Page 125 of Every Silent Lie
Oh God. But . . . “I’d do anything for you,” I say evenly, meaning it too. Unquestionably anything. So I take a breath of bravery, and I sing to him. “Happy birthday,” I start, quiet and plainly awkward, laughing under my breath when Dec’s lips stretch into a smile. “To you.” I lift my arse off my heels, leaning over the bed to get closer to him. “Happy birthday . . . to you.” I put the cake on the bedside table and inch up onto the mattress, and his smile widens more, spreading the entire width of his face. His delight, the rare full beam, injects me with valour and maybe some sass too. “Happy birthday, . . . dear D . . . ec.” He chuckles, rolling onto his back, and I crawl onto his front and sink my face into his neck, feeling his arms come over my back and hold me tightly. “Happy birthday”—I kiss my way up his ear, onto his cheek, down the bridge of his nose, and onto his lips—“to you,” I whisper, turning my peck into a full-blown kiss, clenching his hair in my fists and losing myself in him for another long while.
“That was beautiful,” he mumbles around my mouth, and the odd sound of a giggle bubbles up from the deepest part of me. Such a thing on any normal day would be strange. But today? I break away and hold his face, wanting to see him again.
Wanting to see the reason.
And also wondering what he wished for, but I won’t ask. It’s bad luck. So instead I kiss him again, reaching back for the duvet and wafting it back over us.
We’re two twirls of a tongue and a moan into another mind-blanking kiss when a bang at the front door disturbs us. No need to wonder who it’ll be. I sigh and break away from Dec, laughing when he tries to haul me back into bed. The clock on my bedside catches my eye, and I have a mild heart attack. “It’s ten o’clock,” I say on a gasp, swinging back toward the bed. “We’re late for work.”
“We’re not going to work today,” he reminds me, stretching out his long, lovely body, sending me cross-eyed on the spot when every perfect part of him extends. He flips onto his side and plumps the pillow. “I thought I told you to take the day off.”
“I was distracted by the news that the man I love is apparently buying the company I work for. So instead of booking a day off, I confronted my boss.”
“How did that go?”
“He thinks you were using me.”
He huffs. “I made it very clear I wasn’t.”
I roll my eyes. Of course Thomas wouldn’t believe him. “Don’t you have a business to swoop in and take over?”
“They’ll survive without me for one day.” Dec doesn’t say it, but I can see in his eyes he’s silently asking if I can survive without work for one day. Especially on this day. It’s already got to ten in the morning, and I hadn’t even comprehended the time. Hadn’t counted each second, minute, hour, willing them to pass by quicker. Just desperate for the day to be over. Not that the grief goes away with the day. It’s just . . . hard. More painful. And though it's still here, heavy in my belly, stirring in my heart, it’s sustainable—and it’s never been sustainable.
Another knock pulls me back into the room. Into the day. I grab my robe off the hook behind the door and swing it on.
“Is it the mad old man?” Dec asks.
“That mad old man helped make your birthday cake,” I remind him. “He’s not mad. Maybe eccentric. And he’s ninety-nine, so he can be whatever he wants to be.” I hurry to the door and swing it open, finding the mad old man. At least, I think it’s him. Really, it’s only the walking frame that clues me into who’s at my door.
“Mr. Percival,” I say, trying not to react to the snowsuit—an orange and royal blue affair made of some grotesque shiny manmade fabric that looks wet.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I feel at my cheeks, certain they must be flushed.
“You’ve not gone to work.” His eyes widen, and I wonder why for a moment. Until I feel Dec’s chest push into my back.
“Good morning, Mr. Percival,” he says, unusually cheerful for Dec.
“You stayed the night.”
“I did indeed stay the night. Couldn’t move after eating all that cake.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“Best Victoria sponge I’ve ever tasted.”
“See!” Mr. Percival’s chest swells with pride, making the snowsuit expand, almost enough to knock me back a step. “I’ve won awards for that cake.”
“At the Royal British Legion,” I add, looking back at Dec on a smile. I won’t burst Mr. Percival’s bubble and advise him that Dec’s only tasted the buttercream.
Dec blows his cheeks out and rubs his belly. Again, very unlike Dec. “Blew me away. Well, as you can see, I’m not holding Camryn against her will, so if there’s nothing else?”
The old boy recoils. Then grins wickedly, looking up and down the corridor, prompting me to crane my head and do the same, though who I’m looking for I don’t know. “You’re skiving,” he says. “Both of you. Called in sickies, have we?”
“Actually, I’ve not called in anything yet.”
“And I own the company,” Dec says. “So I don’t need to call in a thing.”
