The Name I Call Myself (17 page)

“I told him no, and asked him to leave. Watched him drive away.”

“Could he have spoken to anyone else?”

Mike frowned. “Maybe. Before he came into the bar. But he didn't look like the kind of man most members would stop to chat with, if you know what I mean.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“I can do better than that. Here.”

Mike took out his phone, scrolled to the right picture, and handed it to me. I looked at the blurred face of the man on the screen, and to my surprise felt nothing, no flash of recognition or trigger of emotion. This middle-aged, overweight man with a blank expression behind wire-framed glasses could have been anyone.

But it wasn't just anyone.

It was him.

And he was here. Looking for me.

I handed Mike his phone back. “If you see him again, will you call me?”

“Yeah, sure. Do you need me to do anything else?”

“A double whisky would be nice.”

I squared my shoulders, took in a few deep breaths of courage and calm, blowing out some of my mind-numbing, raging terror, and went back to eat Christmas pudding and brandy sauce with the least of my worries.

Perry took a bunch of clients on a pre-deal, no-expense-spared, please-do-business-with-us ski trip over New Year. I spent most days up to and including New Year's Eve working as hard as I could, trying to exhaust myself to a point where my head might stop whirring.

I failed, miserably, and after another night getting twisted up in the bedcovers fighting to escape the beast that hunted me, I started the new year wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, blinking at the dazzle of the rising sun on freshly fallen snow.

My phone rang, and I fumbled for it in my dressing gown pocket, sure it must be Sam. I hadn't yet decided whether to tell him about Kane being at the club. I didn't know for sure it even was Kane, and first I wanted to speak to Gwynne, currently on holiday, to have all the facts. Sam hung on in there. I had spotted flickers of hope that he might avoid a total crash; that his abstinence might last awhile this time; that the shudderingly expensive stint in the hospital would prove worth it. In summary: I couldn't risk the consequences of telling him.

I stared at the dial, displaying unknown caller, for a few rings before jerking my finger across the green answer button. If Kane had somehow got my number, I might as well get it over with.

“Hello?” My voice was a whimper.

“Hello. Is that Faith? It's Dylan.”

Is it possible for a human heart to slow down and accelerate all in the same instant?

“Dylan. Hi.” I released a sigh of relief.

“Marilyn gave me your number. Happy New Year. Did I wake you up? I know it's pretty early for the morning after.”

“No. It's fine. I've been awake for ages. I worked last night.”

“Marilyn told me. I'm really sorry to bother you. But do you like turkey pie?”

“Um. Yes.”
Is Dylan asking me to dinner? Slow down, heart, and
for goodness' sake behave! If he is, I'm obviously saying no. Because you, heart, can't be trusted.

“You might have heard we're cooking our usual New Year's Day lunch at the chapel. Seventy people who will otherwise be on their own and probably going hungry are coming in for turkey pie and all the trimmings.”

What? He thinks I'm alone? And can't afford food? I'd be offended if it wasn't nearly true. Sometimes true. Okay, true.

“Mags and her husband Chris, who run the kitchen, are snowed in on their farm. I've managed to round up a couple of other volunteers, but none of them have done anything like this before, and quite frankly it's going to be a disaster. My culinary expertise reaches its peak at a bacon sandwich. You would be doing me the biggest favour if you came and helped us out. No, scrap that. I mean if you came and took charge. I know you're probably exhausted and fed up with serving people, and you're bound to have plans, but these guests are counting on us. It might be the only decent meal they get all month. Even if you could spare an hour. I'll come and pick you up in the truck. Please. I'm happy to beg.”

“Please don't beg. I'd love to help. What time do you want to pick me up?”

“How soon can you be ready?”

I glanced down at my far from fresh pyjamas, running a hand through the frizzy nest on my head.

“Give me forty minutes.”

Three-quarters of an hour later I stood shivering at the end of my street as Dylan came to a stop. I pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. The navy blue pick-up suited him perfectly – scruffy, dotted with the odd rust patch. A toolbox, thermos flask, football boots, and a worn-looking paperback lay strewn about the floor amongst various random bits and pieces. It smelled of paint,
DW40, and other manly man smells. This truck had nothing to prove, didn't care what anybody thought, and may well have run on testosterone. I clicked my seatbelt on and sat back to enjoy the ride.

“Morning.”

“Hi.”

“I would have come to your house. People talk when the minister picks women up from street corners.”

Ouch. Being likened to a street worker, even in jest, rubbed a little too close to the bone. “The snow's a foot deep. I didn't know if the truck could make it.”

He grinned, and patted his dashboard affectionately. “This old girl can make it anywhere.”

“I don't think I can say the same about my new car.”

“You have a car?”

I grimaced. “A Christmas present.”

“Right. Nice present. From Perry?” He glanced at me, quickly.

“Yes.”

“What type is it?”

“A red one.”

Dylan smiled. “Ah. I particularly like the new model of red one. Very fuel efficient. And reliable, so I've heard.”

“Yes. And it's easy to find in the snow.”

