Book Two: Thirty Days, Book 2 Page 2

  Comprehension dawns on Taylor’s face as he takes in the sight of my hands clutching the side of the table in a death grip. “What the hell, Abby? You think I am going to dump you?” Taylor’s voice rises a notch and I glance around self-consciously, noticing a few people openly staring at us. In an awkward gesture I am not even fully aware of, I find myself tugging down my sleeves to hide my scars.

  Grabbing my wrists from across the table, Taylor pulls my arms flat and entwines his fingers through mine. “Shit, Abby, are you just waiting for me to leave you?” Tears begin to run down my face, the overwhelming emotion too much for me to take. I nod silently.

  Taylor lets go of my hands abruptly, runs his hands through his dark hair like he does whenever he is uncomfortable, then takes hold of my hands again before taking a deep breath. “Abby, I will never expect you to forgive me or forget the pain that I have caused you by walking away not just once, but twice, when you needed me. But understand this, I am here now. I am not going anywhere. You are mine and I am yours, and I will protect you until the day I die. So now you need to stop thinking that I am going to hurt you every time I am serious. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I take a gulp of water, trying to steady my nerves.

  Our food arrives, giving us both a chance to regroup. The burger is delicious, but I can barely manage more than a few mouthfuls before my stomach churns in protest. Instead, I push the food around my plate, hoping that Taylor won’t notice. Taylor, on the other hand, devours his burger, his appetite clearly unaffected, I think a little sourly to myself.

  “So, Abby, what I wanted to say before”—I keep silent this time, waiting for Taylor to continue—“is that it has come up through the grapevine via one of my property sources here in Brighton that the shop next door to Bread, plus the flat above it, is coming up for sale.”

  “Oh?” This throws me completely, and it takes me a couple of seconds to understand Taylor clearly when he continues. “So I thought I could buy it, and then you would be able to develop your dessert café idea, and we could knock the two flats together for more space for when the baby arrives. I have already spoken to the Council about planning permission, and there doesn’t seem to be any issues as it appears that they used to be one building anyway and were only subdivided back in the sixties. I have already spoken to an architect…” Taylor pauses for air and looks at me expectantly.

  Part of me is too shocked for words, and the other part of me wants to scream at Taylor for his presumption. Anxiety is making my skin itch, and I find myself scratching my scars vigorously. It dawns on Taylor that maybe he has overstepped the mark as he starts to back-pedal. “Look, I know this probably is all a bit too soon and I probably should have talked to you about the whole thing when I first heard about it, but I wanted to see if it was viable before getting your hopes up.”

  I take a couple of deep calming breaths, like I have been taught to, and run the situation over in my mind. Yes, I am upset that Taylor didn’t tell me about this in the beginning, but I can understand why he went to the trouble of checking with the Council first. I would have gotten completely overexcited myself at the prospect and then, if it hadn’t panned out, would have been crippled with disappointment. But what it still all boils down to is trust. I still don’t trust that Taylor won’t leave me. No matter what he says.

  I take another deep breath before talking. “Thank you for telling me about this. It sounds like an amazing opportunity, but no.”

  “What do you mean ‘no’, Abs?” Taylor’s face is filled with confusion.

  “I mean I don’t want you to buy me business premises and an extension on my flat. I haven’t earned any of those things. Don’t get me wrong, Taylor. I appreciate the gesture, but I need to stand on my own two feet. The other day I was listening to ‘Make Yourself’ by Incubus, and I realised that if I don’t start taking charge of my life, working for what I want under my own terms, then I will just fall apart again when someone takes it away.”

  I can see Taylor putting his business hat on, ready to start with the kind of boardroom spiel that I know he is famous for, so I put up my hand to stop him. “Don’t say any more. Look, I think Bread does need to expand and this is an amazing way of doing it, so I am all in for finding out more. But I don’t want you to buy it for me like some little hobby project. I’ll go to the bank and get a loan or something.”

