to do the laundry.’ He watched as she heaved a basket across the kitchen and he saw her jaw tighten as, instead of offering to help, he sat down, and just once as she loaded filthy sheets into the machine did she glance up, but said nothing.
And still she said nothing as she turned the machine on, and then opened the dryer, pulling more of the same out and folding the old man’s bedding, but he could feel her tension at his lack of assistance as he picked up the remote and flicked the television to the news.
‘I don’t do laundry,’ he said.
‘Clearly,’ Connie said as she dragged out the ironing board.
‘You want to be a martyr …’ He shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’
And she didn’t want to be a martyr so, for the first time, rather than ironing them, she put away the board and she just folded them instead.
‘Rebel,’ Nico said, glancing up, and she felt something she hadn’t in a very long time—a move on the edge of her lips that was almost a smile as she left the wretched laundry and sat on the only seat left in the kitchen, the one on the sofa beside him. It was horribly awkward, staring ahead at the news when she wanted to turn and stare at him, wanted to talk, but scared what might come out if she did.
‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ Nico suggested. ‘While he sleeps, shouldn’t you rest?’
‘I shall go to bed as soon as you’ve gone.’
‘Oh, I’m going nowhere,’ Nico said. ‘I’m not giving you a chance to come up with a million reasons why you can’t leave in the morning. I’m staying right here.’
‘What about your hotel room? What about—?’
But Nico wasn’t going to argue. ‘Go to bed.’
And she sat there.
‘Go on,’ he said, and her face burnt, and she bit back tears. Neither victim nor martyr did she want to be, but dignity was sometimes hard to come by.
‘You’re sitting on it.’
And to his credit he said nothing, did not act appalled, just headed over to the kitchen and prepared the second cup of instant coffee he had ever had in his life, then perched himself on the barstool.
‘There is a bedroom.’ She felt the need to explain. ‘It’s just Henry moans if …’ she hesitated a moment ‘ … the baby starts crying. He can’t hear so much if we are down here.’
And there was the longest pause so he was determined not ask, but more than that, he wanted to know. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Leo,’ Connie said, and swallowed, because by tradition he should be Vasos after Nico’s father, and though she had ached to name him Nico, it would have been too much of a constant reminder, so instead she had named him Leo, for it was in August that he had been made.
‘Sleep,’ he ordered, and she unravelled a blanket.
And she tried to sleep.
Turned her back on him and faced the faded pattern of the sofa, tried not to think about the man in the room and that tomorrow she would leave here with him.
Tried not to fathom her scary future.
Because, even with Nico’s offer, the future was scary. Scarier, in fact, than going it alone, because the truth would out—deep down she knew that.
She was just in no position to run from it.