Promised
Page 54

I viciously yank down a cream layered dress and shove it on, quickly realising that my underwear is black and you can see the damn stuff through the material, so I set about removing everything all over again, telling Gregory to stick his face in the pillow so I can do it all quickly and comfortably. When I’m done, I have my white cotton underwear back on, my cream dress in place, my denim jacket over the top, and my navy Converse gracing my feet. I feel so much better.
‘Ready,’ I declare, quickly brushing over my cheeks with some blusher and putting a pink sheen on my lips.
‘What a waste of a shopping trip,’ Gregory mutters, removing himself from my bed and strolling over. ‘You looked lovely.’
‘Don’t I now?’
‘Well, yes, you always look lovely, but you looked less of a walkover in the black number. It would’ve empowered you – given you confidence.’
‘I’m happy the way I am,’ I counter, wondering if that’s strictly true. I don’t even know any more. My head’s not been my own in recent weeks. It’s thinking things I never considered and making my body do things I definitely never considered.
‘I just want you to express yourself a little more, like you did just then.’ He grins at me as he fluffs my hair.
‘You want me to be mad?’ I ask, because that’s exactly how I feel. Moody. Irritable. Pressured.
‘No, I want some sass to surface. I know it’s there.’
‘Sass is dangerous.’ I brush him off and transfer my things from my satchel to a more suitable across-the-body bag. ‘Let’s go before I change my mind,’ I mutter, ignoring his grumbles of disapproval as I march out onto the landing.
I thank all of the Converse gods as I walk down the stairs in my stable flats, but soon stop smiling when I find Nan pacing restlessly at the bottom of them. George is moving out of her way each time she performs an about-turn, pinning himself against the wall of the hallway to avoid being run down.
‘Here she is!’ George says, clearly relieved that his body dodging will soon come to an end. ‘And doesn’t she look lovely?’
I halt on the bottom step and watch Nan give me an all-over assessment, then flick her eyes over my shoulders, homing straight in on Gregory. ‘You said heels,’ she says in disbelief. ‘You said a lovely black dress and heels to match.’
‘I tried,’ Gregory mumbles grumpily behind me, and I swing around to fire an accusing glare at him. He meets my accusing glare with his own. ‘You try avoiding a Nan-style interrogation.’
I sigh my frustration and take the last step, pushing my way past my grandmother, keen to escape all of the bloody fuss. ‘Bye.’
‘Have fun!’ Nan calls. ‘Is this one really better than that Miller?’ I hear her ask quietly.
‘Much!’ Gregory assures her confidently. It just makes me walk faster. How the hell does he know? He’s not met either of them.
‘See,’ George laughs. ‘Now, where’s my pineapple upside-down cake?’
I march onward, grateful for my flats and looking forward to my date because it gets me out of the house and away from Nan, an uncharitable thought, but Lord, give me strength! A quiet life was an easy life, kind of, except for the odd grumble about my reclusiveness. Now it’s a constant stream of questions and brain-picking. It’s painful.
‘Livy!’ Gregory catches up to me as I reach the end of the road. ‘You look dead cute.’
‘You don’t have to try to make me feel better. I feel fine, no thanks to you.’
‘You’re grumpy today.’
‘No thanks to you.’ I let out a girly squeal as I’m hoofed from the pavement. ‘Will you pack it in!’
‘Sass,’ he says simply. ‘You can have it without being a bitch, you know.’
‘You deserve it. Put me down.’
He places me on my feet and straightens me out. ‘I’m headed in the other direction, so I’ll love you and leave you.’ He leans down and pecks my cheek. ‘Be good.’
‘That’s a really stupid thing to say to me.’ I jab his shoulder in an attempt to restore our normality.
‘Well, yes, it usually would be, but my best friend has developed a stupid gene in recent weeks.’ He jabs my shoulder right back.
He’s right; I have, but I’ve also lost that gene again, so he has nothing to worry about, and neither do I. ‘I’m going on a friendly date, that’s all.’
‘And a little snog wouldn’t hurt, but no hanky-panky until I’ve met him. I need to check him out.’ He grabs my shoulders and turns me around. ‘Off you trot.’
‘I’ll call you,’ I say as I start to leave him behind.
‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ he calls back, earning himself a roll of my eyes that he can’t see to appreciate.
It’s ten minutes to eight when I arrive at Selfridges. Oxford Street is still bustling, even at this hour, so I prop myself up against the shopfront and watch the world go by, making my best effort to look casual and at ease. I know I’m failing.
After five minutes of waiting, I decide that fiddling with my phone will make me look much more relaxed, so I rootle through my bag and start a text to Gregory, just to pass the time.
How long do I wait?
I click send, and my phone starts ringing almost immediately, Gregory’s name flashing up. ‘Hi,’ I answer, grateful he called because actually being on the phone is an even better way to appear relaxed.
‘He’s not there yet?’
‘No, but it’s not even eight.’
‘Doesn’t matter!’ he exclaims. ‘Damn it, I should’ve made you late. It’s the number-one rule of dating.’
‘What is?’ I ask, changing my standing position to lean on my shoulder rather than my back.
‘The woman has to be late. Everyone knows that.’ He doesn’t sound happy.
I smile to the crowd of strangers scurrying by. ‘So what happens when the two people dating are men? Who’s the one to be late then?’
‘Very funny, baby girl. Very funny.’
‘It’s a perfectly reasonable question.’
‘Stop diverting the conversation to me. Is he there yet?’
I glance back, my eyes darting around briefly, but find no Luke. ‘Nope. How long should I wait?’
‘I hate him already,’ Gregory grumbles. ‘Two pricks in two weeks. You’re on fire!’
I laugh to myself, silently agreeing with my aggravated friend, although I’ll never tell him so. ‘Thank you.’ I roll onto my back against the glass and sigh. ‘You’ve still not answered my question. How long should I—’ My tongue dries up in a second as I watch a car cruise past, my head turning to follow its path down Oxford Street. There must be thousands of black Mercedes driving around London, so why am I so drawn to this one? The tinted windows? The AMG plate on the wing?
‘Livy?’ Gregory snaps me back to the present. ‘Livy, you there?’
‘Yes,’ I say, watching as the Mercedes slows and then pulls a highly illegal three-point turn in the road before driving back toward me.
‘Is he there?’ Gregory asks.
‘Yes!’ I squeak. ‘I should go.’