Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (3 page)

Turner appeared behind her, shaking Kyle and Liam off,
though they clung on to his legs like limpets. "Mum."

Emily felt like a spare part, and knew it wasn't her place
any more. Instead of leaving, she beckoned to Kyle and Liam, and managed to
persuade them into the kitchen. She took the tea towel from Mrs Black's hands
as she passed her, and nudged her into the living room so she could close the
door on their reunion.

"Come on, lads. Let's make some tea, hey?"

For the six-year-olds, helping in the kitchen meant eating
biscuits, but they were happy enough to stay put as Emily busied herself in the
old ritual. She knew exactly where everything was, after all.

The boys chattered about nothing and everything as she
pottered around the small kitchen. She couldn't hear what was being said in the
living room, and she didn't want to. It wasn't long, anyway, before the door
cracked open again and Mrs Black entered, her face split by a smile almost wider
than Turner's shoulders.

He followed, equally full of joy, and his eyes lit up at the
cups of steaming tea. "What a welcome home. I couldn't ask for any more
than this."

Turner stayed standing against the counter, with his mum
nestled against his side, beaming. "You sound so positive and ready for a
new life," she said. "I'm so glad."

"And you!" he returned. "The all-clear… oh
god, that means so much. So much."

"Don't start up again…"

"Sorry."

Emily looked from one to the other. Turner's facial
expression was that of a small child, like all men became when they were with
their mums. She guessed he had been apologising for being in prison while she
completed her gruelling cancer treatments.

"Anyway," Mrs Black went on, "It's all
change, and for the better." She cradled her hot cup between her hands and
smiled at Emily. "Things will be easier for all of us, now. This new
business thing of Turner's sounds great."

"Ahh… websites, computer stuff?" Emily hazarded,
realising that she didn't know as much about it as she ought to have done. He
had mentioned it, but she'd been quite caught up in her own work issues and
problems.

Plus, when he was writing to her from prison, it was easy to
dismiss his plans as just a daydream. But now, in the bright kitchen, it seemed
that he really was going to make it real.

"That's right," he said. "A total
change."

"Well, you know me. I am a firm believer in shaking
things up and making big changes," Pearl said.

Turner laughed. "Yes but you usually say that when you
want a new hairdo."

"Same thing. Just for you, on a larger scale."

Emily looked around the kitchen and felt out of place all of
a sudden as the easy banter between Turner and his mum continued. Mrs Black
said, "Just relax a little on the big plans, you know? You don't know
what's around the corner."

"I don't care because it's big plans that mean I can
cope with anything. Prior preparation and planning prevent poor performance,
remember?"

"You can't control everything."

"Oh yes I can." Turner bent his arms in the arm,
posing like a superhero or muscle man, and the twins began to hoot with
laughter, seeing it as their cue to latch onto him again.

Emily realised Mrs Black was looked at her, and she smiled
at the older woman. "I'd better be going," she said, sidling towards
the living room door.

Mrs Black nodded. "Thanks. For today, and for
everything."

"Hey, no probs."

Turner tried to shake himself free of the boys, but all of a
sudden, Emily just needed to be out of there, and on her own. She dashed
through the living room, waving to Turner as she reached the front door.

"Don't worry - no it's all right. Look. I'll catch you
tomorrow. You've got so much to do, and I am sure you need some time alone
too."

"Does it look like I'm going to get it?" he
retorted, dragging his left leg behind him, while Kyle rode it like a cowboy
clinging to a bucking horse.

"I thought you'd go to your house…"

"Yeah, you're right. Are you sure…?"

"You need some time."

Actually, I think I need some time.
She launched
herself through the door before he could protest any more, and walked briskly
down the street, back to her car. It wasn't until she had buckled up and
started the engine that she realised she was shaking slightly.

She ran her damp hands over the steering wheel, and sighed
deeply. Everything was different, now. She'd actually got used to how things
were. Elaine, Turner's sister, had grown to accept her and no longer blamed her
for Emily's role in the crime that sent both Turner and Riggers to prison.

