But that would be in a world where curiosity doesn’t exist.
I shift the book in my palms and slowly pull the front cover open, but my eyes don’t home in on the first page. They drift down to the floor, following a square of paper that’s slipped from the inside cover, until it comes to rest by my na**d feet. Closing the book on a frown, I scoot down and collect the wayward piece and immediately note the paper to be thick and glossy. Photograph paper. The chill that sneaks up my backbone confounds me. I can’t see the photo, it’s still face-down in my hand, but the presence of it unsettles me. I glance to the doorway, trying to think, and then return my curious eyes to the mystery picture. He has said there’s just him. No one else, no matter how many ways I ask the question. Just Miller – no family, nothing – and while I was shocked and curious, I never pressed too hard on the matter. There were too many other Miller revelations that came about to be dealt with.
Drawing a deep breath, I slowly turn it over, knowing that a piece of Miller’s history is about to be revealed. I’m chewing my lip nervously, my eyes closed to slits in preparation for what I might be confronted with, and when the full picture comes into view . . . I relax. My shoulders loosen and my head cocks to the side as I study the image, placing Miller’s organiser back in the drawer without looking.
Boys.
Lots of little boys – laughing, some with cowboy hats on and some with Indian feathers protruding from their happy heads. I count fourteen in total and guess an age range of five to fifteen. They’re in the overgrown garden of an old Victorian terraced house – a tatty-looking house, with what look like rags hanging at the windows. A quick assessment of the boys’ clothing tells me this picture was taken in the late eighties, maybe early nineties, and I smile fondly as my eyes travel across the photograph, feeling the elation of the boys’ happiness, mentally hearing them shout their delight as they chase each other with bows and arrows and pistols. But my smile is short-lived, dropping away the moment my gaze creeps onto a lone little boy standing to the side, looking on at the shenanigans of the other boys.
‘Miller,’ I whisper, my fingertip meeting the picture, stroking across the image like I could rub some life into his little body. It’s him; I have no doubt whatsoever. There are too many of the traits I’ve come to know and love – his wavy hair, looking wilder than ever, his wayward curl present and correct, his impassive, emotionless face and his piercing blue eyes. They look haunted . . . dead. Yet this child is inconceivably beautiful. I can’t pull my eyes off him, can’t even blink. He must be around seven or eight. His jeans are ripped, his T-shirt far too small, and his trainers are wrecked. He looks neglected, and that thought, plus this image of him looking despondent and lost, cripples me with unrelenting sadness. I don’t realise that I’m sobbing, not until a tear splashes onto the glossy surface of the photograph, blurring the painful sight of Miller as a boy. I want to leave it that way, blurry and masked. I want to pretend that I never saw it.
Impossible.
My heart is breaking for the lost boy. If I could, I’d reach into this picture and cuddle the child – hold him, comfort him. But I can’t. I look towards the kitchen doorway in a haze of sorrow and suddenly wonder why I’m still standing here when I can cuddle, hold and comfort the man who that child has become. I rush to wipe my tears away, from the picture and my face, then slip the photo back into Miller’s organiser and shut the drawer. Shut it away. For ever. Then I virtually sprint back to his bedroom, at the same time pulling my top off, and slip between the sheets behind him, snuggling as close as I can get and breathing him into me. My comfort is restored quickly.
‘Where have you been?’ He takes my hand from his stomach and pulls it to his mouth, kissing it sweetly.
‘Nan.’ I give one word, knowing my simple reply will halt further questions. But it doesn’t halt him from turning over to find my eyes.
‘Is she okay?’ He’s timid. It magnifies the pain in my chest and swells the lump in my throat. I don’t want him to see my sadness, so I hum my answer, hoping the restricted light is hindering his vision of me. ‘Then why are you sad?’
‘I’m okay.’ I try for a reassuring tone but manage only an unconvincing whisper. I won’t ask him about the picture because I already know that anything he tells me will be agonising.
His face is dubious, but he doesn’t pressure me. He uses the last of his drunken energy to pull me into his chest and envelop me completely in his strong arms. I’m home. ‘I have a request,’ he murmurs into my hair, squeezing me further into him.
‘Anything.’
We’re briefly bathed in a peaceful silence while he sprinkles kisses in my hair before he softly whispers his wish. ‘Never stop loving me, Olivia Taylor.’
His plea requires no thought. ‘Never.’
Chapter Seventeen
Morning greets me a split second later, or that’s what it feels like. It also feels like I’m restrained, and a quick assessment of the position of my limbs confirms that I actually am restrained. Tightly. Shifting a little, I monitor his peaceful face, watching for any sign of disturbing him. There’s none, and the heavy odour of stale whisky tells me why. My nose crinkles and I hold my breath, edging my way out of his hold until he rolls onto his back with a grumble. I check the clock, seeing it’s only seven, then quickly throw my clothes on and hurry for the front door. I won’t even bother attempting to make him a coffee to his liking. There’s a Costa Coffee around the corner. They can make it for me.
Taking Miller’s keys from the table, I leave him in bed and automatically head for the stairs, hoping I can return before he wakes and serve him coffee in bed. Aspirin, too. Echoes ring around the concrete walls of the stairwell as I dance down the steps, flashbacks of a lost little boy jumping all over my mind, dragging me back to sorrow. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to kick them to the back of my brain; the memory of Miller’s face in that picture is too vivid. But the thought of being able to make up for lost cuddles – lost things – fills me with purpose.
I crash through the exit door into the lobby and wave a hand over my shoulder to the doorman when he greets me, breaking into the fresh morning air feeling breathless. I don’t let my laboured breathing hold me back, though, and jog down the street, landing in the bustling coffee house in no time at all.