Читать книгу Sunshine After the Rain: a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance - Daisy James - Страница 11

Chapter Four

The meteorological gods had delivered on the earlier threat of rain and within minutes Evie was drenched as she dashed to the nearest Tube station. On the platform, the cool breeze from the oncoming train swept over her and the material of her dress stuck uncomfortably to her skin, causing a cascade of goose pimples to zip down her spine. She shivered as she stepped into the last carriage, spotted a vacant seat, and slumped into it, fighting the urge to scream at the unfairness of life.

She had lost her job! What had she done to deserve that?

She couldn’t get the events that had played out in James Bradbury’s office out of her mind. Who was responsible for the inopportune arrival of the rogue canvas? Who did it belong to? Why had it been delivered to the gallery just minutes before Jaxx Benson’s big opening splash? Why hadn’t she made more of the fact that this painting was so much more accomplished than the rest? And in those circumstances, why hadn’t it occurred to her at the time to query its provenance?

As the Tube whooshed its way through the underground tunnels, it was as though these questions were on permanent repeat, torturing her until she gave them airplay. But she had no answers. Her brain produced a kaleidoscope of theories, each one more incomprehensible than the last. Her emotions were out of control and she was exhausted, yet she made a promise to herself that she would not rest until the full facts had been uncovered and she gave the culprit a piece of her mind.

Her initial flare-up of barely controlled anger seeped from her veins and for the first time, Evie paused to consider her neighbouring passengers. Even at that late hour, the train was filled with grey, miserable city workers too caught up in their own existence to notice or care about a fellow commuter’s anguish, too insulated in their personal bubbles, lost in contemplation of what next week’s struggle at the coalface of their ambitions had in store. Each and every one of them had stress written across their faces. Why were they subjecting themselves to such continual torment in their banks, law firms, and accountancy offices?

Yet she knew the answer. She was one of them, after all – a fully paid-up member of the Workaholics Anonymous Club. Their careers were their lives and vice versa. Sure, she had heard people spout about the work/life balance mantra, but she thought of it only as something others aspired to, others lucky enough to live outside the workaholic bubble. For how could any of them even contemplate stepping off the eternal treadmill of goals, deadlines, targets, and achievements when there was always someone breathing down their necks willing to take their place?

And so it was for her. Two years ago, after one of the most mortifying episodes of her life, she had fled from her comfortable life in her parents’ home in Cornwall and moved to London. Well, she hadn’t had much choice if she wanted to hold her head up in public. Having to pay the rent meant she had to shelve her long-held dream of becoming a commercially successful artist and pursue a more financially secure career as a gallery manager.

She was aware how fortunate she was to have landed her job at James Bradbury Art. It was a prestigious position, one coveted by many. But she had to admit that the last few months organizing Jaxx Benson’s debut exhibition had taken its toll.

She was exhausted and the only way to get through her daily responsibilities was to overdose on caffeine. She would start each morning with optimism – and a frothy cappuccino from the irritatingly cheerful Tom at the Costa next door to the gallery – telling herself that today would be different, that she would sail through to the end of day without needing any other crutch. But by ten a.m. she had already sent out for a latte before moving on to the hard stuff when, looking at the prospect of a lunch break in the rear-view mirror, she had to order a double espresso as the only way to function beyond her natural effectiveness.

Unfortunately, her caffeine addiction meant that when she did eventually arrive home she had so much adrenalin coursing through her veins that she couldn’t sleep. She had to resort to surrounding herself with lavender, dosing up with herbal remedies, camomile tea, lettuce sandwiches, and trialling increasingly bizarre theories for getting the optimal seven hours of sleep before repeating the whole process again to ensure she achieved her daily dose of ‘job satisfaction/career progression’ at the expense of contentment, friendships, and relationships.

She knew her parents would be horrified if they realized what her life was like. But how could she tell them that it was imperative to be busy; that in the world she had chosen to be a part of, if you weren’t busy you weren’t indispensable. If you weren’t indispensable, you were a failure. And failure was a dirty word that didn’t apply to ambitious people and therefore couldn’t be allowed to rear its ugly head. So you just kept on going until you were beyond exhausted, your skin was the same texture and colour as a washed-out dishcloth, your hair was dull and lifeless, and the very thought of taking part in an exercise class at the local gym you’d been a member of for two years was like a horror movie and to be avoided at all costs.

Career ambition was a self-perpetuating circle, with every stage avidly anticipated until life became a blinkered, arrow-straight journey on which the traveller had no inkling of what was happening in the real world beyond their radar of professional hopes and dreams. And she was realizing this for the first time tonight after the worst thing that could happen to such a committed race participant had happened to her. If she hadn’t resigned, James would have had to fire her.