Emily had also grown used to helping Mrs Black out, taking
her to appointments and generally being useful.

Now, Turner was back, and things couldn't go back to how
they were before, because how they were before was awful. He was going straight
this time, and that meant change.

Big change.

She turned the key in the ignition and edged away from the
kerb. Even the smell of Turner - musky, seductive - lingered in her car.

Oh, this is all just nerves. There's nothing to worry
about.

After all, she had a lot of other things to worry about at
the moment.

In Emily's dream, she was riding a horse through a snowy
landscape. Bells decorated the horse's bridle, jangling and ringing as they
galloped over a rolling white hill. Yet she wasn't feeling exhilarated.
Instead, fear and panic were chasing her.

As she clung to the mane, hair whipping into her face, the
jingling sound grew louder and louder. It was after her. What was? Her dream
was unclear. Something. Wolves, monsters, something huge…

Jingling, jangling, high-pitched and regular.

Her eyes snapped open. She could hear the beeping sound of a
truck reversing. Grey light fogged the edges of her room and she could see the
numbers on her bedside clock; not quite seven am.

It wasn't bin collection day. She closed her eyes, and at
last, the beeping stopped.

It was replaced by a furious and insistent buzzing as
someone in the entrance lobby of her apartment block leant on her intercom.

What the hell?
Instinct took over, propelling her to
her feet. The heating hadn't clicked on yet and the wooden floor was chilly.
She dragged a robe around her shoulders and ran through to the hallway.

"Hello?" If it were kids messing around, she'd go
down there and rip their heads off.

"Ms Carrera?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Ms Emily Carrera, my name is Shaun. You are the owner
of the blue Smart car?" The voice was light and efficient, a Liverpool
accent. He read off a registration number - her registration number.

"Yes, that's mine." She began to understand what
was happening, and she felt sick. She leaned against the wall, grateful now for
the cold air in the flat that was waking her up. She knew what it was about,
but she pretended not to, as if that would make it all right.

"Do you have the money to settle the loan?" the
chipper Scouser continued.

"What loan?"

"You know what loan, Ms Carrera." He let a bored
tone slip into his voice. They must both be following a script, she realised;
the same old script everyone would stumble through when the log-book loans
company came for their possessions. The man downstairs knew exactly what she
was going to say.

Damn.

"Shit. Okay. Yes. Um, do I need to come down?"

"We could do with your keys, love. Yes, please. Quick
as you can."

"Okay. Won't be long." She placed the receiver
back in the cradle and squeezed her eyes shut, but no tears came. She was too
stunned to cry or even move, for a moment.

She'd needed the money to pay the rent and she had been so
sure that a big commission was just around the corner. So she hadn't bothered
going to the bank to arrange an overdraft. With her credit history she wasn't
sure she'd get one, and she hoped, one day, to buy a house. The more overdrafts
and loans she had, she was sure, would reflect badly on her.

So she'd used a high-street shop, instead. The sort that
offered loans of cash in exchange for the registration documents on your
vehicle. Don't pay, and they came for your car.

The beeping resumed. There was nothing she could do about
it. She didn't have the money to pay them off; the rate would be ridiculous by
now anyway. The big commissions had never come, of course. She knew she hadn't
really tried, and so she had no one to blame. Dully, she went back to the
bedroom and pulled on a pair of baggy jogging bottoms over her pyjamas, and
wrapped a thick winter coat around her upper body.

There was no time to do her hair or wash her face. She
untied her ponytail, scraping her fingers through her locks as she took the
stairs down to the ground floor.

Oh great, and there's a fucking audience
. She had no
idea what all these people were doing at this time in the morning, but like
rubber-neckers on the motorway, suddenly the car park was full. Dog walkers,
joggers, people just randomly passing to buy their papers or milk. Perhaps
there was a breed of voyeurs who followed repossession vehicles and bailiffs,
hoping for a free drama show.

