‘Christ, remind me not to give you bad news.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just all a bit sudden.’
‘I know, I know.’ He takes both my hands. ‘Look, it’s just an offer and I’m flattered, o’course I am. But I’m not going anywhere without you, so if you can’t get your head around it, it’s grand, I’ll say no. And that’s a genuine “it’s grand”, by the way. Not a Cat Kinsella “it’s grand but I’m secretly plotting to assassinate you.” ’
I stifle a grin.
‘It won’t look good though, will it? If you turn it down?’
‘They’ll get over it. Look, five minutes ago, I might have pushed a bit more, but honestly? I didn’t realise you were that ambitious. I mean, I know you love your job and you’re great at it . . .’
‘I didn’t know I was that ambitious until this week. But anyway, it’s not just my job, it’s my family. My dad, Jacqui . . . it’s such a long way.’
Aiden’s face contorts. ‘Your family? Your dad? Are you actually fucking kidding me?’ He drops my hands. ‘I’m barely allowed to go near your dad, and I’ve never even met your bloody sister for some reason that I can’t even be bothered fighting about any more, but apparently they’re the reason we can’t go to New York. Oh, that’s brilliant, Cat. First class.’
‘No one said you can’t go,’ I fire back. ‘Go! I get five weeks holiday. We can have weekends. It’ll be fine.’ It sounds about as fine as severing an artery. ‘It’s just seeing my dad in hospital the other night . . .’
‘He’s got a banjaxed arm, for fuck’s sake. Oh, hold on, didn’t I tell you I stubbed my toe on the bed this morning? That means you have to come with me, surely?’ He’s shaking his head. ‘No, Cat. Do not go all Daddy’s Girl on me now. Say you don’t want to come because your career’s too important. Say it’s too big a step for us. Say New York’s too stressful. But not your dad. I mean, have you even called him since Tuesday? Because if you have, you haven’t mentioned it. But then, what’s new?’
‘Don’t shout at me.’
‘I’m not shouting.’
He isn’t. He’s raised his voice, but he’s not a shouter. I am a manipulator, though – Daddy’s Girl, through and through – and accusing him of shouting beats having a serious conservation.
But I could go, couldn’t I?
Because maybe deep down, I’m not thinking of leaving MIT4 because of ambition. What if it’s the chance to start again I’m craving? To be someone else, somewhere else. And where better than New York, three and a half thousand miles away from all the mistakes I’ve made?
From the family who’ll keep me making them.
‘Do you really, really want to go then?’ I say softly, sucking the sting out of the argument.
‘Well, o’course I do.’
‘Must be one hell of a project.’
A flat stare. ‘Fuck the project. Same old shite, different time zone, that’s all it is.’
‘So why then?’
‘Why?’ He’s trying to play it cool but his lovely face gives him away. The wide-eyed awe. The glow of possibility. ‘Because it’s New York, baby. And because you’ve been to America and France and Barbados and probably South Central Siberia for all I know, and I’ve been to Ireland and England and three days in Prague – which I hardly saw anything of, I might add.’
We share a much-needed grin, reliving our seventy-two hours of sex, sex, and room service, ending with a trip up a lookout tower, where Aiden was up for having sex again.
I can’t be without him.
He either stays or we both go.
‘I’ll think about it, OK?’
‘OK. And it really is grand if you decide no. All that matters is that we’re together, Kinsella. I just want to be with you.’
*
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of laughs, chores and avoiding the conversation. Sunday lunchtime, we roam around Spitalfields Market, mingling with the tourists and shoppers, stopping to marvel at things we probably can’t afford and definitely don’t need. Aiden buys me a corsage and a candle he claims smells of fish. I buy him a Mr Whippy and then proceed to eat half.
It’s the little things, they say. And whoever they are, they’re right.
*
Sunday night. I’m brushing my teeth when my phone rings.
Aiden answers, which must mean it’s Parnell. I pause, trying to catch the gist of what’s being said. Something about a Brazilian defender and then a few nice words about the dinner I made. I walk into the living room, still brushing. Aiden’s laughing at something Parnell’s said. I’d hazard a guess it’s at my expense.
‘Give,’ I order, my hand out for the phone, my mouth full of foam.
‘I’ll pass you over, big man . . . yeah, see you soon . . . sure, we’d love to . . .’
I take the phone back into the bathroom. ‘We’d love to what?’
‘Come over for dinner,’ says Parnell. ‘Although from what I hear, you make a mean beef Wellington.’
‘I unwrap a mean beef Wellington and throw it in the oven, gas mark seven.’
‘Oh.’ He actually sounds disappointed. ‘Aiden seemed to think it was the best thing he’s ever eaten.’
I spit and rinse quickly. ‘He’s easily impressed.’
Parnell resists the obvious retort. ‘Anyway, Spencer Shaw lands back at Heathrow tonight. The boss wants us on his doorstep first thing.’
‘Yeah, fine, although I’m not sure about him anymore. The cause of death. Holly’s “Megan” stunt, Fellows’ name coming into it – it feels bigger than a domestic gone wrong, don’t you reckon? And then there’s Brandon Keefe – we don’t know where that might lead. I honestly don’t think Spencer Shaw will have a lot to tell us.’
‘And isn’t that the beauty of what we do, kiddo? Who knows what treasures lie ahead?’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I may have had a nightcap. All I’m saying is don’t be so defeatist. He might solve the case for us. We might be cracking open the champagne in the Tavern tomorrow night.’
‘I don’t think the Tavern does champagne. It’s debatable whether it does wine.’ I walk into the bedroom, hurl myself on the bed. ‘So you think there’s a case to solve then? You don’t think Holly is one of Masters’?’
‘I don’t know.’ There’s a huff of breath down the line, a sigh in the place of an impossible answer. ‘I do know Jacob Pope’s been attacked in Belmarsh, though.’
‘Shit! Is it bad?’ I ask, slightly thrown. I’d kind of forgotten about my prison jaunt earlier in the week. Another sign that maybe a change might do me good.
‘Very bad. Critical. He’s in the ICU.’
‘Oh wow, so not a handbags-at-dawn thing?’
‘More like a nine-inch-shank-at-lunchtime thing. A gang dispute, they reckon.’
Standard.
I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, taking it in. ‘Well, clearly I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but I’m not going to lose much sleep over him. His girlfriend didn’t even make it to the ICU.’