  “I can loan you the money, then. There is no need to go to the bank.” Taylor sighs loudly in frustration.

  “Taylor, please, I don’t want to argue with you. I am not taking your money. Full. Stop. Be involved, be supportive and give me your business input. But understand that I need to create something on my own. I need some form of validation to prove that I can do this by myself, that I am not a nut job that tried to kill herself all because life just seemed to get too much to handle.

  Taylor’s expression softens, and I can see that I have won this round. “Okay, Abs, if that is what you want.” Taylor takes my hand, running his fingers softly over my knuckles, caressing my palm before pulling it up and planting a light kiss on my scar.

  Unsettled at the intimate gesture, I try to pull my hand back, but Taylor grips my wrist firmly. “You define your own worth, Abby, no one else. I’ll support you in anything you want to do. I understand your wanting to do this on your own. I don’t like it, but I’ll just have to suck it up. I want to give you the world, Abby, and I am fortunate enough to be able to do just that, but I also understand the need to build something yourself. So I’ll back off and be here if you need me.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly, peering across the table into Taylor’s eyes.

  “You look exhausted, Abs. Do you want to skip dessert and just head home?” Taylor asks. I nod in reply and take Taylor’s hand as we head to the desk to pay. Despite the taxi ride taking only a few minutes, I fall into a deep sleep on Taylor’s shoulder, stirring only when he gently pulls my boots and trousers off before tucking the duvet back up round my shoulders.

  The Second

  My churning stomach has me up and running for the bathroom before I have even had a chance to wake up fully. Several minutes later I am spent so crawl back into bed shaking, waiting for the nausea to subside. Taylor has already left for the breakfast meeting he mentioned yesterday, so I luxuriate in having the bed to myself.

  Following Taylor’s first unorthodox proposal, we have barely spent a night apart. To start with, it was simply so he didn’t have to drive back to London after our ‘dates’ as he began his campaign to woo me back, and then it became a given as neither of wanted to sleep alone. But since that awful night in Taylor’s apartment, sleep is all we do.

  Neither of us is quite ready to bring sex back into the equation despite the fact that we are both becoming hornier than hell. The look in his eyes that night terrified me, and I don’t know what I would do if I ever saw it again. So, by some unspoken agreement, we kiss and we cuddle. But that is as far as it goes for now.

  In a way, it has been nice to slow things down. Talking to David has given me quite a bit of clarity, and I think a lot of my neediness stems from having no control. Throwing sex—amazing, mind-blowing sex—into the equation just made it impossible for me to feel like I could make any rational decisions. So taking a step back, taking back some of that control, has helped to steady me, bringing some much-needed balance back into my life. But another part of me wants to shout ‘Sod it’ and just jump Taylor’s bones. As I think about it more and more, though, I decide to take the initiative and start planning a romantic ‘liaison’ for Sunday. Plenty of time for me to get organised.

  Glancing at my clock, I realise I need to get a wriggle on; otherwise I am going to be late making my deliveries. I dress with care, knowing that first impressions always count, and head down into the cool store of the bakery, where everything is waiting for me. Remembering the conversation from last night about the store next door, I pop my head into the shop and ask Andreas and Bea if they could stay behind at the end of the
day for a catch-up. I can see they are curious, but now is not the right time to have a chat as the first customers of the day are already lining up and waiting for the shop to open.

  My first stop is to drop off my chocolate and almond tarts. These are for a dinner party being held by Janet, one of our long-standing regulars. I am guessing that she is probably going to pass off the tarts as hers, but I don’t mind. As long as everyone enjoys them, I will be happy.

  Delivery number two is at a large mansion in Hove. Decorations for little Amber’s first birthday party flutter everywhere, and I can see this is obviously a serious affair, a case of yummy mummy one-upmanship. Amber’s mother is delighted with the two hundred intricately decorated butterfly cakes, but I wonder who is really going to be eating them all at a one-year-old’s party. Oh well, it is not really my problem, but I just hate food going to waste.

