Chapter 4 Titus

• Concerned that she thinks I’m hitting on her, I add, “Not as a date, just as a friend. Absolutely no obligation at all. I’m sure you’re busy, and it’s the last thing you’d want to do.”
• “It’s not that,” she says. “Did Huxley ask you to check on me?” She doesn’t look annoyed, just suspicious. I decide honesty is the best policy.
• “Yes, he did, and I promised I would. But it was a kind of kill-two-birds-with-one-stone thing. I don’t want to spend the weekend at this house alone, and I thought it would be a chance to catch up and have a bit of fun.”
• Her lips curve up. “I see.”
• “I think if Huxley knew I’d ask you out, he might have had second thoughts about asking me to contact you.”
• “I thought it wasn’t a date,” she says.
• “Ah… yeah, nah, obviously it’s not, because we live on opposite sides of the world. It’s purely platonic.”
• “How dull. In that case, the answer’s no.”
• I laugh. “You haven’t changed.”
• “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
• “You should.” I smile. “Will you come?”
• “Well, how can I pass up the chance to go on a platonic date with the Striking Viking?” Her eyes twinkle.
• I feel a surge of pleasure. “Excellent. Well, like I said, there’s some kind of cocktail evening on Friday night, so I thought I could pick you up in the afternoon and…” I trail off as I hear a doorbell, and she looks past her laptop.
• “Fuck,” she says.
• “Everything all right?”
• She bites her bottom lip. “Someone’s at the door. I’d better answer it.”
• “Okay.”
• “Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back?”
• “Sure.”
• “Thanks.” She folds down the lid of her laptop—but she doesn’t close it completely. I don’t think she’s realized she’s still transmitting. I can’t see anything, but I can still hear what’s happening in the room.
• I stare for a moment, my cursor poised to end the call. But then I hear her say, “What the hell are you doing here?” and I lower my hand, concerned.
• If she’d been anyone else, I might have told myself it was none of my business, and waited for her to call back. But before I left, Huxley took me to one side and said, “Can you do me a huge favor?”
• “Of course,” I replied.
• “Can you check on Heidi?” He gave me her phone number, email address, and physical address. “Just a phone call would be great, but I’m worried about her.”
• He’d already told me that she’d broken up with her boyfriend a few months before, but this was the first time he’d expressed concern. “Why?” I asked.
• “She won’t talk to me about it,” he says, “but she’s told my sisters that her ex is harassing her.”
• “Oh no. In what way?”
• “I think it’s mostly online. Evie said she’s trying to get her to report it to the police, but she doesn’t think Heidi’s called them yet. I’m worried it’s more serious than Heidi’s letting on.”
• “Have you talked to her about it?”
• “She changes the subject. I worry about her, that’s all.”
• “I’ll contact her,” I told him. “Although I don’t know that she’d be likely to tell me any more than she’d tell you or her sisters.”
• “I dunno,” he said, “you two seemed to click last time you met.” He gave me an amused look.
• “That was eight years ago,” I replied wryly, “and the only conversation we had was with our tongues.” I blanched as his eyebrows rose. “I mean… ah…”
• He rolled his eyes. “Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated.” And that was the end of the conversation.
• So being in the middle of talking to her when it sounds as if her ex might be at her door has put me in a difficult position. I wait and listen, prepared to close the laptop as soon as I know she’s okay.
• A male voice says: I need to talk to you.
• Her: I’m busy.
• Him: What do you mean? Have you got someone there?
• There’s a bang, and an exclamation.
• Her: What the fuck? Jason! You can’t just walk into my home.
• I stiffen, alarmed. Shit. What should I do? Phone the police? I pick up my mobile, ready to call them.
• Him: Where is he? Who is it?
• Her: There’s nobody here. I was on the phone.
• Him: Who were you talking to?
• Her: It’s none of your business. I want you to leave.
• Him: Don’t do this. I just want to talk.
• Her: Well I don’t. There’s nothing to talk about. We’re done. You’ve got to stop this and accept it.
• Him: I’m never going to accept it. I want you back.
• Her: You can’t browbeat me into going out with you again. You’ve got to stop calling and messaging me. What you’re doing—it’s harassment, Jason. It’s stalking. Do you understand that?
• Him: That’s bullshit! I love you. And I’m trying to show you. It’s not harassment!
• Her: Are you drunk? Jesus. You’re fucking drunk.
• Him: Who were you talking to? Tell me.
• Her: An old friend.
• Him: From New Zealand?
• Her: Yeah, but he’s in London, and we’re going to meet up.
• Him: Do you have feelings for him?
• Her: We’re just friends. But if you were a fraction of the man that he is, we might still be together.
• I’d have blushed if I wasn’t so worried.
• Him: Don’t say that. I love you.
• Her: Don’t you fucking touch me.
• She sounds furious, but I know that doesn’t mean she’s safe. What the hell is the emergency number out here? It’s 1-1-1 in New Zealand. 0-0-0 in Australia. 9-1-1 in the States. I think it’s 9-9-9 here?
• Him: Please, I love you…
• There’s the sound of a scuffle, shuffling feet, a squeal from Heidi that makes me leap to my feet, and then a deep male groan.
• Him: Ahhh Jesus… Oh God…
• Her: Get thefuckout of my house.
• Him: Heidi…
• Her: GET OUT! Stop calling me. Stop texting me. And stop messaging me on social media. We’re done, and if I see you here again, I’m going to ring the fucking police, do you hear me?
• There’s more scuffling, then the bang of a door closing.
• I slowly sit again and stare at the screen. It sounds as if she threw him out. Good on her. Do I wait for her to open the laptop and see that I heard everything?
• I hear footsteps, then the squeak of the sofa as she sits.
• Then, to my horror, she bursts into tears.
• Her sobs are deep and heartrending, and my insides twist as I listen to her, one hand over my mouth. At least she’s safe, for now anyway. She wouldn’t let him in if he knocked again, would she?
• The sofa squeaks, and then the connection is cut—she’s closed the laptop lid.
• I sit back and look up at the darkening sky. Will she call me back when she feels better? I wait for fifteen minutes, but the screen remains blank.
• I pick up my phone, dial her mobile number, and put it to my ear. After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. She’s turned off her phone. I end the call without leaving a message.
• Maybe she’ll answer if I call in the morning. But she doesn’t want to talk to me right now, and I need to honor that. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, when she’s hopefully feeling better.
• I let my gaze drift over the rooftops, up to the night sky, fighting with my natural instinct to take action. I think of her deep sobs, and Huxley’s concern for her. She has family here, and plenty of friends, I’m sure. She doesn’t need me riding in on a charger to rescue her. It sounds as if she can handle herself just fine. She doesn’t need me.
• If you were a fraction of the man that he is, we might still be together.
• Pursing my lips, I pull up Google calendar and see what I have planned for the next few days.