It's Complicated (The Agency Book 2) Page 20

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! Mind your own damn business.”

  “Okay, mate, look. We’re just having some fun here,” Ethan chips in, trying to calm the situation. “There’s no harm done.”

  Harry looks like he wants to kill him. “How about you keep out of this? And don’t call me ‘mate’. I’m not your fucking mate.”

  Ethan climbs down and my heart leaps into my mouth. Please let him remember he’s Harry’s boss. “She’s only dancing,” he says, holding his head up high and squaring off against Harry.

  “Is that what you call it?” spits Harry. “Looked more than that from where I was sitting. You sure you wanna go there, mate?”

  “Okay guys, cool it,” Lucas interjects in a bid to defuse the tension that is rapidly escalating. “Let’s not spoil the party. We’re all enjoying ourselves here, but we’ve also had a lot to drink. Let’s call time on this, what do you say, Harry?”

  Harry looks at his audience and a strange grin spreads across his face. “Move along guys, nothing to see here.” He turns around in a circle with his arms outstretched, then he looks at Freja as if she’s dirt and I feel an urge to rip his head off. “Absolutely nothing to see.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she yells, and I notice that, just as Ethan’s accent gets more Scottish when he’s pissed, her accent has become far more Danish.

  “My pleasure, sweetheart.” Harry walks back towards the door, giving his audience the universal hand-wank signal. “I’ll go fuck myself.”

  “Great, get out of here, and while you’re fucking yourself you can go and . . . argh!”

  And she’s off the table.

  It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Thankfully, Ethan manages to half-catch her, but they end up in a pile of twisted limbs on the floor. Gasps echo around the room, but they both start to laugh. Harry leaves Lucas’s penthouse, slamming the door on his way out.

  “Same old Freja and Harry, I see,” says Cosmo.

  “Were they always like that?” I ask, trying to work out what Freja sees in the guy. I glance at my watch, forcing my eyes to focus through the fuzziness. It’s after midnight and my departure is long overdue.

  “Do you . . . want to go somewhere quieter?” Cosmo asks.

  “Cosmo, I’ve already told you. I’m not interested in anything.”

  He holds his hands out in protest. “No, no. God, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . . Look, my chauffeur is outside. It’s almost Christmas, and my Bentley has a sunroof that is perfect for viewing the Oxford Street lights. What do you say we go find Keats’s bright star and have some fun?”

  Fun. It’s like an omen. “You have a chauffeur? And a Bentley? How much do we pay you?”

  He laughs. “My father has money. He hasn’t got over my choosing to be an artist rather than a City banker, so he still gives me an allowance.”

  I look back over at Ethan, who is still dancing with Freja and all of Tribe’s fun people, and I figure going for a ride in a Bentley seems like an even more fun thing to do. If you can’t join ’em, beat ’em.

  * * *

  I head back to the kitchen to get my bag, ignoring the huge nagging doubts that are growing inside of me. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If Ethan were to suddenly go for a “friendly” drive with Jadine, my jealous brain would go into overdrive, but maybe that’s why I’m doing this. What he said to me earlier hurt. Am I doing this to get back at him? I’m probably still too upset – and definitely too drunk – to have that conversation with myself.

  I find my bag straight away, but when I turn around to head back to Cosmo I bump into Ethan.

  “I’m sorry about before,” he slurs while his body sways. Christ, he’s drunker than me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Are you going home?”

  “No, I’m going for a ride in a Bentley.”

  He looks confused. “Uhm . . . okay, I’ll bite. What?”

  “Cosmo Hines has a Bentley and we’re going for a drive down Oxford Street to look at the Christmas lights. You told me I needed to have more fun, so this is me having more fun.”

  “Oh. Okay, sure.” He just stares at me, and I can’t work out if he’s trying to hide anger or jealousy, because on the surface he doesn’t appear to give a shit. “I’m going to make sure Freja gets home safe. That Harry is a piece of work, isn’t he? Do you think we should talk, before you go?”

  “We can talk later.” His ability to say anything meaningful is doubtful given he’s so pissed he can barely stand up straight. My eyes glance to Cosmo, who is waiting by the door. Ethan follows my gaze and his face falls.

