Chapter Seven

SEVEN

My brain was still buzzing with Dylan and everything I’d learned, my internet research making me feel a little icky, like a stalker.

Some part of me hoped he’d been as perturbed as I had by our sudden encounter, that he’d gone and hunted me down, too, trying to find out if I’d turned out the way he thought I would, if I’d achieved my dreams and proven my worth. He’d probably only find my carefully curated professional bio and my LinkedIn profile. After all, it was easier to stay anonymous when you weren’t dating a low-level celebrity. Once I looked for him, it was like he was everywhere. At one point, he’d worked at a company three roads over from my office. It didn’t seem possible . . .

I screwed up my eyes and blinked, trying to focus on the tasks ahead. Talk to my mother, work my ass off, get that promotion.

There was a moment of silence, before a very quiet, “Yes.”

My mother was a terrible liar. I tried to tamp down my irritation. What was it now? What would I have to sort out?

I wasn’t going to push, it was only ten a.m. and I’d have to make it through the whole day before I saw her.

She laughed, and I sighed in relief. “My little worrier. Fit as a fiddle. All will be well, I just want my clever daughter’s opinion on things. I’ll order pizza.”

Uh-oh. Comfort food. Definitely Dad drama. When I was a kid I used to wish for siblings, just so I’d have someone to share the burden with. But I’d probably have just ended up looking after them, too.

I never knew how to fix this thing between them. They were divorced. Dad had remarried. And still, still, I was having the same conversation every week with my mother. Like in Groundhog Day, I just didn’t know how to put a stop to any of it.

When my grandmother lived with us, after my grandfather died and I’d graduated, we had a good few years where my dad didn’t come near. Mama had her support system and my grandmother was a wolf. She’d shoo him away when he started turning up. One time she even chased him with a broom. I had howled with laughter, this tiny little old lady running out there with her broom held high, only realizing she’d forgotten to put her teeth back in when she tried to yell. She was brilliant. The kind of no-nonsense woman I wanted to be.

But after she died, Dad came back again, saying he wanted to be there for Mama in her grief, that even if they weren’t married anymore, it was the right thing to do. Which sounds admirable, if you don’t know him. And so she got tangled up all over again. In a way he made her the mistress this time, and I’d never forgiven him for that. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I forgave her, either.

When my father wasn’t around, Mama was the best. She worked at the hospital; she went to pottery classes and danced salsa on Friday nights. She had a loud bunch of good friends who threw really excellent dinner parties, and she sang whilst she watered her garden. She grew these beautiful, colorful plants in her little garden that seemed to burst the minute spring arrived. She had a good life. And then he’d come around and tear it down again. Sometimes, she wanted me to tell her it was all right, that he loved her really. Or else she wanted to hear that she deserved better, to build her up so she had the strength to turn him away.

It had been years, and I was tired of saying the same things when nothing ever got better.

The day dragged on, and I focused on my work, sleepy but determined. I asked how everyone’s day was and what their families were up to, showing my enthusiasm to Felix or grinding my teeth to dust when Hunter appeared at my desk like a gremlin.

I wanted that job more than anything. Getting that promotion would mean every other part of my life was just fine. So I kept a smile on my face, wrote my reports, ran my meetings, and pretended. I ordered a retirement cake for one of the sales guys and reminded Felix that it was his wife’s birthday this weekend.

What do I, a woman who’s met Marilyn three times, compared to you, her husband of twelve years, think she’d like for her birthday?

I offered a few options, and said I wanted to run a team-building day at the end of the month because I was worried the newer team members weren’t feeling part of everything. Felix smiled and nodded and didn’t really hear me. But I booked it in, sent round the email, and figured he’d find it clever when it was happening. I felt like he kept telling me I needed to show up, step up, prove myself. He kept telling me to jump, but he wouldn’t tell me how high.

So I just focused on jumping higher than anyone else, in all directions. I would be noticed soon enough. And nothing, not even the freakish reappearance of her erstwhile best friend, could throw Alyssa Aresti off her game.