  My last and final delivery is to an old folks’ home. Betty, the resident matriarch, is turning one hundred today, and the home has organised a party for her. Everyone is very excited when I bring in my boxes filled with traditional Victoria sponge, chocolate and cherry tart and a coffee and walnut cake. I have even made and iced a special carrot cake complete with ten candles; the matron thought a whole hundred would probably set off the sprinkler system, so we compromised with one for each decade. I stop in at Betty’s room to wish her a happy birthday before heading back to Bread to begin this morning’s batch of baking.

  I am just taking a break after the lunchtime rush when a large envelope bearing the Hudson International stamp arrives by courier. Wondering what Taylor is sending me today, I eagerly pull out a large stack of papers. Attached to the front is a short note in Taylor’s trademark bold script:

  Morning, beautiful,

  Here is all the info I collected on the project we discussed last night. Yours to do with as you wish.

  Here to support you always!

  Taylor x

  I grin as I flick through the paperwork that Taylor has amassed. He is nothing if not thorough. There is a list of contacts; everyone from the vendor of the building to the Council to the architectural firm is listed in fine detail. I come across some blueprints, and when I spread them out, I can see Taylor’s vision for the flat and the café. To be honest, it is almost exactly how I would have laid it out myself, so I make a note to myself to thank Taylor for doing this for me. But until I talk to Andreas and Bea and get their buy-in, then there is no point in dreaming. This is not something I can pull off on my own, no matter how adamant I was to Taylor last night. Fortunately, the afternoon flies by, and then we are sat down, enjoying a slice of cake and a cup of tea while I outline the idea to my two employees. They sit patiently, concern on their faces, until I finish.

  “Honey, I don’t want to temper your dreams, but do you think you are ready to take such a big step? You have only just gotten over…everything… and, well, you are pregnant.” Bea, as ever, goes straight to the heart of the matter. If it were anyone else, I probably would be upset, but I know that Bea is just being her normal straight-talking self.

  “I know, Bea. I couldn’t do this on my own, but if you guys are on board, I know we can do it. I just don’t know when this opportunity would come again. Of course, even without the expansion, I do think we need to get some more staff. You are both working flat out with all the extra customers, and you guys deserve some time off…”

  We bat around some ideas and eventually settle on hiring a couple of apprentices that Andreas and I can train and an extra full-time shop assistant. Even if the expansion doesn’t happen, we still need the extra staff. Working six days a week with no breaks is just not viable in the long run given how busy we are.

  We are just about finished when my phone rings, and I see that’s it my mum on the caller ID. It has been a couple of days since we last spoke, and I am excited to talk to her about this new project.

  “Hey, Mum. How are you?” I greet her.

  “All good, sweetie. How are you doing?” I fill her in on my morning sickness, and she listens sympathetically, offering up advice where she can.

  “Listen, sweetie, are you able to take a day off tomorrow? I know it is short notice, but I am popping up to London to get my hair done and I thought we could have a girlie pamper day.”

  “Um, I am not sure.” I hesitate, not wanting to leave everyone in the lurch, but truth be told, I could do with a day off. “Let me check with Bea.” Bea and I quickly review the orders, and there is nothing that I can’t prep tonight in advance. “Okay, Mum, I am free.”

  I hear her squeal in delight, and I realise I am not quite sure what I have let myself in for. We never had this kind of relationship before, but since my ‘incident’, things have definitely changed for the better. As part of my recovery programme, we have had to attend a number of family sessions together, which brought a lot of things out into the open. I finally talked about how I felt being left while my parents travelled the world and how much I resented their hold over me financially in making my career choices.

  In turn, my mum told me how she felt left out of my life, as I always seemingly preferred to spend my time with Nonna rather than her. I think she has also been attending sessions on her own with David to help her deal with Nonna’s death, and all in all, we seem to have become much closer as a result.

