A Hundred Ways to Break Up (Let's Make This Thing Happen 2) by Adams PJ

Author:Adams, PJ [Adams, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: James Grieve Press
Published: 2014-11-12T08:00:00+00:00

11

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“I do. You know I do.” He was doing that thing again, the thing that somehow combined innocence with a small boy’s mischievous sense of doing just about anything to get what he wants. “I told you I can’t stay out another night. I have to go home, Ray. You know that.”

There was a brief flash of pout – the spoilt small boy thing again – and then he shrugged, smiled, and his entire face was transformed. “I’ll walk you out to Caledonian Road,” he said. “Make sure you get a cab safely.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, so softly it was almost inaudible. She swallowed, and pulled away. She hadn’t meant to say that... it just spilled out. She didn’t even know if it was true, hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it or think it through.

It was just there.

Out.

He stood, but didn’t say anything. Maybe he was being sensitive, understanding what a big thing that was for her. Maybe he hadn’t even heard.

“I’ve got to go,” she said again, as if repeating that would somehow move them on past this moment.

She turned and went out into the passage.

At the front door, he stopped her with hands on her waist. Turned her, so that he could kiss her. Then he reached for the door, released the catch and pushed it open and instantly there was a jabber of voices and the night was light up by a barrage of flashes.

Ray’s hand on her upper arm, gripping so tightly it must surely bruise, hauled her back inside and he slammed the door.

“Fuck.”

“What is it? What’s happening?” It had all been so quick. Out in the street, and on the short set of steps leading up to the front door, there was a knot of people. Maybe a dozen of them. Cameras flashing, quickfire. Voices raised, competing with each other.

“Ray! Ray!”

“Who is she, Ray?”

“Where’s Róisín, Ray? What does she think of your new–?”

“Ray! Over here, Ray.”

Now the two of them stood in the passage, the door shut. A series of expressions rushed over Ray’s features, then he muttered “Fuck” again and slapped a hand against a wall.

Then, more softly this time: “Fuck...”

“Did that hurt?”

She stood there, arms folded, one eyebrow raised. Ray opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, met her look, and laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Too damn right it hurt.”

“So I guess they’re onto us?” She was trying to make light of it, trying not to give into the panicked rush of thoughts filling her head.

Did they know who she was? Even if they didn’t have her name, had they managed to get any usable photos of her in that instant when the door had been open and the cameras flashing? Were the two of them going to be plastered all over the Sunday tabloids? It was early enough still for them to make the later editions; if not, would they be in the

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