scared the hell out of him.
He started to climb the hill back home and—dammit! He hurt. Everywhere. Suck it up and stop being a pansy, he told himself. You’ve had a heart transplant—a cut and a beating is nothing compared to that!
Jack pushed his wet hair off his forehead and looked around. Good Lord, it was beautiful here...the sea was aqua and hunter-green, cerulean-blue in places. White-yellow sand. Eclectic, interesting buildings. He was lucky to be here, to see this stunning part of the world...
Brent never would.
Brent never would. The phrase that was always at the back of his mind. Intellectually he knew it came from survivor’s guilt—the fact that he was alive because Brent was dead. In the first few months and years after the op he’d been excited to be able to do whatever he wanted, but he knew that over the past couple of years the burden of guilt he felt had increased.
Why? Why wasn’t he coming to terms with what had happened? Why wasn’t it getting easier? The burden of the responsibility of living life for someone else had become heavier with each passing year.
The mobile he’d borrowed from Ellie jangled in his pocket and he came to an abrupt stop. Thankfully he was back at Ellie’s place. He didn’t think he could go any further.
‘So, what do you think of Ellie?’ Mitchell said when Jack pushed the green button on the mobile and held it up to a sweaty ear.
‘Uh...she’s fine. Nice.’
She was...in the best sense of the word. A little highly strung, occasionally shy. Sensitive, overwhelmed and struggling to hide it. Sexy as hell.
‘So, have you talked to her about me yet?’
Jack lifted his eyebrows at Mitchell’s blatant narcissism and felt insulted on Ellie’s behalf.
‘Ellie’s well, but over-worked. Her bakery is fabulous; she’s running it on her own as her mum is overseas,’ he said, his tone coolly pointed as he answered the questions Mitch should have thought to ask.
‘Yeah, yeah... But how far have you got with the book? Did you get my e-mail? I sent it just now.’
His verbal pricks hadn’t dented Mitchell’s self-absorbed hide. Jack wished he could reach into the phone and slap Mitchell around the head. Had he always been so self-involved? Why hadn’t he noticed before? Jack sighed and looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite seven yet. Far too early to deal with Mitchell.
‘Firstly, my laptop is still in Somalia, and, contrary to what you think, I don’t hover over my laptop waiting for your e-mails,’ Jack said as he made his way into the house, up the steps and into his room. Jack heard Mitchell splutter with annoyance but continued anyway. ‘And, by the way, why did you teach Ellie such crude Arabic insults when she was a little girl? They are, admittedly, funny as hell, because she gets them all mixed up, but really...’
‘She still remembers those, huh?’
Jack pulled his T-shirt over his head, walked into the bathroom and dropped it into the laundry basket. Yanking a bottle of pills out of his toiletry bag, he shook the required daily dosage into his hand, tossed them into his mouth and used his hand as a cup to get water into his mouth.
Those pills were his constant companions, his best friends. He loved them and loathed them in equal measure.
‘And why did you tell Ellie that I’m helping you write this book?’
As per normal, Mitch ignored the questions he didn’t want to answer. ‘So, have you spoken to Ellie yet about me?’
‘No. The woman works like a demon. I haven’t managed to pin her down yet.’ Jack frowned. ‘And she’s not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect.’
Mitchell didn’t answer for a minute. ‘Ellie and I have had our ups and downs...’
Ups and downs? Jack suspected that they’d had a lot more than that.
‘She didn’t like me being away so much,’ Mitchell continued.
Jack rolled his eyes at that understatement. As he walked over to the window his eye was caught by two frames lying against the wall, behind the desk in the corner. Pulling them out, he saw that they were two photographs of a younger Ellie and a short blond man in front of the exclusive art gallery Grigson’s in London. Jack asked Mitch who the man in the photograph was.
‘Someone she was briefly engaged to—five, six years ago.’ Jack heard Mitchell light a cigarette. ‘She wanted to get married. He didn’t.’
Jack felt a spurt of sympathy for the guy. He’d had two potential-to-become-serious relationships in the past ten years and they’d both ended in tears on his partner’s face and frustration on his. They’d wanted him to settle down. He equated that to being locked in a cage. He’d liked them, enjoyed them, but not enough to curtail his time or freedom for them.
‘Jack? You still there?’ Mitchell asked in his ear.
‘Sure.’
‘I spoke to most of our commissioning editors today and told them that you’ve been injured. They will leave you alone for three weeks. Unless something diabolical happens—then all bets are off,’ Mitchell stated.
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