Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Les Jours Tristes

"Anyroad, I think that the answer is 'no,'" she grumbled, crossing her arms, still facing away from him. "It still doesn't count as a good enough reason to start drinking again. You haven't been, innit?"

"Have you been counting my bottles and marking the levels of my whisky?" he jeered - and grunted in obvious pain.

She heard him shift on the floor.

"Old habits die hard," she quipped. "Can I turn around?"

"Not yet," he answered. "I'm still... indecent."

"I still don't care," she retorted, but stayed put.

He barked a coarse sarcastic laugh. "I don't know you well, Anna Ferguson, but I think, that might just be the source of all your problems. You do care."

"I'm only here because I can't have you report my daughter to the police," she said stubbornly.

"Uh-huh," he drew out. "We both know that I won't. And we both know that you know that. You pity me, and that's why you keep coming back, and–"

It was her turn to disrespectfully cut him off. And it feels good, innit, Anya?

"Well, aren't you just full of yourself?" She made a loud, theatrical 'bah' noise, just like her Mother used to. "I don't think you understand how little compassion I have left for broken men with an alcohol addiction." She made sure to sound as resentful as she felt. "I've had enough of the 'addiction is just the reflection of pain' rubbish! And 'we admit we were powerless over alcohol.' And 'our lives had become unmanageable!'"

She took a slow deep breath in, steadying herself.

He was silent behind her.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm not saying that the AA doesn't work, but–"

"It just didn't work for your husband," he finished her sentence.

"Ex-husband," she corrected him. "He became my ex-husband as soon as he passed out drunk in his mate's flat and forgot to pick up my daughter from the day nursery."

"And again, not to be presumptuous," he said, "but judging by how patient you are with me, it probably took more than that."

"And again–" She mimicked his tone. "I'm only patient with you because I'm at your mercy when it comes to my child's well-being."

He suddenly burst into a series of low chuckles, and Anya couldn't help but to glance at him over her shoulder. He'd put on his pyjama bottoms and the tee, and was sitting near the tub, his head dropped back.

"I'm too dependent on your visits to reassure you further," he murmured. "Although, perhaps, the decent thing to do would be to set you free."

Years ago, when she'd seen Dom Ferguson walk towards her across the dance floor of a night club for the first time, cutting through a sweaty moving crowd, her heart had jumped up. It did the same just now - and she told herself to stop being a daft moo-moo.

She searched her mind for something to say.

"Could you, please, help me to get up?" he asked and straightened up as much as he could. Their eyes met. "You weren't supposed to watch," he said in a low voice.

"I haven't seen anything new," Anya lied.

"But I've quite forgotten how to handle being looked at," he said - and then the lights went out.

"What's that?" Anya exclaimed and started slowly moving her arms in front of her and shuffling towards where she thought he was. "Is there something wrong with your generator?"