Page 39 of Stuck

She gaped at me. “Are you monitoring my phone? It’s none of your business who texts me! You can’t come to where I live just because you don’t like my reason for leaving work.”

She was right, but I didn’t regret doing it. She looked as guilty as hell. “I’m not here as your manager. I’m here as Bingley’s friend. Who’s Kev?”

Her eyes widened at my implication, then her whole frame clenched, from her jaw to her fists. “Go away, Darcy. I’ll make up the hours if that’s what you’re worried about.” She pulled open the door and disappeared inside.

After barely a heartbeat of deliberation, I went after her. She was jabbing at the call button for the lift, muttering, “Why won’t you work for once!” but gave up when she saw me enter the lobby and started up the stairs instead.

I felt slightly stalkerish following her, but I was even more concerned now. “Elizabeth!”

“Will you please go away?”

“Something is clearly wrong.”

“Yes, I’m feeling ill.”

“I don’t believe you. Tell me what’s going on. Who’s Kev? Why did you leave work to see him?”

She began taking the stairs two at a time.

“Bingley’s a good man!” I pressed her. “He’s been hurt too many times. I won’t let you do it again. If you’re cheating on him⁠—”

She threw her arms up and growled. “Give me a break! Bingley and I aren’t even—oh no!”

She’d lurched to a halt on the second-floor landing and was looking along the corridor, crestfallen. I followed her gaze. There was a man—homeless by the look of him—slumped on the floor ahead of us. He could be asleep, unconscious, or dead for all I could tell from where I was, still two steps down in the stairwell. Before I could blink, Elizabeth was striding over to him, crouching at his side, and running her hands over his face, chest, and arms. I strode after her, a warning to be careful on my lips, when she whispered a word that stopped me in my tracks.

“Dad?”

18

DARCY

I opened and closed cupboards in the unfamiliar kitchen until I found tea bags and mugs then did the same with the drawers until I found a spoon. I could have done with something stronger, personally, but Elizabeth had said she wanted tea, so tea was what I was making.

We’d brought Tom Bennet inside—well, I had. He was black-out drunk and a dead weight. I had no idea what Elizabeth would have done if I hadn’t been here to help her lift him into the shower, undress and wash him, then get him into a bed. He’d been sick twice while we worked, both times on her, and she was showering now while he slept.

My jacket and waistcoat, both removed, were streaked with grime after picking Tom up, and my shirt and trousers were damp from the shower spray. In any other circumstances I’d be impatient to get home for my own shower and change of clothes. As it was, my only concern was making sure Elizabeth was all right.

I was stunned by the whole turn of events. On the drive over, I’d been imagining all manner of potential horrors, from discovering her in another man’s arms to finding out she was caught up in some sort of drugs deal. Never could I have anticipated spending the hour that followed helping to manhandle her naked, barely conscious, and vomiting father while she quietly wept.

Her tears had gutted me. She hadn’t sobbed. In fact, she’d kept talking to him the whole time, her voice gentle and steady as she reassured him he was safe and explained everything she was doing to him. But tears had rolled down her cheeks as she worked, a new wave falling over her lashes with every other blink.

That she was desperately sad about her father’s plight went without saying, but I was sure embarrassment at having a witness to it had added to her distress. Still, she hadn’t asked me to leave, and I was thankful for that.

The kettle boiled, and I filled the mugs, leaving the tea bags to stew while I fetched the milk. I hesitated in front of the fridge, blindsided by the photo of a smiling Bingley stuck to the front with a magnetic love heart. Swallowing my jealousy, I grabbed the milk and finished making the tea.

When I carried the mugs into the living room, Elizabeth was there, her back to the kitchen door. Her still-damp hair was coiled up and held in a clip at the back of her head. She was wearing faded jeans and a fitted yellow T-shirt, and her feet were bare. She was perfect. She was also crying, I realised with dismay; a few shaky inhalations and her shuddering shoulders gave her away. I put the mugs down and went to her side, standing as close as I dared without touching her, with no clue whether physical comfort would be welcome.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

Visibly fighting for composure, she smiled weakly and sniffed then held up a small, faded, and battered photograph. “I was emptying his pockets before I put his things in the wash, and I found this. It’s him and my sisters and me.”

Tom was in the centre of the shot with a baby in his arms. He was unrecognisable as the man in the other room: clean shaven, hale, handsome, and beaming from ear to ear. On his right were two girls, one blonde and one brunette. The blonde was holding a toddler on her hip and smiling serenely. The other was standing in a determined stance, her hands on her hips and her mouth and eyebrow quirked up in an expression that might have been amusement or challenge. On Tom’s left was another dark-haired girl, this one with glasses. I pointed at her. “Is that you?”

“No, that’s Mary. This one’s me.” Elizabeth pointed at the girl who looked as though she meant to take on whoever was behind the lens—or perhaps the world. I should have known. “I didn’t start needing glasses until I was a teenager. I must have been six or seven in this photo if Lydia was still a baby.”

“You all look very happy.”

It was the wrong thing to say; her face crumpled, and she covered it with both hands and burst into tears again. I didn’t give a shit what was or wasn’t appropriate after that—I put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her into me, wrapping my arms around her gently at first, then—when she leant into it, crying harder—more firmly. I shushed her mumbled apology and held her for probably too long, but I didn’t care. She was hurting, and I wasn’t going to stand by and watch. I couldn’t.