Page 191 of Every Silent Lie
But Dec wasn’t talking about any of that when he asked me how I’m feeling. “I feel like I achieved something today,” I admit. “After three long years trying to achieve it.” I nudge him. “You weren’t so bad to work with.” To be fair, I hardly worked with him, because he simply handed me the ropes and let me crack on. And I did.
Dec laughs as we break out into a bleak, grey London. Quite a departure from last year. “Well,” he says. “I might have another project for you to spend the next year on.”
I stop, pulling him to a stop too. “What did you buy now?” I ask. He looks sheepish. “Tell me you haven’t turned your father over again.”
“God, no. I’m over that. In fact, he’s asked us over for dinner after Christmas.”
I recoil. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Indifferent.” He shrugs, and I roll my eyes. Indifferent, my arse.
“We’re going, you know that?”
Now, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know that. I also accepted the invitation to Paisley’s wedding.”
“Oh. My. God,” I say, dramatic. Finally. It’s been sitting in a drawer for weeks. I didn’t push it. I could see him silently pondering the idea of us going.
“Shut up.”
I laugh as he pulls me on, and I hear the familiar sound of little knuckles wrapping on a window. I drop Dec’s hand and pull the door open.
“Are you finished work now?” Albi asks, leaning forward to meet my lips as I pucker up.
“I’m finished.”
“Yay!”
“Hi, Mr. Percival,” I say, hearing his chirpy reply as I round the car and get in the back with Albi. “What’s the plan?”
“Shhh,” Albi says, making me frown.
“Why am I shushing?”
“Mr. Percival has a headache.”
He does? I lean between the seats, checking him over in the front seat as Dec pulls off. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, dear, perfectly fine.” Then he gasps and reaches for his ear, holding it. “Bleeding headache, that’s all.”
I look at Dec. “We should take him to his doctor.” I sit back and fish through my bag for my phone, worried. “How long has it hurt, Mr. Percival?”
“What, dear?”
“Your head,” I say, going to my contacts to find his surgery’s number. “How long has it hurt?”
“Oh, just for a little while, dear.”
“You need to lie down, don’t you, Mr. P?” Dec says.
“Yes, yes, a lie down would do the trick.”
“No, I think you should see your doctor.” I lean forward again. “Maybe the smoke from the tea towel has gone to his head.”
“For the love of God,” he mutters. “Everyone, stop fussing!”
I rest back and raise my brows, looking at Dec in the rearview mirror, catching that his brows are raised too. Yeah, good luck telling him that he’s getting assistance or moving into our place. Dec must read me, because when he pulls up at a red light, he turns to Mr. P. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, clearing his throat.
“And watcha been thinking?”
