‘Miller,’ I whisper, my fingertip meeting the picture, stroking across the image like I could rub some life into his little body. It’s him; I have no doubt whatsoever. There are too many of the traits I’ve come to know and love – his wavy hair, looking wilder than ever, his wayward curl present and correct, his impassive, emotionless face and his piercing blue eyes. They look haunted . . . dead. Yet this child is inconceivably beautiful. I can’t pull my eyes off him, can’t even blink. He must be around seven or eight. His jeans are ripped, his T-shirt far too small, and his trainers are wrecked. He looks neglected, and that thought, plus this image of him looking despondent and lost, cripples me with unrelenting sadness. I don’t realise that I’m sobbing, not until a tear splashes onto the glossy surface of the photograph, blurring the painful sight of Miller as a boy. I want to leave it that way, blurry and masked. I want to pretend that I never saw it.
Impossible.
My heart is breaking for the lost boy. If I could, I’d reach into this picture and cuddle the child – hold him, comfort him. But I can’t. I look towards the kitchen doorway in a haze of sorrow and suddenly wonder why I’m still standing here when I can cuddle, hold and comfort the man who that child has become. I rush to wipe my tears away, from the picture and my face, then slip the photo back into Miller’s organiser and shut the drawer. Shut it away. For ever. Then I virtually sprint back to his bedroom, at the same time pulling my top off, and slip between the sheets behind him, snuggling as close as I can get and breathing him into me. My comfort is restored quickly.
‘Where have you been?’ He takes my hand from his stomach and pulls it to his mouth, kissing it sweetly.
‘Nan.’ I give one word, knowing my simple reply will halt further questions. But it doesn’t halt him from turning over to find my eyes.
‘Is she okay?’ He’s timid. It magnifies the pain in my chest and swells the lump in my throat. I don’t want him to see my sadness, so I hum my answer, hoping the restricted light is hindering his vision of me. ‘Then why are you sad?’
‘I’m okay.’ I try for a reassuring tone but manage only an unconvincing whisper. I won’t ask him about the picture because I already know that anything he tells me will be agonising.
His face is dubious, but he doesn’t pressure me. He uses the last of his drunken energy to pull me into his chest and envelop me completely in his strong arms. I’m home. ‘I have a request,’ he murmurs into my hair, squeezing me further into him.
‘Anything.’
We’re briefly bathed in a peaceful silence while he sprinkles kisses in my hair before he softly whispers his wish. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
His plea requires no thought. ‘Never.’
Chapter Seventeen
Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.
Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.
I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.
‘Medium Americano, four shots, two sugars, and topped up halfway,’ I gasp to the young guy behind the counter, slapping my purse down. ‘Please.’
‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a little alarmed by my flustered form. ‘Drinking in?’
‘Take out.’
‘And four shots?’
‘Yes, topped up halfway,’ I reiterate. If I knew how it should taste by Miller’s standards, then I’d take a slurp to test it, but I can only imagine that it tastes like coffee beans have been grinded to a pulp and that it resembles something close to tar.
He gets straight to work at the coffee machine, and I find myself counting the shots as they are added to the cup. He isn’t going fast enough, but my manners prevent me from chivvying him along, so I shuffle impatiently instead, glancing over my shoulder on a frown when that strange sensation settles over me. I feel like I’m being watched again, but when I scan the coffee house, I find only businessmen and women with their faces in laptops, slurping and tapping, so I shrug off the strange feeling and return my attention to the dithering server. Now he’s taking his time wiping the steam pipe, whistling as he does.
‘Would you . . .’ I pause, halted by the return sense of being observed, but this time I have the cold chill across my shoulders and raised neck hair to accompany it. A shiver reverberates through me, gliding slowly down my spine.