There was a large orange recovery truck backed up in the car
park, lights flashing to really advertise its presence, and her beloved car was
being attached to the tow ropes. She held her head high and ignored all the
onlookers as she walked over to the two men in high-visibility vests.

"Keys," she said flatly.

"Cheers, love. Makes it a lot easier." A tall man,
the one with the Liverpool accent,  took her keys and flashed her a friendly
smile. He threw them over to the man who was kneeling at the front of her car,
who smartly caught them without even standing up.

"Got a few bits for you to sign, if you will," the
Scouser continued.

"What the hell am I signing?" she muttered,
following him to the recovery vehicle's cab. They both knew it was a weak and
pointless protest, and he didn't answer. He passed her the clipboard and she
barely even skimmed the wall of text that she was given.

"There." She pushed the clipboard back at him,
slightly too roughly. "Is that everything?"

His face was still friendly but there wasn't a scrap of
sympathy in his eyes. He was pleasant and efficient and totally unconcerned by
other people's mistakes. "Thanks, love. You get off, now. We'll sort
it."

Underwhelmed by his magnanimity, she nodded, unable to bring
herself to politely say goodbye. Still ignoring the blatant spectators she
trudged back up to her flat, and slammed the door as hard as she could.

 
Fuck. Fuckity.
She ran through a stream of profanity
in her head but it didn't help at all. She dropped her coat on the floor like a
defiant child, but there was nobody here to annoy, and that somehow made it
worse.

Half past seven. Half past seven in the morning and not a
scrap of a commission to be had.

She had an article in a regional magazine currently on the
newsstands, and it irked her every time she saw the glossy cover. She'd
invoiced them but they didn't pay out for forty days. She'd sold some very classy
shoes on eBay and taken a heap of second-hand books to a shop which paid out a
desultory amount, but enough for her to buy food.

This is stupid, and this cannot go on.
She padded
through to her bedroom, and grabbed the duvet, before returning to the living
room. She wrapped the duvet around her and sat on the sofa, thinking.

I am so tired.
She rested her chin on her knees and
hugged her legs tightly, curled up like a cat amongst the bedding and cushions.
The morning light was eking its way through the half-open blinds, revealing the
piles of paper by her computer desk. She liked to kid herself that the mess
reflected how much work she was doing.

What a joke.

She longed for Kayleigh. Her best friend and previous flat
mate had moved away. Not just away - abroad. The move had changed their
relationship. By phone, they'd argued about Turner, way back at his trial.
Well, not so much about Turner, as about Emily's attitude. Things hadn't been
the same since then.

It was too hard to maintain a friendship by phone anyway,
she told herself, looking at her mobile and deciding not to ring Kayleigh. But
who else was there? Emily started to realise she'd let herself become almost a
recluse. The freelance life wasn't just financial ruin - it was social ruin,
too.

Now what?

Well, there's a bottle of cheap red wine in the kitchen
that I've been saving for a special occasion. This is pretty damn special.

Oh my god. Am I seriously considering drinking at this
time in the morning? Today, acidic Cabernet Sauvignon - tomorrow, cut-price
cider from a two-litre bottle as I sit on a park bench and shout at passers-by.

She lost track of time as she sat there, gripped by inertia
and gloom, until her phone buzzed her an incoming message and she nearly leapt
off the sofa.

Turner.

Oh god, what would he think of her now? She could barely
bring herself to read his message.

Let's do lunch! Remember that café at the Quays? Midday?

No, no, no. Not today.
Part of her just wanted to be
enfolded into his arms, safe and warm and protected. But the other part of her
- the stronger part, she thought - needed to get herself out of this mess,
first. She'd be damned if she turned into one of those women who moped around,
waiting to be rescued.

She would do her own rescuing.

So she texted him back.
Sorry. Deadline due today. Won't
be free until late afternoon.

She pressed send and that seemed to commit her to her new
course of action. She didn't want to lie to him; not more than she had done
already. He believed in her and her work; he said she was a woman worth going
straight for.