It was her stop.

She heaved herself out of her seat and the anvil-heavy weight on her shoulders pressed down even harder. When she emerged into the dark street above, the shower had morphed into a full-blown storm, with raindrops hammering down onto the pavement like stair rods. She prepared herself for another soaking and this time couldn’t even summon up the energy to jog. Her hair stuck to her cheeks and she shoved it behind her ears as she made her way to her flat in the eaves of a Victorian terrace house in West Hampstead.

She was relieved that Dylan would still be out at his gig. She had been so focused on the preparations for the Jaxx Benson opening night that she hadn’t registered much of the garbled conversation they’d had when she left him in bed at six o’clock that morning. They rarely communicated before she left for work. Dylan’s world as a musician spun on an alternate time zone and he lived an almost nocturnal lifestyle, which meant he never got up before midday and often stayed out until two or three o’clock in the morning.

They had hardly seen each other recently, and she craved a dose of the cheerful, guitar-obsessed man she had fallen in love with but who seemed to have gone into hiding lately. Since college they had pursued their dreams together and when she had found a flat in London he had joined her, hoping that being in the capital would kick-start his music career.

After six months of fruitless auditioning, she had asked him to think about getting a part-time job to help with their rent. But he had told her not to worry, that he was on the cusp of stardom and that the next gig he performed at would be the one in which his undeniable talent would be discovered. Whenever she asked to hear one of the songs he had written, he refused, telling her it still needed tweaking.

If she were honest with herself, she knew that Dylan had stopped chasing his dreams months ago, and she hoped that night’s gig, the first in three months, would help to pull him out of his recent lethargy. She wasn’t ready to accept that their relationship had faded, that it was limping along well after its sell-by date because neither of them had the time or the courage to have ‘the conversation’.

She let herself in the main entrance, depositing puddles instead of footprints on the chequerboard flooring, and trudged up the stairs. As she paused on the landing outside her front door, her heart swooped down to her toes. The heavy beat of a rock music anthem met her ears and she groaned.

Why was Dylan home so early?

She just couldn’t face him, couldn’t bear to regurgitate the fiasco of that night’s events for his benefit. However, despite Dylan’s continuous efforts to make the flat feel more ‘relaxed’ by sabotaging her obsession with orderliness, this was still her home and she had nowhere else to go. All she wanted to do at that moment was sink into a scorching-hot bath and soak away the pain.

‘Dylan, I wasn’t expecting you to …’

She stopped in her tracks, her hand still clutching the door handle. She couldn’t process what her eyes were telling her. Her living room was unrecognizable. A silvery-blue haze of smoke hung over a scene that looked like a gang of marauding baboons had been let loose from their confinement at the zoo, had indulged in a frenzy of illicit alcohol and junk food, and then rolled over to sleep off the after-effects.

The cushions and padded seats from her sofa were scattered around the room, one spewing its feather innards onto the rug. Every available space was covered with discarded beer cans, takeaway cartons, and various musical instruments. Her collection of spirits had been moved to the coffee table and their contents drained – even the disgusting banana liqueur her Aunt Margaret had brought back from Tenerife. The kitchen cupboards had been opened and boxes of cereal and pasta were strewn along the units.

But all this was nothing compared to the comatose bodies dotted around her living room and the rancid stench of leftover curry, cigarette smoke, and another unidentifiable aroma that permeated the air. A curl of nausea circled her stomach.

She scanned the room in search of someone she recognized. Her eyes landed on Noah and Frankie, two of Dylan’s fellow band members, sprawled out on the floor, self-rolled cigarettes jutting from their lips, playing cards as their heads rocked to the blaring music. They hadn’t heard her come in. Neither had the two scantily clad girls sharing her favourite tartan-covered armchair, their heads lolling against each other’s as they slept. A third man was asleep next to the window, his feet wrapped up in her silk curtains.

There was no sign of Dylan.

She inhaled a deep breath, fighting the urge to cough as the smoke hit her lungs, and stepped further into the room. Her emotions, which had previously been swirling out of control, had become surprisingly, dangerously, calm.

‘What’s going on? Where’s Dylan?’

‘Oh, hi, Evie,’ exclaimed Noah, pushing himself upright with difficulty before emitting a loud belch and scratching his straggly beard. His heavy-lidded eyes shot towards the bathroom door and his forehead creased in confusion. ‘Weren’t expecting you back until later. Thought you were at some famous guy’s painting show?’