  I offer to drive and we quickly settle the details, with me agreeing to pick her up at nine to avoid the traffic. I smile as I press the ‘call end’ button, wondering what surprises she will have in store for me. I used to hate shopping with her when I was younger; I always felt gauche and heavy in comparison to Mum’s chic gracefulness and, in typical teenage fashion, would refuse to try on anything she suggested. Inevitably things would end in a fight and I would storm off down to Nonna’s. But I think this time things will be different. We are both different people now.

  My evening is taken up making sure everything is ready for the morning whilst Taylor works late in London. I suggested he stay up in the city and I could meet him after my day with Mum, but he insisted he would drive back down. I am half asleep when I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I track his movements sleepily by the sounds he makes as he pads around the flat: first the shower; then the kitchen, where I hear water running; and then soft footsteps as he enters the bedroom. The bed dips as he climbs in and I feel his strong arms pull me in to him. Soft lips graze my cheek and I hear him whisper, “Goodnight, Abs,” before falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  The Third

  I am sat in this chic little hairdressing salon round the back of Carnaby Street, having a mild panic attack as George, my mum’s darling hairdresser, chops hunks of my hair off, all the while tutting in faux prima-donna fashion. I know for a fact George is straight as a die, but I guess this little act draws in the ladies, and I can see from the expressions on the other faces that they love it.

  My mum has her nose stuck in her e-book as she sits under some weird lamps, waiting for her colour to take, oblivious to everything going on around her. I, on the other hand, have started emitting rather alarming squeaks each time another of my locks is butchered. Trust them, George and my mum said as they babbled on in some sort of pseudo-fashionista speak that I tuned out politely after the first couple of minutes. Okay, deep breaths. Eventually, I simply close my eyes in the hope that if I keep them closed long enough, this might turn out to be a dream.

  I finally open my eyes when I feel myself being swivelled around, and I try to glance at my reflection. George, though, has decided this is a new game and dramatically declares that I am not going to see his masterpiece until everything is finished. I am led to a basin and propped back despite having already had my hair washed before the cut. This time, though, there is a different girl, with gloves on and a weird bottle full of purple liquid. “Don’t worry,” she says, taking note of the alarm that must be evident on my face. “It won’t end up that colour.” I gulp and decide to just go with the flow; I mean, hey, purple hair couldn’t be too bad, coul
d it?

  It only takes the girl a couple of minutes to work the colour through my hair and then she flicks a button on my chair. I gasp as the back starts moving, wondering what the hell is going on until I figure out that it must be some kind of massage chair. I don’t know how long I lie there, but I am completely blissed out by the time someone arrives to rinse my hair out, giving me a glorious head massage at the same time.

  I am led back to the station where I was seated before, only now a swath of black fabric is draped across the mirror. Mum smiles at me, so I am guessing I can’t look completely horrid. I wait patiently, despite my nerves, while George faffs with the hair dryer and what seems like endless amounts of the salon’s various hair products. Then finally it is time for the big reveal, which George accompanies with a very loud “Ta-da!”

  I gasp as I stare at the girl in the mirror. An amazingly gamine girl with a short pixie cut that emphasises her green eyes and pale skin stares back at me. A girl with cheek bones and plump lips all brought out by hair the amazing shade of an autumn maple leaf. That girl surely can’t be me?

  “Do you like it?” George asks, sounding hesitant for the first time since we arrived.

  “Wow. I mean, that doesn’t even look like me…” I trail off, not sure what else to say. I bring my hand up to feel the back of my neck and run it through my short locks. My hair has been halfway down my back for as long as I can remember and has spent its days either a frizzy mess or tied up in a bun. But now I feel almost naked, and I have to admit it feels rather liberating. “I love it!” I declare, a smile stretching across my face.

  With our locks primped, my mum declares that it is time for our bodies. She leads me round to Cowshed, where we are immediately ushered into neighbouring rooms. Mum has obviously already prepped the lovely girls in advance about my pregnancy, so they recommend starting with a neck and shoulder massage to be followed by a facial and then finished off with a manicure and pedicure.