“It was the rumoured price I charged for a blowie.” She tosses her hair back. “One pound to touch my boobs. Fifty pence over the shirt. Not that most of them bothered paying. Or asking.”
Horror shudders through me. All of this was happening whilst I was there? Right under my nose? “Layla. You didn’t—”
She scowls at me, her eyes hard. “None of it’s true.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask, sweetheart. Why didn’t you ask for help?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flare. She suddenly flings her leg out, kicking the half-empty can across the pavement. It clatters against the gravel, rolling to a stop a few feet away.
“Screw you,” she spits. “Don’t make this my fault. I did ask for help. I told my form teacher. I told the receptionist. I told the headteacher. I told the goddamn nurse every time I had to come in for an extra PE kit, because the guys liked pouring water down the front of my shirt. For God’s sake, Luke, do I seem like the kind of person who takes this stuff lying down?” She shakes her head. “I kicked up as much of a fuss as I possibly could. No one did anything. Anything. Hell, the head of year told me I should be grateful, because ‘when a boy picks on you like this, he’s clearly interested in you’. And then she called me a ‘slapper’ behind my back as I walked away.”
I stare at her, wide-eyed. “The head of year… Eveline told you that?”
She looks at me coolly, her eyes gleaming in the dark like a cat’s, like she’s daring me not to believe her.
I run a hand over my face. This is all my fault. If I’d been in a better state, I would have noticed something was wrong. I should’ve helped her. It was my job to keep the students safe. Jesus, no wonder Layla’s so prickly and defensive around men now; she’s used to them trying to hurt her.
She was sixteen, for God’s sake. Sixteen, and getting sexually harassed in school. “But why?” I ask, my voice breaking on the last word. “Why did the other kids pick on you like that? I don’t understand.”
She’s silent for a long, long time, staring up at the sky. “I don’t want to tell you,” she says eventually.
The words hit me like a brick wall.
All of my life, I’ve prided myself on being someone people can come to for help. When I was a teacher, I had kids traipsing in and out of my office all day, just to talk to me. It’s one of the reasons I like doing Three Single Guys. Giving advice is what I’m supposed to be good at.
But Layla doesn’t want to open up to me. Why the Hell would she? She was getting bullied for years, right under my nose, and I didn’t do anything to help her. I was her teacher, and I let her get hurt and harassed. I let her down.
My phone suddenly dings in my pocket. I stand up, my head spinning. “I… I need to make a call.” I mutter. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
THIRTY-TWO
LAYLA
Luke is gone for almost ten minutes, which I appreciate. I take some deep breaths, then wipe off my cheeks and pull open my clutch, looking for my compact mirror. By the time the door behind me opens again, I’m blotting my lipstick with a tissue, and I feel much steadier.
“I’m going home,” I tell Luke as he steps outside.
He nods. “If you can hang on a second, Josh will pick you up. I need to go do some damage control.”
I frown. “Is something wrong?” Is he just trying to get out of sharing a car with me?
He nods. “There’s been an issue with one of our merch shipments. The t-shirts have been printed in the wrong colours.” He rubs his eyes. He looks exhausted. “Zack and I are going to see if we can sort it out. Josh will take you home.”
“I can get the Tube myself…” I start to say, but before I can finish talking, a familiar silver car pulls up by the curb. My shoulders slump. Great. Someone else to witness how pathetic I am.
The car’s lights flash, and Josh opens the door, stepping out into the road. He looks like he came here in a hurry; his black hair is ruffled, and the collar of his dark coat is turned up. His concerned gaze immediately goes to me. My stomach crunches with embarrassment.
Josh slams the door shut and makes his way to me, but Luke waylays him, grabbing him by the shoulder and saying a few words in his ear.
I bristle. What is he saying about me? Take care of her. Make sure she’s okay. She’s upset.
Josh raises an eyebrow, then nods, turning to me and offering me a hand. “Let’s go home.”
“Why are you on babysitting duty?” I ask sullenly.
“I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?”
“Josh.”
He sighs. “Because I’m the one least likely to treat you like a baby,” he answers, his voice flat. “Come on.”
My cheeks burning, I let him help me off the stone step and lead me to the car, still idling on the curb. He opens the front passenger seat door for me, but I ignore it, opening a door in the back instead. Embarrassment is rushing through me in hot waves. I don’t need taking care of. I’m fine.
“Bad night?” He asks, climbing into the driver’s seat and buckling in.
“Bad day,” I mutter, and he nods, turning his attention back to the road.
We’re silent on the drive home. Josh keeps glancing back at me in the rearview mirror, worry clear in his eyes. I ignore him, watching the streetlights flash by the window, rolling amber stripes of light over my bare thighs. When I picked this outfit out earlier, I thought it looked hot.
Now I just feel gross.
I close my eyes and press my forehead against the cold windowpane, breathing deeply as we wind through the London roads back home.
When we reach our building, the lift is broken, so we climb up all six flights of stairs in silence. By the time we finally get back to our floor, all I want to do is take off my heels, strip off these stupid shorts, and step into a scalding hot shower. I need to wash this night away.
Josh walks me to my flat door, and I pull my key out of my clutch.
“Well. Good night,” I say, fitting it in the lock. “Thanks for coming out. You didn’t have to do that.”
He nods but doesn’t move.
“Bye,” I prompt, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
He peers in over my shoulder. “Have you got new lampshades?”
“...no?”
“Are you sure? Can I check?” I stare at him, and he sighs. “Can I come in with you?”
I hesitate. Normally I would say no. I feel crappy, and I don’t like other people to see me upset.
But this is Josh. As my eyes scan his chiselled face, emotion tugs inside me. For once, I don’t want to be alone. I want to be in his arms, so badly my skin aches. And I don’t know why.
I shrug. “You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?” Before I can change my mind, I take his hand, leading him inside my dark apartment.
THIRTY-THREE
LAYLA
“You want a drink or anything?” I ask, kicking off my heels and heading for the kitchenette. “Water? Wine?”
Josh shuts the door behind him and bends to unlace his shoes. His phone beeps in his pocket, and he hooks it out, checking the screen. “Hang on a sec,” he murmurs, typing back a quick message. I pour us both some water. When I turn back around, he’s migrated to the couch, and is frowning at his phone like he wants to throw it out of the window.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“My brother,” he says shortly. “He wants my help organising the guest seating for the wedding.”
“It’s just in a few weeks, right?”
“Hm.” His phone bleeps again, and he sighs. “And that was Luke.” He starts tapping at the screen. “He wants to know if you’re doing okay.”
Irritation flashes through me, but I bite it back. I’m not really angry at Luke. He’s just concerned. It’s my fault for letting him see how much Donny upset me.
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Really. I ran into an old schoolmate. It… knocked me off-balance for a second.”
The lie hangs in the air between us. Josh’s dark eyes glitter as he assesses me, his face inscrutable. “Okay.” He puts his phone away.