  “Goodnight, Ethan.”

  He doesn’t reply. He just walks away in silence.

  I feel like I’m inside somebody else’s body. My feet, somehow, take me back to Cosmo and through the door.

  20

  COSMO’S CHAUFFEUR IS WAITING FOR us outside Lucas’s building. I’m excited to get inside the car – I’ve never ridden in a Bentley before – but my mind is consumed with how Ethan might react. I feel guilty, but should I? Surely I can go out with a male colleague I have absolutely zero romantic interest in. I go out with Max all the time.

  “Mark, my good man, take us full circle via Oxford Street. I promised the lady a first-class guided tour of the Christmas lights.”

  Mark grins at Cosmo in the way guys do when they reckon their mate is on a promise. I feel a need to blurt out, “We’re just friends having fun,” but there’s such a thing as protesting too much, so I don’t.

  Ten minutes later we’re standing up in the car with our heads poking out of the sunroof, cruising down Oxford Street. I’d love to be able to say I’m having fun, but it’s freezing cold, I’m blinded by my wind-attacked hair, and I’m totally shitfaced.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Cosmo yells into my left ear.

  “Yes, aside from the wind.”

  We aren’t driving very fast, so I’m sure the wind would be making me look like Cousin It even if we were standing still. Nevertheless, I still have the best view of the thousands of glittering stars, baubles and silvery decorations strung between the stores either side of the street. If there were a Valhalla for high-street bargain hunters, this is what it would look like.

  When we come to the end of the street, Mark swings the car left around a sharp corner. But my stomach keeps travelling straight ahead. I cover my mouth. “Ugh . . . shit . . .”

  “Are you okay?” yells Cosmo.

  I shake my head. Under ordinary post-drinking, pre-vomiting circumstances, I’d be practising some deep and serious inhaling and exhaling right now. But if I tried that tonight, I’d have the equivalent of a category-five hurricane charging into my mouth.

  Cosmo disappears back inside the car for a moment, returning seconds later with a bottle of water. I decline with a shake of my head, knowing if I opened the bottle I’d end up wearing its contents before I drank any. “Mark is going to take us back to my place,” he says. “Please try not to be sick in the car.”

  “I’ll . . . try . . .”

  The chauffeur picks up speed as we head through Mayfair then sweep down the east side of Hyde Park. Thank goodness the traffic is quiet at this time of night. We come to a halt at a set of traffic lights, and a swell of nausea rises into my throat. I inhale through my nose and swallow a lump of burning semi-digested pâté back down into my stomach. I consider vomiting on the car roof.

  The car comes to a halt in the middle of Knightsbridge, in front of a six-storey Georgian terraced house which looks like it’s been transported from the set of Upstairs, Downstairs. I have another “wow” moment. Then I clamber out of the car and projectile vomit all over my coat, my dress and Cosmo’s shoes.

  “It’s alright, no harm done,” says Cosmo. I dry-heave onto the pavement. I tell myself I’ll never drink again for the hundredth time in my life.

  “I’m sorry . . . your shoes.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have plenty more.” Cos
mo gently rubs my back.

  “Do you need any help?” asks Mark, the chauffeur. The look on his face says it all – thank god she didn’t hurl in my car.

  “No Mark, you’re fine. Get yourself home. I’ll get her a taxi.”

  Mark gives Cosmo that knowing look again. “See you tomorrow then, sir. Goodnight.”

  Wow. Cosmo gets called sir? Weird. This guy, coupled with Georgie, is going to make our art studio seem like the finishing school for Eton.

  “Is this your house? Like, as in, do you own it?” I straighten up and stand at the bottom of the stone steps, trying not to touch my clothes. I’m wet, I stink and I’m disgusting.

  “It belongs to the family. My parents have retired to our estate in Hertfordshire, so I get to use this place, along with my cousins.”

  “Are you richer than Georgie?” He laughs and I feel silly. “I mean . . . I just thought Georgie was the poshest person I’d ever met until tonight.”

  “Georgie’s family is titled and dates from way back. She’s old money. My great-grandfather made his fortune in shipping.”

  “So she’s posher than you?”

