“He went to meet with a dealer, and he didn’t come back,” Chris finishes, wiping a hand across his mouth and blinking quickly. “There was some dispute—something about the price, I think. They stabbed him and then buried him on a farm out in Fife. His mother was frantic, searching, and then two months later they found him. What was left of him.”
Susan emits a low moan.
“Did they catch who did it?” Rufus asks in a surprisingly gentle tone.
“Yeah. He was arrested for something else and led them to the body,” Chris answers without looking at him. “He’s jailed for life now, so there’s that at least.”
“And what did you do after that?” asks Rufus.
“I escaped. My sister came and dragged me off to the Highlands and kept me there for a while, straightening me out. She put me to work on her neighbor’s farm, and I just channeled everything I felt into that hard, hard work. And then I traveled, picking up jobs along the way, learning what I could, and I wound up in New York, where I was lucky enough to get noticed and … that’s how it went.”
Another long, heavy silence. Both Rufus and Susan are frozen, feeling as if it isn’t their place to break it. Chris refuses to meet either of their eyes, turning instead to look out the French doors into the misty garden.
At last, Rufus lifts a finger, stops the recorder, and says, “Well, I’m afraid I’m not going to publish that.”
Chris very slowly turns to face him. Susan inhales sharply, relieved for Chris’s sake, but fearful for Lauren’s. With a flick of Rufus’s thumb, the interview is deleted. “Calm yourself,” he says to Susan. “For heaven’s sake, I run a gossip blog, you two! A bit of fun, a place for people to blow off steam and have a laugh. This is”—he grimaces—“not fun. It’s sad. And sordid. And nobody needs to read that.” He looks up at Chris. “Least of all your poor friend’s mum, right? I’ve a mum myself, believe it or not, and I wouldn’t want her reading this sort of thing about me. Dredging up all those sad memories …” He shakes his head. “It’d be a shame, too, to lose your restaurant if people took against it. Not that they probably would—everyone likes a good redemption story.”
“So what about Lauren’s photos?” Susan demands.
“I was never going to publish those. I mean, talk about sordid. Also, distributing intimate photos without permission is extremely punishable nowadays, and I don’t fancy five years in prison, thank you very much. Oh, and I wouldn’t worry about that little shit Liam sending them to anyone else either. I put the fear of God into him, believe me.” Rufus smirks. “If you’re looking for a way to thank me, some free dinners wouldn’t go amiss.” He holds out his phone to Susan. “All deleted. You can see for yourself.”
She gives him a wary look, then takes the phone and checks. No photos. “So, this whole thing …”
Rufus shrugs. “I thought I might get a story. Can’t fault me for trying, right?” He tucks the phone away and stands. “Gotta get back, and”—he points to the pair of them—“I think you two should talk. Love your house, Suze!”
Once he’s gone, Susan and Chris stare at each other for several seconds, not quite sure what to say or where to begin. Then, Chris’s phone starts buzzing.
“Aw, bollocks,” he mutters. “My publicist,” he explains apologetically. “My event’s starting soon.”
“Right, you have to get back,” Susan agrees.
“Yeah.” He hesitates, then stands and moves toward the door.
Susan springs to her feet and grabs his arm. “Look, I don’t expect us to be friends or anything—I don’t think I even deserve to be a nodding acquaintance with you because I fucked up so completely, even worse than I realized, and I am so, so sorry, and I completely understand why you acted the way you did toward me, and I get it if you never want to see me again—that’s fine—it’s fine! I understand! I shouldn’t be asking anything of you, ever, but if you could just know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I acted like such a shitty child, and I swear, I had no idea that you’d been fired. I didn’t know about that or the drugs or what my aunt did, not that that excuses my behavior.” She pauses long enough to try to breathe, but her heart’s hammering and her stomach’s twisting and her lungs refuse to fill. “I know you’re with Lauren now, and you must really love her to stick your neck out like this, so obviously I have no expectations or anything, but I was just wondering if maybe, someday, you could just … not hate me, at least? I don’t expect more than that. I just want you to know that I’m sorry and please, please don’t hate me!”
Chris is staring at her in some shock, trying desperately, it seems, to sort through this avalanche of words, but at that last he cups her face and says, urgently, “Susan, I don’t hate you! I don’t hate you. I—” His phone buzzes again, and he releases her face, dropping his arms and throwing back his head. He lets out an animalistic roar of frustration. “All right!” he barks at the phone, without bothering to answer it.
“I thought I hated you, okay?” he says to Susan, his words now pouring out, tumbling over one another in their rush. “I thought you’d just used me when you needed support, and then dropped and abandoned me when I needed you, and I resented that. All these terrible things happened in one big messy mass, and I stuck a face on all of it, and the face was yours, and that was completely unfair. But you’re not … you’re not this … person I thought you were. I built up an idea of what you were, this angry, bitter idea, but everything I’ve seen and known since we both came here made me remember that you’re not this uncaring bitch—you probably care more about people than almost anyone else I know. But that anger was still there, in some form, so I kept lashing out, and I felt horrible about it, and I’m sorry. So maybe you could not hate me too?”
Susan laughs, a strange, garbled half laugh, half sob.
“And Lauren and I,” he continues, “it’s not … We’re not … She’s a nice girl, and I didn’t want her to be hurt by some little rich kid shite with a grudge, but she and I—it was just my sorry attempt at a distraction. And maybe, yeah, another dig at you, and I’m so sorry about that, Susan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
The phone again. And again.
“You should go,” Susan says. “It’s okay—we can talk later.”
He pauses. “You’re sure?” He looks a little scared, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear in the interim.
“I’m sure.” She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. Go. I’ll follow after. I just need a minute.”
He nods, squeezes her hand back, and leaves.
* * *
As soon as he’s gone, Susan leans against a countertop, drawing in deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart. He doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t hate her! He might even—could she hope? Is it possible that all is not lost?
Her palms are sweaty, and her hands shake as she fills a glass with water and gulps it down. Her mouth is dry, knees gone to jelly, stomach still rebelling. What will she say when they speak later? What will he say? Can she hope to fix the damage she’s done?