The bathroom door opened and she wished she had a camera to record the look of horror on Dylan’s face.

‘Evie? What are you doing here?’

‘I live here! This is my flat! And in case you need reminding, I also pay all the bills. What exactly is going on, Dylan? You promised me you wouldn’t throw another house party after what went on last time. What happened to the pub gig you told me about?’

‘Got cancelled at the last minute so I asked the guys and a couple of pals back here to drown our sorrows. Why is that so much of a problem?’

Evie glanced around her usually pristine flat and for the first time she saw clearly what her life had become.

Dylan slouched in front of her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his scruffy, torn jeans, his lifeless brown hair a little too long to be trendy, a look of defiance on his pale, pinched face. Every single penny he earned from the infrequent gigs his band played was spent on beer, cigarettes, and music and he used the flat like a hotel with its own live-in maid – her.

Her thoughts flew back to the last time he had held an impromptu party without her knowledge. He had accused her of being a killjoy when she had complained about his friends emptying her drinks cabinet and fridge, but the loss of her grandmother’s silver watch had been the final straw and an almighty row had ensued, culminating in her refusing to countenance any more parties.

This was a light bulb moment. Clearly tonight Dylan had stuck two fingers up at her request when he knew she wouldn’t be around to witness his breach of her trust. She wondered if there had even been a ‘gig’. She blamed herself though. Despite her residual feelings of loyalty for their relationship, it wasn’t fair on either of them to let it limp on like a bedraggled dog. She had fallen out of love with him.

‘I want you to leave, Dylan.’ She felt no stab of loss, just an overwhelming sense of calm and relief to have said the words, and an absolute certainty that what she was doing was right.

‘What?’

‘I want you to pack your rucksack – now – and go. And take your friends with you.’

She stood in front of him and watched his previous nonchalance morph into panic. But she knew it was merely a reaction to losing the cushy number he had been enjoying for the last two years, not because he had any residual feelings for her. Why hadn’t she seen that before? Was love that blind?

‘Come on, Evie. The band just needed to …’

‘It’s over. You and me. Us. It has been for a while. I suspect you’ve known that too, Dylan, but were just too lazy to look for somewhere else to stay.’

Dylan held her gaze for a split second and then looked away as his cheeks coloured.

‘Catch you later, Dyl,’ muttered Noah, dragging the two sleeping girls from their armchair and guiding them towards the door, their confusion at being awoken from their drunken slumber producing minimal objection.

Frankie offered Evie an apologetic smile as he went to follow in their wake. ‘Sorry about the mess, Evie,’ he murmured, going over to nudge Curtain Guy with his toe. The man rolled over, groaning a vehement protestation, and she recognized him as the band’s drummer, Mitch, whom she had never seen sober.

Dylan watched his friends leave and waited until the door slammed behind them.

‘Evie, I’m sorry, okay. I thought you were …’

‘I mean it, Dylan. I want you to go. Tonight.’

Before he could wriggle his way out of his predicament, Evie strode into her bedroom and grabbed a scruffy rucksack from the top of her wardrobe. She began slinging in Dylan’s clothes, most of which were stored on the floor where he had stepped out of them. Next, she went to the bathroom and emptied the cabinet of his expensive skincare products and toiletries.

She surveyed her living room. Nothing belonged to Dylan. He had made no contribution to its furnishings whatsoever. Everything he owned could be stored in his rucksack. She didn’t feel guilty. One of a plethora of musician friends would offer him a sofa and, if all else failed, his grandparents owned a large Victorian terrace house in Pimlico, which had a spare room permanently made up for him to use – except their hospitality came with house rules that didn’t match Dylan’s ‘laid-back’ lifestyle. He wouldn’t be homeless, or even penniless.

‘Goodbye, Dylan.’ She held open the door, her heart thumping out a concerto on her ribcage.

‘Hey, okay, I get it. We’ve had a blast though, haven’t we? I’ll send you a bunch of tickets when we get our gig at the O2, shall I?’

‘Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath, Dylan. Success doesn’t just fall into your lap, you know. You have to work for it, hard.’

‘Sure.’

Dylan slung his rucksack and guitar over his shoulder and sauntered out of her life without so much as a backward glance. She locked the door behind him and slumped down onto her sofa, dislodging a couple of beer cans, which she slung to the floor to join their cousins. She dropped her face into her palms and succumbed to the deluge of tears that had been threatening to surface since the arrival of Jaxx Benson at the gallery.

Now her world had completely imploded.