  He laughs again. “Definitely.” He opens the door and helps me walk up the stairs to the second floor. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other while the carpet morphs into a playground slide. “I’ll get you some clothes. I hope you don’t mind wearing something of mine.”

  “Of course not. Thank you.”

  I get changed and stuff my own clothes in a carrier bag. My head is thick with champagne, and I should be in my own bed fast asleep, but instead I find myself lounging on a chaise in a rather formal drawing room. I’ll go home once I’ve sobered up. Cosmo brings me a glass of iced water from the kitchen and a packet of paracetamol. We relax, and the conversation moves on to poetry and then to ballet. I feel myself start to drift off. I have trouble keeping my eyes open. And why is that weird cushion on the armchair staring at me? Are those eyes? Christ, they’re buttons. God, I’d do anything to clear my head and get some sleep.

  Cosmo is still talking. Well, it’s more of a background drone now. I can’t even hear what he’s saying. Something about Azerbaijan and his hiking club. He hikes? Fuck, that’s boring. I push back into the cushions and feel my eyes start to close again.

  I’m jerked back to consciousness to find Cosmo perched next to me on the chaise. “You know, you’re just how I imagined you’d be.” Is he being nice or creepy? My brain does a double take, then decides it can’t shake off the creepy.

  “What do you mean? How am I?” My voice is slurred. I’m tired. I wish I could just close my eyes and go to sleep.

  “You’re like a mosaic. Each part of you is uneven and unusual and unfinished, yet somehow it all fits together so beautifully.” He turns to look at me, his eyes locking on mine, and then he leans in for a kiss.

  I surprise myself by summoning the strength of a herd of elephants. “Cosmo, what the fuck? Get off me.”

  He stops trying to kiss me, but his arm is still resting on my hip. “I thought you wanted to have some fun?”

  How on earth has his beautiful poetry transformed into a script from a bad porno movie? “That would not be fun for me. I already told you I wasn’t interested.”

  He runs his hand down the length of my curled-up legs. “I hoped you’d change your mind.”

  Another wave of nausea hits. I can’t work out if I feel sick because of drinking too much or whether it’s him. I push myself up on my elbow and try to wriggle free, but he’s blocking me with his body. “Cosmo, move away from me. I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “But you haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” His arm moves from my hip to the back of the chaise, then he reaches up to stroke my face with his other hand. “I have things . . . fun things we can use. What are you into?”

  His skin darkens and his eyes seem like they belong to someone else. A surge of anger mixes with the sadness and self-loathing I’ve been feeling all night. “Let me get up.”

  “Why not give it a try? I have a whole cupboard full of stuff. Whips, chains, paddles . . .”

  “Cosmo, if you don’t let me get up now, I’m going to hurt you.” Why the hell am I having to ask him again? He doesn’t budge and I can’t bear it anymore. I take hold of his shoulders and push hard. “Get the fuck off me, now!”

  The dark intensity fades from his face in a flash, replaced by utter confusion and hurt. I fight back my tears. I can’t even process the strength of what I’m feeling. I think I might be sick again. I hope I am sick. If I am, I’m going to aim for his head.

  “I’m sorry, I thought . . . I thought you were playing. You know? Making me work for it.” He looks as if he’s about to cry. I inhale as much air as I need to stop me hurling what’s left in my stomach all over him.

  I get up quickly, walk past him and head for the door. “I’ll return your clothes tomorrow.”

  He follows me down the stairs. “I’m so sorry. I thought you’d like it.”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t. I believe he’s remorseful, but I’m furious and I just want my bag, a taxi and my flat. In that order.

  I reach the front door and he opens it for me. A blast of cold air makes my skin shiver. I’m wearing a pair of cotton jogging bottoms and a fleece hoody – not exactly appropriate attire for December.

  “Let me get a coat from my room for you. It must be a few degrees below zero out there.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I just want to go home.”

  “I wouldn’t have tried it on if I didn’t think you’d be up for it. I’m so sorry.”

  “I had to tell you to get off me four times, Cosmo! Did you miss the ‘no means no’ lecture at Oxford? I told you I wasn’t interested before we left the party. You also know I’m drunk, so from where I’m standing that makes you some kind of creepy piece-of-shit predator.”