Matthew’s look of relief was sweet, and he grabbed the wheelie chair from the empty desk behind me. Matthew always had the look of a boy at his first day of school; I wasn’t sure if he was wearing the wrong-sized shirts or if he liked these really colorful ties, but it made me want to take him under my wing. I’d been the first to help him get his bearings when he started at the company about a year and a half ago, and, unlike Hunter, I didn’t mind because he was just so damn grateful. Eric insisted it was an act, but I didn’t think so.

Besides, I’d learned the day after that he was only twenty-five, which didn’t feel great to me. Like I’d accidentally abused a position of power. So I helped him out, and he gushed and thanked me, and that was how we worked now. A nice, friendly thing.

He pulled it out from the back, and I frowned. “Ah, okay. See? It doesn’t align with their target audience, right? Design have gone young and fresh, but average consumer is thirty-five-plus.”

He made a face. “About eighty quid.”

I held up my hands. “It’s your job to convince the client what’s possible, Matt. Manage their expectations, redirect them to something achievable. You’ve got this. Shoulders back, talk with authority. You know this industry, you know what’s good for their business, right?”

He smiled at me, so grateful, and nodded. “Right. Thanks, Aly. Really. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I waved it off as he got up and neatly put the chair back.

He snorted and saluted. “You got it, boss.”

Hunter walked past my desk and did a double take, looking back at Matt walking off with a spring in his step, and gave me that smarmy grin. “Why you playing favorites, Aly? You’re never that nice to me when I need help.”

I bared my teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Because he asks politely. And not five minutes before the end of the working day.”

Hunter pouted. “Oh, don’t be like that. You know you love the power, all of us enthralled, unable to do anything without you.”

I took a deep breath, and chucked my stuff into my bag, pausing as I walked past Hunter to pat him on the shoulder. “You’re right. It must just be that he’s prettier than you.”

I walked off before he could get another cheap shot in, and caught Tola’s look of joy as I stepped into the lift. She marked a “one” in the air like she was keeping a scoreboard. Knowing Tola and Eric’s infamous office sweepstakes, she may have been.

Work had been a glorious distraction, but the minute I stepped back on the train toward my mother’s house, I fell back into my googling hole yet again, going over everything I’d learned about Dylan last night again. I found a web page for his firm, EasterEgg Development, but it didn’t have much beyond a team page, young smiling faces oozing potential. He could be spotted in the background of a few of Nicki’s social media images, but nothing distinctive. No social media profiles. I looked up the University of Portsmouth alumni page to see if he was in the graduation photo, but I couldn’t see him. The man nearly didn’t exist.

I wondered again if he’d done the same search for me last night. Whether our surprise encounter had disturbed him, too. Or maybe he’d just spent the evening drinking expensive drinks and eating fancy food with his high-flying girlfriend and ignoring the fact that she wanted to change almost everything about him. Just like every girlfriend he’d had when we were teenagers. They liked his pretty face and his easy smile, but there was always something that needed fixing. And he was all too happy to be who they wanted him to be.

And I had been the only one who saw the gaffer tape and tears holding him together behind the scenes.

God, going home wasn’t going to help with this at all; every part of my journey was stamped with Dylan memories. The station where we’d spent ages waiting for the always-delayed trains in and out of London, going to see gigs at Electric Ballroom or Barfly, drinking pints in the World’s End.

I walked down the high street, where we always used to get our pick’n’mix before going to the cinema or up to the peak in the park, looking out over everyone and making up stories about them. There was our school and the pub we drank in when we reached eighteen (or near enough) and the turning for Dylan’s road. I imagined his dad still lived there, making their home a shrine to his wife, refusing to change a thing. She’d been on her way to pick us up from a birthday party when it happened. She was there, and then suddenly gone.

When I finally made it home, I stood outside for a moment, just looking. It was a beautiful house, always had been. Mama’s lush garden in the front, that magnolia tree right in the middle, obscuring the full view of the building. In the summers, my grandmother used to put her little chair out under that tree and watch people go by. It was such a Mediterranean thing to do, but people on this street didn’t mind. She’d be out there ten minutes and someone would offer her apples from their tree, or introduce their dog, or ask her where she was from in Greece.

