Page 79 of The Night Shift
They talked it through for a while, in much the same way as she had with her mum, and then Marvin cleared his throat like he either had something important to say or had choked on one of the lemon sherbets Violet had bought him from the café. Luckily it was the former.
‘In the spirit of the moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve been having a few thoughts myself.’ He told her that he had decided to go to the police again. ‘I’ve remembered a few more things about the men who attacked me,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been thinking that if there’s something I can do to stop this happening to someone else then I’d be a coward not to come forward.’
Violet didn’t comment. She knew that this had to be Marvin’s decision. It was one of those scenarios where her dad would have suggested she ‘used silence as a tool to facilitate the discussion’. At least she thought it was– either way, Marv knew her well enough not to think she was ignoring the significance of what he’d said.
‘And, given that seeking justice will require a certain amount of “going public”,’ he continued, ‘I’ve decided to speak to the school. The head of department anyway.’
‘Mr Fenwick?’ Violet considered Marvin’s immediate boss, his thin white hair and corduroy jacket. He didn’t seem the type to necessarily welcome cross-dressing into the scholarly mathematics fraternity.
‘The same,’ said Marvin smiling. ‘He’ll probably need to go to the school governors and between them they can decide just how progressive an educational establishment they are.’
Dev had returned laden with several carrier bags and he overhead the end of Marvin’s comment. ‘I think it’s a really brave decision,’ he said, standing in the doorway looking proud. ‘You’re an excellent teacher. You’d find another job in seconds. The school will know that.’
‘I’m fed up with living a lie,’ said Marvin. ‘It totally detracts from the joy and sense of liberation I feel on stage, this constant worrying about what happens if one of my sixth-form students, or indeed one of their parents, ever ends up at the club and recognises me.’
‘Stranger things have happened after all,’ mused Dev. ‘You never know who’s going to pitch up at Rainbow Punters– all these middle-aged straight couples seem to be intent on crashing the scene at the moment, trying to prove how woke they are, let’s test their liberal credentials.’
‘Too right,’ said Violet’s mum. ‘You go, girl– and all that.’
‘Exactly, Sue,’ said Dev. ‘And while we’re talking about coming out into the open. I’m going to have to speak to my parents again. They can’t avoid the elephant in the room forever, not if Marv and I get married or something.’
‘Is that you proposing?’ joked Marvin, one eyebrow raised.
‘Maybe it is.’ Dev’s hands were back on his hips, which wasn’t easy when you were carrying four litres of cider and a bumper pack of party blowers.
‘What, you– the old romantic– just slipping in a proposal as part of a discussion around the practicalities of talking to your mum?’
‘And what could be more romantic than that?’ Dev’s tone was defiant. ‘I want my family to know who I am but I also want them to know how much I love you.’
Marvin’s face suddenly crumpled into a heap and he gave a big dramatic sob. ‘Really?’ he said.
Dev dropped the carrier bags and, wobbling slightly, went down on one knee. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘Marvin Gillespie. Will you marry me?’
Gus
Gus opened the front door with a mix of trepidation and calm determination. He had been thinking about Violet since he’d left Marvin’s ward. To be honest, he’d been thinking about her all night, but now he was wondering what she would say in this situation and wishing he had her calm voice in his ear, weighing up the options, rationalising the possible outcomes. He missed her, he realised. He really missed her– which was crazy after only a week. But then, he’d never really met anybody like her before and she had a way of making her presence felt. Someone as unique as Violet was bound to make an impact on someone like him given that he prided himself on being able to read people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Violet was probably the only person he knew who told people what theyneededto hear instead. He had to keep this in mind when it came to Amelia– there were things she wouldn’t want to listen to but she needed to hear them, and she needed to hear them from him.
The apartment was stiflingly hot with the radiators cranked up to their full extent and the heavy scent of a vaseful of dusky roses in the centre of the dining table added to the oppressive atmosphere. He almost turned on his heel and walked back out again, the draw of the cold fresh air of the street much more appealing than it had seemed moments before when he shivered over the pedestrian crossing.
‘Gus– is that you?’
Amelia’s voice came from the main bedroom, and she emerged into a weak ray of sunlight that filtered through the front windows. He wondered if she had planned it that way. She was wearing a close-fitting pastel jumper and tight, figure-hugging jeans, her hair and make-up were immaculate. She looked stunning but he was curiously unmoved by this fact, as if observing it from afar.
‘I’ve made us breakfast,’ she said, gesturing a manicured hand towards the kitchen counter where piles of pastries and croissants were stacked on a plate, small ceramic pots of jam and butter between them. A pan of scrambled eggs was congealing on the induction hob and he realised with some irritation that she’d fried up the remaining pancetta mistaking it for bacon. Regardless of this he was just about to make his usual expression of delighted gratitude, realising that she’d gone to a lot of trouble to make this for him, and then he stopped himself.No, he thought.Start as you mean to go on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dropping his bag on the floor. ‘That was kind of you but I’m not really hungry.’
Amelia’s lower lip wobbled slightly but she plastered a smile back on her face. ‘No problem,’ she said brightly. ‘Do you want a coffee instead? I’ve made a pot.’
‘Yes, thanks. A decaf would be great. I want to try and get a few hours’ sleep.’
She busied herself around the kitchen cupboards, seeming glad of a job to do. He could tell from the way her hands were shaking that she was nervous, aware that this performance was an important one in determining her future. The realisation exhausted him as much as it must have exhausted her. He saw the whole pattern of their relationship suddenly laid bare, the complex charade they’d both been living for the previous two years. Pretending to be happy just wasn’t good enough any longer, for either of them. They both deserved better. Faking it until you made it wasn’t really an option where love was concerned.
‘Amelia,’ he said, pulling up a chair. ‘I’m really sorry to be this– uhm– blunt. But I’ve got to say it.’ He took a deep breath, steeled himself. ‘You can’t stay here.’
She almost dropped the mug she was holding but managed to get it onto the table in front of him where the coffee sloshed ominously for a moment before steadying.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, her voice small. ‘I can’t stay here? Why? There’s enough space and– you said yesterday– you said?—’
