Page 87 of Resisting Mr Black

A lump of emotion wedges in my throat and I swallow it down. “That’s how I feel,” I whisper.

“You need to speak to him. You need to ask him all those questions you’ve just asked me.”

I shake my head angrily. “He had his chance when he turned up here.”

“Did he?” Lucy shoots me a disbelieving look. “From where I was stood it sounded pretty much like you shut him down. You were still angry and in shock. You’d onlyjust found out, so I get that, but he didn’t get the chance to explain. Do you really want to end it with him?”

The thought of having to see him at work after this makes me feel sick. The thought of never seeing him alone, never being with him, leaves me numb. Like an integral part of my life is missing and I can’t function without it. But I can’t be with him if I don’t know him. If there’s any chance of us working through this, I need to know the truth. I need to know the real Art. I need answers.

I spring into action and jump to my feet.

“Where are you going?” Lucy asks, wide-eyed at my sudden mood change.

“You’re right,” I call over my shoulder and I hurry into the bedroom, throwing off my pyjamas and pulling on my blue jeans and a grey jumper. “I need answers. I need to know the truth.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.” I pick up his front door key and rush into the hall. “Thanks for looking after me, but I need to see him on my own,” I give her a look. “And you need to go home to your fiancé.”

Lucy gives me a rueful look as if she knows I’m right. “Okay. Text me and let me know how you get on.”

Twenty-Seven

The soft glow of a light shines through the windows of Art’s apartment, signalling he’s home. As I stare upwards through the rain-splattered taxi window, anxiety knots in my stomach. He’s home. But will he want to talk? I’ve finished things with him.

I push open the doors and find Derek, as always, sitting behind the oak concierge desk, with a warm, ready smile for me. “Good evening, Miss Ward.”

I force a smile and ask the question I already know the answer to. “Is he home?”

Derek’s eyes flash with concern and I’m immediately on edge. “Yes, Mr Black is home.” He pauses as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ve received a noise complaint from the neighbour below. I knocked on the door, but Mr Black didn’t answer.”

My eyes lift to the staircase. “What type of noise complaint?”

“Shouting,crashing, banging.” Derek glances nervously at his computer as if he’s revealed too much but wants to warn me.

“Is Mr Black—” The words stick in my throat because I don’t really want to ask the next question. “Home alone?”

Derek’s warm smile reappears. “Yes, Miss Ward. He’s had no visitors.”

A trickle of relief helps unravel the coil of nerves in my stomach a little. I wouldn’t put it past Tara to try her luck now she’s twisted the knife.

I thank Derek, take a deep breath, and start climbing the stairs. By the time I reach his front door, my nerves are shredded. I turn the key in the lock and push the door open.

Vera Blue’s “Hold” hits me like a sledgehammer, the beat jack-hammering into my brain as it fills the apartment and my heart aches at the memory the song evokes in me. He’s nowhere to be seen. The acrid stench of cigarette smoke hangs in the air as I tentatively carry on down the hallway. His shoes lie discarded on the floor next to a small empty bottle. I bend down and scoop it up, peering down at the Irish name on the label I’ve never heard of before. Whiskey. Anxiety churns in my stomach as I take a few more hesitant steps into the living area and stop in my tracks. The armchair has been upended and each one of the chairs around the dining table, kicked over. All the cushions from the blue velvet sofa have been flung around the room and the lamp has been knocked over.

I slam the empty whiskey bottle down on the kitchen counter and hurry over to the Bose sound system beside the fireplace, turning the volume down. Silence fills the apartment and my eyes dart around the room as panic slowly rises in my chest and I immediately fear the worst.

There’s no sign of him. Suddenly, I hear a shuffling noise behind me and turn to see the voile curtain blowing gently in the breeze before it’s angrily swatted out of the way with a large hand.

Art staggers into the room, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His black shirt is hanging open, and he comes to astop, swaying from side to side as he takes a drag from his cigarette. Unfamiliar, dark, hollow eyes narrow into slits and focus on me.

He blows out a long puff of smoke. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

His hostility spikes at my flesh. He’s never looked at me with contempt before. He’s never spoken to me like this before. I don’t know this man who’s staggering towards me. “Come to gloat, have we?”

I start to move backwards away from him. “Why would I gloat?”

He spreads his arms open wide. “To see what a sorry state I really am.”

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