This house was home. After Dad left, we painted the whole thing bright colors. Dylan had come over whilst we were patting paint on the walls with my art paintbrushes and slapped a hand to his forehead in comedic horror, then went down to the little hardware shop on the high street, returning with tape and rollers and proper brushes. He made sure we did it properly, even if he let loose that loud laugh at the shade of bright orange we chose. He just couldn’t get over the idea of an orange living room, like it was the strangest, most wonderful thing he’d ever heard. We painted and sang, and Mama ordered pizza and didn’t cry at all that day. It had felt like a new beginning.

I unlocked the front door and inhaled the smell of incense and fresh coffee and laundry powder. As I wandered through the hallway, I could hear music playing—she had set up her tablet on the counter, and it was playing their wedding video. I felt irritation climb up my throat like a gecko, settling in, ready for a fight.

She turned around, and of course she’d been crying.

It occurred to me how hard it must be to watch your marriage fall apart when your parents were the perfect example of love. When they’d loved each other without limitation, unchanging, for half a century. Poor Mama, she’d wanted what they had, and she’d ended up with my bum of a father.

I blinked, accepting it. “Is it a special dinner? We . . . we’re not having guests, are we?”

Dread clutched at my chest. Another evening of convincing my mother she was lovable and deserving of good things? Sure, I was used to that. An evening where my father sat at the head of the table and asked me questions as if he knew anything about my life? No way. Even a perfect daughter had limits.

Mama shook her head. “I just missed your yiayia today. She was a firm believer in cocktail hour. And the sun was shining, so I thought, why not?”

She poured herself a glass, and we held them up to each other.

My mother scanned me, putting a hand to my cheek. “You look pale, darling, you’re working too hard.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

I hated seeing how she lit up with hope. My mother was such a romantic, even after all this time. All she wanted was for me to settle down with someone, to adore and be adored. I felt like I was letting her down.

She gasped, entirely too dramatically, and I immediately regretted telling her.

My mother clapped her hands in delight, and I felt my mood disintegrate. She never knew why we fell out. I was too embarrassed to tell her, to admit that I loved a boy who didn’t love me back. Like mother, like daughter.

So I let her think we’d just lost touch, the way people did. No biggie. No heartbreak, no loss.

Mama wrinkled her nose. “With the big mouth? She seems like a very silly woman. That said, Dylan didn’t always pick the smart ones.”

I could sense the direction this conversation was going, my memories of the way my parents used to scream at each other firmly in my mind. How he would cheat, and Mama would smash plates, and then a day later I’d find them curled up together on the sofa like the perfect image of married love. I gulped down the last of my wine and held my glass up again.

She raised an eyebrow at me but topped up my glass. When she returned to the subject of Dylan, I sighed, relieved that I’d distracted her for a little longer. At some point this evening, we were going to talk about Dad, the same way we did on my lunch breaks and at the weekends. The man took up all the air in the room even when he wasn’t in it. And I was such a broken record, the words were starting to warp from repetition:

You deserve better, he’s not good enough, this isn’t love, start over, you can do it.

Mama smiled. “I remember Dylan helping us paint. Whenever I clean the bookcase and see that smudge on the plug socket, I hear him looking at us in panic and saying, ‘Oh, Mrs. Aresti, please let me go get some proper paintbrushes, trust me.’ And he was right! Is he getting on with his dad okay now? I still see him in the supermarket sometimes. Sad, sad man.”

I thought of those bright blue eyes, how they’d looked me over and dismissed me immediately. How his hand squeezed mine for a second before he let go.

By the time we finally sat down to eat, we’d run through every other topic of conversation, and it was clear that no one was sick or dying, and my mother was still employed. Our family in Crete were okay, all of Mama’s friends were happy, and I’d had a full rundown of the next-door neighbor’s cat’s surgery. Which left the one possibility I had expected all along.

She took a breath. “Your father wants to sell the house.”

I frowned. “Our house? This house? What the hell has it got to do with him?”

She half shrugged. “He still owns half of it, darling.”

I clenched my fists and then released them. “Why now?”

My mother closed her eyes, took a breath, and placed a hand on mine. “Now, I didn’t want you to get upset.”