  He looks away and his mouth drops. “I don’t know what to say. I . . . I just . . . I guess I’ve had too much to drink too.”

  I walk down his steps and into the quiet street. He follows me out. “How are you getting home? Let me call a taxi.”

  “This is London. I’ll find a taxi if I keep walking.”

  “Can I call you?”

  “What? No. No, of course you can’t call me.”

  He looks horrified again. “I am truly sorry, Violet.”

  I look at his pitiable expression and I believe he’s genuine. I feel compelled to tell him it’s fine, that it’s just a misunderstanding. But is it? Would that be brushing things under the carpet?

  I keep walking. He doesn’t follow.

  “Hey, Violet, watch out!”

  I swing back around, but then I’m knocked to my knees. I feel a sharp pain at the side of my head. Hands grapple with my arms, holding me tight. I hear my name being called again . . . Is Cosmo holding onto me? No, this person is bigger and stronger. It’s not him. “Get away from her!” My bag gets ripped off my shoulder, but I manage to hold onto it. Then a hand clutches at my throat . . . I hear rapid breathing . . pain blossoms across my head and my neck. . . then blackness . . .

  * * *

  I open my eyes. My face is lying on something hard and cold. I’m still outside – lying on the pavement. I can’t hear anything but a swishing sound. It’s a strange mix of my own heartbeats and somebody sobbing. No, not sobbing. Wailing. There’s a bitter, acidic taste in my mouth. I cough. There’s blood. Oh fuck, what happened? Where am I?

  I try to get up but I can’t summon any strength. My head hurts. My face hurts. Someone attacked me . . .

  I slowly stand and look around the unfamiliar street. Parked cars, rows of houses with darkened windows, street lamps. For a moment I don’t know where I am, but then I remember.

  There’s a man . . . I squint. I can’t even focus. Cosmo?

  He’s just standing in the street, staring at me. “Cosmo, what are you doing?”

  “That guy . . . uhm . . . I thought . . . he just ran off.”

  He i
sn’t making any sense.

  “Yeah, I guess I’ve been lucky . . . probably some smackhead.” My head hurts so much. I feel sick again and . . . I want to go home. I just want to go home.

  So I start walking.

  * * *

  It’s 2 a.m. when I reach Max’s front door. I’ve been knocking for ten minutes and I’ve no idea if he’s home or still at the party.

  I’d been walking half an hour before I found a taxi, and I feel like I could sleep for a week. Worse still, I can’t feel my toes, my nose or my fingers. I should have let the taxi driver take me to a police station, but I didn’t want strangers. I wanted my friend.

  I knock again, hoping with everything I have that he answers.

  The door opens seconds later and Max’s half-comatose face appears. “Am I dreaming?” he asks groggily.

  “No. Can I come in?”

  “Yeah . . . what the hell have you done to your neck?”

  My hand shoots up to my neck and I instinctively start rubbing my skin. It hurts, but I don’t know why. I walk past him and go to his hall mirror.

  I push my hair over my shoulder and wait while my vision adjusts to the light.

  And then I see it. My eyes fill with tears as I look at my reflection and see the huge bruise along my jaw and a smaller bruise on my forehead. There are a pattern of smaller, paler marks dotted around my neck . . . and . . . oh my god . . .

  Oh. My. God.

  My body starts to shake, then it convulses and I drop to my knees.

  My necklace. He ripped my necklace off my neck – the most precious thing I own.

  Crying comes as a release at first, my body needing to let the pain out. I’m not sure if it’s because of the bruises, or the rage, or the pain, or the loss. I think it’s mostly because I miss him. Is that why this hurts so much? Something has happened to me and all I can think about is Ethan. I want to hear his voice telling me it’ll be okay. I want to feel him holding me.

  I wrap my arms around my legs and cry into my knees. Why isn’t Max comforting me? He must be disappointed in me for leaving with Cosmo. The thought makes me cry harder. I wipe my eyes and look up. He’s standing with his back turned against me, his arm raised on the wall and his head buried inside it. I try to stop crying so I can talk to him. I wipe my face with the back of my wrist and wince in agony when my hand makes contact with my cheek. Jesus, how did I let this happen? Why was I so stupid?