I Knew You Were Trouble

Chapter Thirty-Two

February brings snow to London. I remain ensconced in my flat, staying under the duvet whenever possible, surviving on black coffee, pistachio nuts and Deliveroo. I move the framed photograph of my mother next to my bed, hoping it will give me strength. I have the photograph of me with the band, but I can’t bear to put it on display.

I finally come to understand Meredith’s past level of obsession with Rebel Heart. Stalking the boys on social media, I seek out every newly-released image or article, following the tour through the miracle of the internet. A paparazzi photo of Cal kissing Bianca on a night out sends the Rebelles into meltdown.

From Vegas, they moved to LA for three sell-out shows, performing on the daytime and late-night chat show circuit before moving across to Miami, which appears to be back-to-back parties. Little is said about Aidan. They then move across to Dallas, before crossing south over the border into Mexico City and entering the Latin American phase of the tour schedule. I have my phone and laptop beside me in bed, sleeping in broken fragments, all the time checking to see if my message has been delivered. I feel both haunted and challenged by the single grey tick that meets me every time I look at it.

His absence gnaws at me, the same way my mother’s did in the months after her death. I wake in the night, thinking he’s in the king-sized bed with me. I slide out my hand only to find crisp, ice-cold sheets on the other side. The ache from missing Aidan McArthur weighs down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. The pain is incessant. I watch footage of him on YouTube and Instagram, watching those piercing eyes twinkle, the way he charms any host, male or female. I watch live performances, music videos, feeding on his image, remembering the times he held me. I dread the day when I will see him arm in arm with another woman, inevitably someone he’s met whilst touring: a voluptuous Colombian or a Brazilian supermodel.

The worst feeling is the knowledge I’ve let him down.

And still, the single grey tick.

The door buzzer blasts out on a Tuesday. I wake with a start, unaware of what time it is. It’s light outside, but that’s all I can gauge.

‘Hello,’ I croak through the intercom.

‘It’s Dunc,’ the subdued voice comes back.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him in a while. I buzz him up, piling away dirty dishes into the sink, scraping my hair back into a ponytail so as to look partially presentable.

‘Did you not get my messages?’ he says to me once he’s inside.

‘Sorry, I was asleep,’ I mutter. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s gone ten.’

‘Oh.’

‘Lex. You look… terrible. There’s not a bit of meat on you. I know heartbreak is a bag o’ shite, I get it. But you still gotta look after yourself.’

‘I am looking after myself.’

‘Oh yeah? When was the last time you ate a proper meal?’

The truth is I’ve barely eaten, my stomach a permanent bundle of knots.

‘Did you find an editor yet?’ Duncan asks.

‘Not yet. I… uh … I didn’t think I’d need one for a while, so it’s finding someone available.’

‘You talk to Herrera?’

‘Yes. I told him I had more than enough footage to work with, so we’d left the tour.’

‘So, what’re you doing all day? Sitting around, feeling sorry for yourself and living off thin air?’

My gaze goes to the floor. I don’t want to admit out loud how I’ve been spending my time.

‘Did you get a job?’ I ask him throatily, trying to change the trajectory of the conversation.

‘Aye. Camera B operator. Fierce Females , that lunchtime talk show. Celebrity guests and stuff. Pretty mundane but the pay’s decent and it’s steady work.’

‘Congratulations. Did you talk to Meredith yet?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘At least she hasn’t ghosted you.’

Duncan stares at me, sympathy in his eyes. ‘Ach, come on, Lex. You must have known that was a possibility after what happened. Probably his way of moving on.’

I nod, feeling like the room is moving. Duncan catches me as I almost topple over. ‘Jesus, have you had a drink yet today? Any sugar?’

He feels my forehead. I wobble again, but take a step back, independent of him. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘When was the last time you went outside? Or don’t you remember that either?’

This time I don’t answer.

Two days later, the door buzzer blasts again, this time when it’s dark outside.

I stumble to the intercom. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Dunc,’ Duncan says. ‘Can you maybe come down here?’

I pull on a woolly jumper, taking the two flights of stairs down to the main entrance of the building, feeling shaky. I don’t know why he can’t just come up. When I open the door, my mouth falls open.

Duncan stands there, beside my father.

Patrick Hart wears an overcoat, a suitcase by his side.

A sudden windstorm of emotions sweeps me up, my face crumpling as the tears I’ve been holding back for almost five weeks all come spilling out of me at once.

‘Hi, Daddy,’ I manage in a strangled tone, as he steps forward and wraps his arms around me in a long sought-after embrace. And then I’m holding onto my father for dear life, my heart breaking inside of me, but which, once broken, allows the most intense, profound and much-needed sense of relief to wash over me.

Duncan leaves again. Closing my front door, my father puts down his suitcase and looks around. I wipe away tears. I’m embarrassed by the state of my own flat.

When he’d suggested visting while I was in New York, I’d rejected him completely. Yet here he is, dropping everything when he answered Duncan’s call, packing a bag and getting straight on a plane for an eleven-hour flight to London.

‘Would you like something to eat, Pumpkin?’ he says softly. ‘Will you let me make you some eggs?’

‘I don’t have any eggs,’ I sniff as I watch him remove his coat.

‘There anywhere I can go get some?’

‘There’s a shop closeby, round the corner,’ I manage.

A short while later, my father places a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in front of me. It’s the same comfort meal I remember him making me as a child. He’s removed his overcoat and rolled up his sleeves. He fetches me a knife and fork and takes a seat next to me at the table, where I eat and continue to sob uncontrollably at the same time.

‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ he says softly. ‘Not if you don’t want to. But I’m here to help.’

Slowly, I nod and chew, my eyes still leaking tears, because I can’t seem to stem the flow.

‘I promise you, Lexi, the pain gets easier. Every day you will get stronger.’

And for the first time since I was eight years old, I’m happy to have him to lean on.