She twitched her mouth, attempting to smile. But I didn’t want smiles, I wanted her to get mad. I wanted her to see that this man had taken too much. But it never ended well for me, that line of inquiry. It was always Poor Aly, I’ve made you so angry and bitter, this must be my fault, I’m a bad mother. So I’d comfort her, and then that was it, over and done with so he could come around another day and start it all over again.

Mama made a face. “They’re your siblings, darling. And they’re younger than you. I don’t need to be rattling around this big house.”

She looked at me, and I knew she probably would. She loved him, beyond all reasoning, despite what type of man he was. My mother believed in having one true love, even if it didn’t go both ways, it seemed.

It seemed that she had the exact same thought because she shook her head and picked up her drink.

Yiayia wouldn’t let this happen. She’d build you up and tear him down and scare the crap out of him. So maybe that needed to be my role now.

Well, that was news to me. And considering I’d had a front-row seat to the car wreck that was my parents’ marriage, I wasn’t just surprised—I was pissed.

I had always taken care of it. When he used to leave for days at a time, and she’d just lock herself away in bed, silently staring at the ceiling, I took care of her. I ushered her into the shower, I made her tea and toast. I opened the dusty recipe books to try to figure out how to make a meal. Even now jacket potatoes tasted like long, sad evenings.

I could fix this. I couldn’t fix them, couldn’t pull her away or make her wake up, but money wasn’t the hardest thing in the world.

The gall of it, though. I’d been there, I knew what it was like when my dad shone that light of approval on you, when he smiled and called you a marvel. But I’d grown tired of pretending that fleeting interest was love. She never had.

I sat checking my accounts on my phone on the train home, wondering how much he’d ask for. That house was easily worth half a million. How much of a lump sum would get him off my back, how much would make him leave her alone for good? Mama was an administrator at the hospital; I knew she’d never had much in savings. I just need enough for my garden and to throw a good dinner party, that’s what she’d always said. And I’d nag her, and she’d tell me she was the mother, and we’d laugh and leave it at that.

I had almost twenty grand that I’d saved for a decade, hoping to one day get my own little flat, but every year it became more impossible, so I kept saving, kept working, and time passed. I would use it if I needed to.

I wanted Mama to fight, I wanted her to say, No, of course you can’t give your father your hard-earned savings, darling. I wanted her to put me first. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. He still always came first, after all this time. Another family, another home, another wife, and still Mama was like a dragonfly stuck in amber. I tried not to resent her for it.

My father would get his way. Just like the Hunters of the world—getting what they want so easily they wonder why everyone else struggles so much. Just like Nicki, demanding people fit in with her expectations.

I wondered how different that was to what I was doing with Tola and Eric. Manipulating, adjusting, adapting. Nicki and Hunter expected the best from other people right away. I didn’t expect the best of people, but I knew how to plant a seed and grow potential. I knew how to get my own way, it was just a slightly longer game.

By the time I got back to my little studio, I was ready to have a good cry and a long bath. But I had one more thing to do. And if I thought about it for too long, I’d lose my nerve.

I called Nicki.

There was no way she’d go for it. That was stupid money. I just needed to tell myself I’d tried everything, done everything I could.

I gritted my jaw to hide the tremble in my voice.

Nicki paused. “Why was he like that? I’ve never seen Dylan be rude to anyone before. He’s the sweetest guy I know. I’m not even sure I’ve seen him get properly mad.”

Well, I couldn’t tell the truth.

What’s he worth to you?

Silence at the end of the line. I wondered if I’d pushed too hard. All I could think about was my mother, sitting in a damp little flat, calling up every day to ask me why she’d had to sell her home. Sitting and waiting for my father to visit. Not singing as she watered her plants. My mama would wilt without her garden.

And then I realized what she was saying. A hundred grand. She’d agreed to a hundred grand. The answer to my problems.

I paused, thinking of all those years of friendship that I was betraying. But then I visualized Dylan’s face as he saw me again, that blank look of dismissal. I thought of those text messages that told me I was always just a hanger-on, a loser, a pathetic girl who looked at him with hearts in her eyes. Someone who never meant anything at all.

And then I thought of my mother’s face.