Just My Luck(79)

I love the way Toma talks. He tries harder to grasp at what we mean, what life means, than most people bother to do. I don’t know if it’s because he comes from a different culture or language, or because of what he’s shouldered in losing his wife and child. I just know I could sit here and listen to him all night. He sighs. ‘I spend a lot of time thinking about that life and being angry with my different life. The one with storms; hazardous, brutal storms, where I try to numb myself. Where I became a man who drank too much and took antidepressants. A man who ended up living on the street.’ He shakes his head. ‘Reveka would have been so sad to see that. Or angry. She could be fierce. She hated waste.’

I smile, ‘I’m certain I would have liked Reveka.’

‘Yes, you would, but you would never have met.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘When they died, I lost everything. Them, yes, but also the glorious impulse to be better. Without them I had no one to let down but myself. Which I did.’ He sighs, shakes his head. ‘You gave me a chance, Lexi. I can’t live that life. It’s gone. But you gave me a chance to live a different life. You gave me back the wish to be better. I think you have given me the chance of a very, very good life.’

‘I just gave you money, Toma. You are deciding what to do with it.’ I shrug.

‘Question.’ Toma taps a finger against my hand to get my attention; he has it anyway, but his touch sends a pulse ricocheting through my body. ‘Do you think less of me, Lexi, because I stopped searching for the people who owned the property? The people ultimately responsible?’ I shake my head. ‘I thought maybe now I have all this money I should stay and hunt them down. The records are obviously purposefully confusing but now we could hire private detectives.’

‘What then?’ I ask. ‘The man won’t be brought to justice because Winterdale took the fall. It’s a dead end.’

‘If we found him, we could hire thugs to kill him.’ My eyes widen and Toma laughs. ‘I’m joking. I’m not a killer. There was a time when I raged that way, but you poured oil on those waters, Lexi.’

‘It’s better that you move on. That’s what I want for you. That’s why I gave you the money.’

Toma stretches out his hand. His thumb touches the bit of forehead above my eyebrow, and he strokes me there. I close my eyes and allow the caress. It is slow and gentle; it is as though he’s just found that bit of my body and it is the most erotic part of me. Or precious. He soothes away my cares. I feel my body slacken. He pulls the rug up to my chin and I feel his firm hands tuck it tightly around me, so I’m snugly cocooned. He pauses, looks me in the eye and then moves forward, kisses my forehead. Chastely, but not really so. Tenderly. I can smell the cold night air clinging to him.

‘I should call an uber,’ I murmur.

‘Yes, you need to go back to your party.’

Back to my life. Or whoever’s life I am leading now.





33


Emily


Ridley keeps hold of my hand as he strides through the party, across the field and towards the woods. He’s walking quickly, I can hardly keep up. The boots I’m wearing are high and even though the heels are quite chunky, I fall off them two or three times, hurting my ankle a bit. Every time I do, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘Seriously, Emily, how much have you had to drink?’ And I like it that he’s concerned for me. Even if his concern comes out sounding a little like a condemnation. He’s right. I am drunk. I like it. It’s as if my fingers are candy floss, all malleable and melty, vapid. My fingers, my head, my body.

The neatly mowed grass gives way to longer wilder stuff and then soon a tangle of brambles, twigs, foliage. I’m glad of the boots otherwise my legs would be ripped to bits. Ridley only lets go of my hand when he pushes me up against a tree. The bark scratches my bare shoulders and back, but I don’t care because his tongue is down my throat. He’s kissing me hard and I know what this sort of kissing means. I’m glad. I kiss him back. Just as hard, our teeth bang and our tongues clash as though they’ve forgotten how to move with each other but I don’t stop. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his head towards me so he can’t stop either. His hands are running up and down my body. It seems neither of us have forgotten how good that is. His kisses make everything else just fall away, as though there is just us up against one of those green screens they use in movie making, our own space to create of it what we will. A moment ago, I could hear the party blaring in the background: the DJ, the fairground rides, shrieking and laughter. Now there is no sound, except our breathing, heavy and fast. Someone has hit the mute button on the world’s remote, there is nothing to see, my eyes are closed, all there is is him. His touch. His warmth. His presence.

After a bit, I know I have to ask. I don’t want to. I want to carry on with his lips on mine, with his hands exploring my body but I have some self-respect and so I break my mouth away from his. He just attaches his to my neck, to my ears, to my arms and face. His breath is warm and perfect. I can smell beer and toffee apples on him. His fingers are edging into the leg on my leotard. Panting, I ask, ‘So, Evie Clarke then?’

He stops kissing for a moment, to face me, and grins. ‘Jealous?’ I am, obviously, but can’t see it would help to admit it.

‘Curious,’ I say. I’m pretty pleased with that retort. I think I sound witty and sophisticated, not quite as anxious and worried as I am. He shrugs. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d say he looked dumb. Or maybe embarrassed. I freeze, understanding this even through the haze of alcohol and lust.