Читать книгу Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author - Suzy Quinn K - Страница 20

Lizzie

‘You are absolutely stunning.’ Olly lies back on the sofa, broken leg propped up on a coffee table made of wine corks.

His leg is still in plaster, and I know it’s itchy, uncomfortable and driving him mad, especially at night. Sometimes he scratches inside the plaster with a knitting needle.

The plaster has been on for a few months now.

Typical Olly – he’s made his leg plaster cool, getting an artist friend to felt-tip a multi-coloured effect on the bandage, copied from a Ride snowboard design. He’s even cut pairs of Boma jeans to accommodate the plaster.

Olly is indisputably handsome, with blond hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He could dress in a business suit, sports clothes or as he does – in scruffy surfer clothes with hair messy and long around his ears – and still look like a model. I suppose it’s the years of snowboarding. He’s so fit and healthy.

I’m wearing a floaty, daisy-patterned summer dress, something I picked out from Snow and Rock – one of Olly’s favourite shops. It’s not my usual sort of thing, if I even have a usual sort of thing, but I feel relieved and happy that Olly likes the choice.

Olly never tells me how to dress. Not overtly. But I’ve learned what he likes and what he doesn’t.

We got together so quickly. Sometimes I think about how Olly doesn’t really know who I am, and that if he did he’d leave me. I’m still insecure about it, so I try and be everything I think he wants me to be.

We’re at Olly’s flat in Earl’s Court – three storeys up and with its own roof terrace. It’s a big place, especially for this part of London, and is what you’d call a ‘bachelor pad’.

There is a mini-fridge full of beer in the living area, a snowboard propped up behind the sofa and a chair made of recycled Coca-Cola cans.

Olly’s friends are round often, playing on his old SNES, making jokes about his leg, drinking beer and smoking joints until the small hours.

I prefer the days when his friends aren’t round, but it’s not my flat so it’s not my place to say who comes here.

We’re in that weird in-between stage, Olly and I, where I’m not officially living with him, but most of my things are here. I haven’t committed to making this my address, but Olly keeps asking me to move in and talking about marriage.

We love each other. Desperately, at times. We can’t stand to be apart and when I’m working Olly calls me ten times a day.

Most people think I’m lucky to be in this situation – living in West London, adored by a champion snowboarder.

So why do I feel, sometimes, like I’m losing myself?

Music is playing – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The proper vinyl version. Olly has a turntable and boxes of records – all given to him by his mother.

‘I never know what to wear to your friends’ parties,’ I admit, rummaging in my makeup bag for my turquoise earrings.

All Olly’s female friends are so pretty. Effortlessly so. Hardly any makeup. A lot of them snowboard too, but only one is pro.

‘Do you know what?’ Olly pulls himself up on the bed, dragging his plastered leg onto the sheepskin rug. ‘I’m not really in the mood for this party. I shouldn’t drink right now. And getting across London with this leg … So if you’re not up for it either, why don’t we do something else?’

‘Like what?’

‘Jump in the camper van, head down to Devon, camp, have a BBQ, hang around on the beach. It’s supposed to be amazing weather this weekend.’

‘Olly, I don’t think camping with your leg is a good idea.’

A flash of annoyance passes over Olly’s handsome face. ‘It’s only a broken leg, Lizzie. I haven’t got cancer.’

‘Yes, but you should keep the plaster dry and clean. And what about your meds?’

‘Bloody hell. What, I can’t even go camping now?’

‘You shouldn’t. Not until your leg heals. I’m only saying this because I care about you.’

‘And how long is the healing going to take? Every time I see the specialist, he adds on another month.’ Olly thumps the duvet. ‘I feel so trapped. I need to get back out on the slopes. I need to. Life is slipping away.’

I sense another argument coming on, so I say, ‘I know’, and sit on the bed, taking his hand. ‘But I’m here. We’ll make you well again. Okay? Just give it time.’

Olly’s blue eyes turn clear. ‘You really are an angel, do you know that? Looking after me. Playing the nurse. Putting up with me and my moods.’

My dad used to call me that. An angel.

I kiss Olly’s cheek and slide my hand into his. ‘I love you, Olly Kinnock. And you’ll heal. Just give yourself time.’

Olly turns to the window then. ‘Will I? I’m not sure. I’m forgetting who I used to be. What if I become this moody person forever?’

‘You won’t.’

‘How do you know? How do you know who I really am?’

I suppose we’ve only known each other a few months. Four seasons, that’s what my father used to say. You have to be with someone for four seasons, good and bad, before you really know them. I think he was making a comment about marrying my mother.

‘I love you,’ I say. ‘That’s enough for me.’

Suddenly Olly says, ‘I love you too, Lizzie Nightingale. Will you marry me?’

Just like that.

I laugh.

‘I’m serious,’ Olly says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you. You get me. Even when I’m like this. We’re meant to be together.’

‘Olly, we’ve known each other less than three months. We’re not even properly living together yet.’

‘Oh, so what?’ Olly kisses me, and for a moment everything is okay. Maybe we can get married and live happily ever after.

But then I pull back. Things with Olly have been good. But they’ve been bad too. He’s pushed me before – a great, big, open-palmed shove when he was wobbling around drunk, trying a new pair of skis. He said it was an accident. He didn’t mean for me to fall. But …

‘Olly—’

‘Are you rejecting my proposal, Lizzie Nightingale?’

‘It’s just … what’s the rush?’

‘Why wait?’

‘Maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet,’ I say.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Anxiety hits my stomach.

I know the signs of his mood swings by now. And I become a child again, desperate to keep the peace.

‘Please, Olly, I didn’t mean it like that. I love you. Of course we’ll get married one day.’

This is what I used to do when my parents fought. Do anything to make it okay, forget myself, humiliate myself. Anything to stop the ugliness growing. And then one day my dad met someone else and left. It was all for nothing. So why do I feel compelled to carry on the same behaviour?

‘If you don’t want to be with me, just say so,’ Olly snaps. ‘Because I think you either know or you don’t. And if you’re not sure, then that means no. Call it a day.’

I clasp his hand, scared of losing him to the other, angry person. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just, your leg is still broken.’ I try for a laugh. ‘I don’t want our wedding photos to be spoiled by that big multi-coloured plaster.’

Olly looks at me for a minute, then he laughs too. ‘Is that why you said no? Just because of the wedding photos? What is it with women and photos?’

We laugh together then, and everything feels okay.

I’ve done it.

I’ve averted disaster.

Just like I used to do with Mum.

I catch a glimpse of my bare back in the mirror. ‘Could you do up these buttons?’ I ask.

Olly does.

My breasts feel tender, I realise. Sore. We’ve never been careful, Olly and I. Not really. So often caught in the heat of the moment. Suddenly I have such a strong feeling.

Oh God.

What if I’m pregnant?