Page 75 of The Wedding Pact
Did Flynn know Poppy had wanted to live here before they’d moved in? Did Poppy know they’d lied to land the apartment? Would she care?
August ran to the window to watch the two of them walk down the hill. Of course she would care,of course she would, that’s got to be why she acted so coolly around August.
Poppy looked back up at the house, right at the window August was looking out of, and like a fool August ducked. Her heart was beating fast.
Maybe Flynn had already told her, after all, and August had just misunderstood. Maybe he knew full well she’d come to view the apartment, they’d had a good laugh over the coincidence, and he’d let her in on the secret. After all, it’s not like they had to pretend to everyone, only Mrs Haverley, mainly, and they’d decided to keep things clean by telling the same tale to the other residents in the property.
Ha, keep things clean. Things were beginning to prove anything but clean.
So yes, Flynn had probably told Poppy all about them and she just hadn’t realised. And if he hadn’t yet, she’d just nudge him to do so. It would be fine.
But there was a wringing in her stomach, a horrible feeling of worry. August stood and looked back out of the window, following the distant figures of Poppy and Flynn as they rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, now arm-in-arm.
What if this wasn’t just a coincidence? What if Poppy knew exactly who Flynn was when she’d approached him in that bar? Because that’s what Flynn had said, wasn’t it? That she’d hit on him?
Which led her to question … What if the game wasn’t over at all, and August and Flynn hadn’t been joint-winners; what if they’d just moved to the next level, where a whole new antagonist awaited?
*
August spent the rest of the evening trying to distract herself while she waited for Flynn to come home. If he even came home – maybe he’d go back to Poppy’s tonight. It was perfectly feasible, and she couldn’t call and check up on him because it was none of her business; shewasn’t really his wife. Nevertheless, she waited.
Sometimes she managed to convince herself that it was of course a coincidence, and also that of course Poppy had told Flynn she’d been to view the house, the first time he’d brought her here. And so Poppy hadn’t landed this particular rental, she’d probably forgotten about it by the following day, and had found herself a fantastic place to live.
At other points in the evening August spiralled, weaving all sorts of imaginary hypotheses to herself about her future. Poppy had tracked Flynn down expressly to expose them. She’d go to Mrs Haverley and tell her everything. August and Flynn would need to move out but Mrs Haverley would have reported them to the police and to a renters’ governing body and they’d struggle to ever find a home again and they’d have to go to court and Flynn would move back to Japan and August would have to leave Bath and then she’d be in the paper and every audition she ever attended for the rest of her life would have the casting director question,Weren’t you that girl who conned an old lady?
Whoa.
At that point August would screech the brakes on and take some deep breaths, telling herself this was nonsense, make believe, big worries based on very little fact. And the cycle would begin again.
When she heard footsteps on the landing at close to midnight, she muted the television and stood up.
Flynn entered their flat. ‘Hello, I wasn’t expecting you to still be up,’ he said. She could tell he’d had a couple more drinks, and he seemed cheery.
‘Hi,’ August answered. ‘How was your evening?’
‘Really nice,’ Flynn answered with honesty, leaning against the back of the sofa. ‘I feel … lighter. Poppy being here, going for a drink, the fact she got on so well with you, it all felt lovely and unforced.’ He yawned.
‘That’s good,’ August said, still standing there, wringing her hands. ‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’
‘Better not, I’ll be awake all night. Thank you, though.’
‘That’s okay,’ August tried to move past him towards the kitchen, because she felt like she needed something to hold on to. But Flynn caught her in a hug.
‘Thanks for this evening,’ he said, his voice in her hair, scented with wine. And her shoulders sunk a little in his embrace, wondering if she should say anything at all. ‘I know I don’t need your approval, but you’re my closest friend in this country.’
Friend. ‘Tell me how you met Poppy, again?’ she asked, as if she’d forgotten.
‘In the pub,’ Flynn replied, and he collapsed onto the sofa, lying down with his head on a cushion and closing his eyes.
August returned with a glass of orange juice and studied him for a moment, dark eyelashes, dark hair, lips that she knew were soft because she’d had the pleasure of kissing them, though Poppy was in charge of that now. August wondered fleetingly if she and Flynn would ever kiss again. For show, of course. But then realised it would never happen if Poppy stayed in the picture.
Flynn’s eyes opened. ‘What’s up?’ he asked her.
‘I’m just thinking about Poppy,’ August took a seat on the armchair, sitting forward, unable to relax.
‘You like her, right? She’s nice?’
‘She’s nice,’ August agreed, trying to pick her words carefully. ‘Did you know her before you met her in the pub?’
