Page 145 of Red Flag
And, the bizarre intrusive thought was, would our kids need braces like we did?
My mind was reeling with the emotions. Clearly.
“He’s lucky to have nothing more to do with them,” she said as her phone went blank. “And lucky to have you, obviously. So, to the matter at hand. Book deal?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I have a lawyer friend who would be more than happy to sue them,” she said, already searching through her contacts. “As you said, they’ve gone against that conduct they have. You are identifiable. You’ve been identified. By scummy bloggers, but still identified.”
I nodded along. Nix was so laid back in comparison to her.
She must be why he was so relaxed. She was a tornado, but instead of causing chaos, she seemed to sweep it away from everyone else, taking it with her.
I wanted to be her.
I couldn’t imagine this strong, determined woman havingbreakdowns to her son.
Which was naive and awful of me because some people saw me as strong and determined.
And I crumbled often.
No. I had to stop thinking of everything so negatively.
Nix dressed, kissed me goodbye and left me in her presence.
By the time he returned, I’d made a list of celebrities I knew that I thought would support me and his mother had gone through the trial. She showed me some supportive articles, weaning me on to the less supportive.
Articles where another woman had come forward to explain her own relationship withVinny.
Hashtags like #JusticeforLivieQuinn and #BelieveHer.
Then came the big ones. #MediaBlackout#NotMyNews.
Those newspapers that had reported my name were under heavy scrutiny, and two of them were in the upcoming trial.
My heart was racing. This would impact the case. There was no doubt about it.
And, though my stomach clenched with a nervous fear, there was a slight twinge of excitement. This might help.
This had no choice but to help.
I braved it by getting out my phone and going on my emails, searching forOluchiEkubo, the MP who had encouraged Parliament to change the laws on news articles and harassment by journalists. She should be aware.
Nix had a shopping bag around his wrist and both hands full of different bouquets of flowers. He didn’t interrupt us but laid them out on the table before grabbing a vase and scissors and snipping away.
Marie whispered, “Does he have any idea what he’s doing?”
Nix was flustered, hands hovering over the stems, unsurewhat to grab. He looked over the piles of flowers, clearly overwhelmed but gave me a gormless smile when he saw us watching.
“Oh, yes,” I lied. “He makes the arrangements himself. Picks all of my favourites.”
He’d gone for whites and pinks.
Marie stared at Nix cutting off the leaves from the stems before glancing with a frown at her son’s expression of concentration, a glimpse of his tongue between his lips.
I’d always wanted to know if his tongue was hanging out of his mouth when he was racing on the track.
We had stopped talking, watching Nix prepare the flowers. He turned the vase to face me, “Ta-da!”
