“Walked.”
“Jesus Christ. It’s freezing.”
“I didn’t care. I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
“But I don’t!” She slumped against the bench, her arms wrapped around herself. “I don’t care about anything anymore. I’m done with caring.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not anymore!”
“You should be in bed. At home.” I went to take her arm but she pulled away from me. “Come on, Helen, I’ll take you home.”
And then there were more tears, tears and wailing and blubbery words.
“I… I just… I’ve ruined everything! I’ve ruined it all… and I didn’t want to… I just… I loved it… everything… and now I’m empty… and sad… I’m so sad… I thought you liked me… I thought… I thought…”
“I’ll take you home.” I beckoned her to follow. “Come on.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go. It’ll wake my parents up, and they’ll be angry, or worried.”
“Fine, then I’ll take you back to Elizabeth’s.”
She shook her head again. “Lizzie’s asleep. She has a communal door, I can’t get in.”
“Well, what then?” I rubbed my temples. “What are you planning on doing?”
Her lip went again. “I’ll just stay… stay here…”
“Like fuck you will.” She couldn’t move away quickly enough this time and my fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her along after me. I opened the passenger door, and put my hand on her head as I lowered her inside, and I even crawled in after her and fastened her seat belt.
She struggled but it was half-hearted. The tears, not so much.
“Please don’t take me home! They’ll be so upset with me!”
“Be quiet, Helen, just be quiet.” I slipped back in the driver’s seat, and closed the door. “I need to concentrate, I’m over the fucking limit. So please be quiet.”
She stared at me with big, sad eyes. “You shouldn’t have come for me…”
“Like I had a choice.”
“You did…”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and she took the hint. The car went quiet.
“Where are you taking me?” she said finally, and her voice was calmer.
“Home,” I said, then turned to her before she could object. “My home.”
***
Helen
I didn’t speak. Didn’t say another single word. Buttoning up my beak and letting the world slip past the window.
His home.
I wished it felt better. I wished it wasn’t under duress.
He was angry, I could tell. That felt worst of all.
I heard him sigh, and he turned the heater up full. It felt nice against my freezing legs.
“You could have caught your death out there.”
I shrugged. “I was upset.”
We turned up towards Deerton Heath and my tummy tickled with nerves. The road climbed, steeply, and turned bumpy, and there were no streetlights, no lights at all.
“Not far now,” he said and I hugged myself to steady my thumping heart. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Whisked away in the night to his home.
The track evened out, and twinkling lights came into view in the distance. He pulled up, and switched off the engine.
“This is us.”
Us.
If only.
I unclipped my seatbelt and let myself out, and he was already at the doorway, leading the way inside. The door was old, heavy and smooth, and the hallway beyond was old, too. You could tell by the walls, uneven and beamed and full of age. He flicked on the light, and I looked through to a dining room. It was cluttered, but artistically so, the table laden with canvases and palettes, and the walls were covered in prints and paintings, a faded terracotta colour peeping out through the gaps. I took off my heels and followed him through to the kitchen, another artistically cluttered affair, with jugs and jars and heavy pans, and a couple of strange looking houseplants. He ran the tap awhile before filling up a glass.
He handed it over.
“Drink.”
“Lizzie already made me…”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Drink.”
I propped myself against the side and forced some down, but I was still shaking, still cold. Still nervous.
I felt his eyes on me. “Heating is on.”
“Thanks.”
He brushed past me and took a door to the side, and I peered in after him. He was crouched on the floor by a fireplace, fumbling with some kindling. He set it alight, and my heart leapt, an unexpected moment of joy. My first in weeks. I love a real fire.
“Come through,” he said, and he was at the sofa — an old battered leather thing that had seen better days — making me a space amongst a load of art magazines. I sat down and pulled my legs up under me, and Mr Roberts fetched a soft woollen throw from a stool in the corner and draped it over my legs. “The fire will start kicking out some heat soon.”
“Thank you, I’m a bit warmer now.”
He sat on the arm at the opposite end, and watched the flames in the grate as they danced and crackled and sprang into life. “I wanted the best for you, Helen. That’s all I wanted.”