he said as he released her and they
walked on a bit further.
"Nice."
"Yeah. And other things. But mostly, just nice, and
there's nothing wrong with that."
"Huh."
Turner got the feeling she didn't want to be nice. He
remembered a fridge magnet that his mum used to have, along the lines of nice
women don't make history . So he said, awkwardly, "You're cool, too.
And a fighter and a doer and a person who stands up for stuff and you're honest
and you're inspiring and also, really really good in bed."
She stiffened and stumbled and he hung on to keep her
walking straight. "Sorry," he said, "we've both had too much to
drink, but I do mean it."
"Thanks," she said, her tone a bit flatter than
before.
He couldn't stop himself. His mouth just kept on flapping in
spite of her reaction to all this praise. "I need to tell you this, Emily.
That you bring out the protective side of me. That I want to keep you safe. I
worried about you when you were out at the soup kitchen, you know. I thought
about you." There, that should make her feel better.
She almost pulled away from him. "You wouldn't try to
stop me…"
"Hell, no, of course not. But if anything happened to
you… oh god, I know I'm pissed and should shut up, but you make me feel like a
real man and part of that is, that I would fight for you, I'd…. I'd die for
you. And I know that's a bit intense and all that."
"Yeah, it is."
Fuck, fuck, this wasn't going down well. I need to
explain myself better. "Sorry. Sorry. I would never stop you doing
anything. I'd allow you to do anything at all that you needed or wanted to
do." Was that enough?
"Allow me."
Shit. Probably not the best phrase. "Of course.
I can't stop you…"
" Allow me." Her tone was dark and she was
rigid now, pulling away from him.
"You know what I mean. It's not really a case of
allowing. That was a bad thing to say."
"No shit."
"Emily…"
She walked on, fast, and he strode out to keep up with her.
"Emily!"
"I want to go back to the hotel and I want to go to
bed."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. We should have had those
coffees. We've both had too much to drink…"
"You're telling me."
He kept pace with her as she almost ran along the wide
pavement. "Emily, slow down. Okay, we're nearly back at the hotel."
"Good." She did slow, to his relief. She sighed
and he reached out for her again, just taking her hand in his, and she didn't
pull it away. She seemed almost resigned.
"I'm tired. I was tired before, and I guess it's just
hit me again, harder," she said, as they made their way up the steps and
the impassive-faced doorman let them in without a flicker or comment. "I
have a headache and I'm just exhausted. I really do appreciate all this, I want
you to know that. But I think some things just hit a nerve, actually."
He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. "It's okay. Is it
okay? I mean, is there anything you want to talk about? I'm a good
listener."
"Not tonight. Please. Let's just sleep."
He swallowed his sigh. I don't want to make any issue
about this. She is tired, I accept that. But I've said something wrong and I
want to know what that is. Otherwise, how can I make it all better?
Chapter Six
Emily had a hangover. She curled in the passenger seat as
the Range Rover roared back up the motorway to Manchester. It was barely ten in
the morning but she'd told Turner that she felt too ill to do any sight-seeing.
Guilt consumed her. She rested her head back, slightly
uncomfortably wedged between the window and the back of the seat, and stared
with bleary, unfocussed eyes at the green and grey whistling past the window. That
thought sparked an old New Model Army song to lodge itself as an earworm in her
mind.
Right now, they should have been poking around Camden Market
or having morning coffee in Covent Garden or perhaps trying to be cultural in a
museum or gallery. It seemed such a long, wasted journey, and she'd ruined it
all, and could see no way of making it better.
Her head hurt but she had
walked on a bit further.
"Nice."
"Yeah. And other things. But mostly, just nice, and
there's nothing wrong with that."
"Huh."
Turner got the feeling she didn't want to be nice. He
remembered a fridge magnet that his mum used to have, along the lines of nice
women don't make history . So he said, awkwardly, "You're cool, too.
And a fighter and a doer and a person who stands up for stuff and you're honest
and you're inspiring and also, really really good in bed."
She stiffened and stumbled and he hung on to keep her
walking straight. "Sorry," he said, "we've both had too much to
drink, but I do mean it."
"Thanks," she said, her tone a bit flatter than
before.
He couldn't stop himself. His mouth just kept on flapping in
spite of her reaction to all this praise. "I need to tell you this, Emily.
That you bring out the protective side of me. That I want to keep you safe. I
worried about you when you were out at the soup kitchen, you know. I thought
about you." There, that should make her feel better.
She almost pulled away from him. "You wouldn't try to
stop me…"
"Hell, no, of course not. But if anything happened to
you… oh god, I know I'm pissed and should shut up, but you make me feel like a
real man and part of that is, that I would fight for you, I'd…. I'd die for
you. And I know that's a bit intense and all that."
"Yeah, it is."
Fuck, fuck, this wasn't going down well. I need to
explain myself better. "Sorry. Sorry. I would never stop you doing
anything. I'd allow you to do anything at all that you needed or wanted to
do." Was that enough?
"Allow me."
Shit. Probably not the best phrase. "Of course.
I can't stop you…"
" Allow me." Her tone was dark and she was
rigid now, pulling away from him.
"You know what I mean. It's not really a case of
allowing. That was a bad thing to say."
"No shit."
"Emily…"
She walked on, fast, and he strode out to keep up with her.
"Emily!"
"I want to go back to the hotel and I want to go to
bed."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. We should have had those
coffees. We've both had too much to drink…"
"You're telling me."
He kept pace with her as she almost ran along the wide
pavement. "Emily, slow down. Okay, we're nearly back at the hotel."
"Good." She did slow, to his relief. She sighed
and he reached out for her again, just taking her hand in his, and she didn't
pull it away. She seemed almost resigned.
"I'm tired. I was tired before, and I guess it's just
hit me again, harder," she said, as they made their way up the steps and
the impassive-faced doorman let them in without a flicker or comment. "I
have a headache and I'm just exhausted. I really do appreciate all this, I want
you to know that. But I think some things just hit a nerve, actually."
He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. "It's okay. Is it
okay? I mean, is there anything you want to talk about? I'm a good
listener."
"Not tonight. Please. Let's just sleep."
He swallowed his sigh. I don't want to make any issue
about this. She is tired, I accept that. But I've said something wrong and I
want to know what that is. Otherwise, how can I make it all better?
Chapter Six
Emily had a hangover. She curled in the passenger seat as
the Range Rover roared back up the motorway to Manchester. It was barely ten in
the morning but she'd told Turner that she felt too ill to do any sight-seeing.
Guilt consumed her. She rested her head back, slightly
uncomfortably wedged between the window and the back of the seat, and stared
with bleary, unfocussed eyes at the green and grey whistling past the window. That
thought sparked an old New Model Army song to lodge itself as an earworm in her
mind.
Right now, they should have been poking around Camden Market
or having morning coffee in Covent Garden or perhaps trying to be cultural in a
museum or gallery. It seemed such a long, wasted journey, and she'd ruined it
all, and could see no way of making it better.
Her head hurt but she had
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