“A very desirable feature.” He glanced across at me again, a little longer this time. “And red is my favourite colour.”

Well, Pastor Dylan, you can enjoy looking at my face for the rest of this drive then while my treacherously transparent skin tries to out-red my hair.

Grace Chapel was empty when we arrived. Six large slow cookers full of pie filling sat steaming on the work counters, and a pile of individual-sized puff pastry tops were defrosting on plastic trays.

There were three buckets full of new potatoes and two more containing muddy carrot and broccoli. I found shopping bags full of mince pies and chocolate brownies, and a tower of bread rolls.

Dylan hovered while I took stock, poking in cupboards and
examining the contents of the kitchen drawers. “You can phone Mags if you have any questions about what to do.”

“Nope. It's fine. How long until the guests arrive?”

“A couple of hours.”

I whipped open a drawer and tossed him a potato peeler. “We'd best get started then.”

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of cooking, plating up, washing pots, and wiping my brow in the suffocating heat of an overcrowded kitchen. Three more volunteers turned up, and over fifty of Brooksby's needier residents braved the snow. The team dashed about clearing plates, pouring drinks, wiping tables, and being bossed about by me.

By three we had served the last tea and coffee, and the pace began to ease off. Dylan had prepared a quiz, and a few of the other guests set up a card game in one corner. The dozen or so children piled into one of the Sunday School rooms to watch a film with an enormous bowl of popcorn and a heap of cushions. We pulled crackers and set off party poppers, and once it was dark Dylan opened the doors and everybody who could walk unaided spilled out into the car park for a mass snowball fight. I tried to stay out of sight in the kitchen, hiding behind the mountain of dirty dishes, but once someone opened the fire door, a missile whizzing in and splattering muddy snow all over the fridge, I knew it would mean a lot less work if I went to the fight instead of letting the fight come to me.

After an hour of soaking wet, squealing, pink-cheeked warfare, culminating in a last stand between a family of six brothers barricaded in behind a snow-wall and a full-on charge from a group of retired veterans, we trooped back inside for more hot drinks and the last of the cakes.

It was after six before the guests began to leave, fresh flurries of
snow spinning down through the orange street light. A couple of volunteers stayed to help Dylan and me with the remainder of the clearing up. Eventually, I declared us finished, collapsing on a chair in the side hall, pulling off my sopping wet boots and socks.

Dylan came out of the kitchen a couple of minutes later. “Right, who's staying for supper? I guessed none of us would have much time to eat earlier.”

He was right. I had been too full of adrenaline to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls of pie. The pitiful contents of my fridge back home seemed deeply uninviting.

“As long as it's not turkey pie. Ever again.”

He grinned. “I've put a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven.”

“Frozen pizza?” I screwed up my face. “Maybe I
could
manage a piece of pie…”

“They're posh ones! Upperton standard.”

I hesitated, but not because of the pizza.

“Come on, Faith. Are you a food snob?”

“Yep. Three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year, absolutely. Today, however, if someone else cooks I'll make an exception.”

“Great. You round up the others and I'll set the table.”

“Actually, everybody else left. They were worried about the snowdrifts.”

Did I imagine that charged moment of silence?

“Ah.” Dylan looked uncomfortable.
No, Faith. You didn't imagine it. But it wasn't for the reason you thought. Minister, dining alone with an engaged woman while her fiancé's out of the country? Slightly pushing the boundaries there, methinks.

“It's okay,” I said, hastily gathering my socks and shoes together. “I'll go. You probably can't wait to get home, anyway.”

He ran one hand through his hair, looking back at the door before making a decision. “No. It's fine. We're friends, right? We both know there's nothing going on. And they are massive pizzas. Even a Yorkshireman couldn't eat all that by himself. Wasting all that food doesn't sit well with the spirit of the day.”

“If you're sure?”

He grinned. “Come on. I spend far too many evenings eating alone.”

We poured ourselves a drink, leaning against the kitchen counter while the pizzas cooked.

“So, how do you define a posh frozen pizza?” I asked.

“One's got spinach on it.”

“Woah! Classy.”

“And buffalo mozzarella.”

“I'm impressed.”

“Maybe even some of those sun-dried tomatoes.” He grinned.

“It'll be like being back in my old Michelin restaurant.”

We ate at a table in the hall. Despite the dour surroundings – although let's face it, I'd eaten in much worse places – and being clear about the whole friends thing, it didn't alter the fact I now sat having dinner with a very attractive man. I took a moment while Dylan fetched napkins to admire my beautiful engagement ring, wonder how my precious brother was doing, and sternly remind myself that if Dylan knew I mentally flapped my hands in front of my face because his hand brushed mine when he passed me a plate he would boot me right back out into the storm. He would not want to be friends with the kind of woman who, being engaged to one man, had immoral thoughts about another while sharing an innocent posh pizza
in the church she planned to get married in
.

I grabbed hold of those bad, bad thoughts with both hands, stuffing them back where they belonged in the forbidden corner of my mind where my childhood hopes, worst memories, and murderous plans live.

Phew. Okay. Everything back under control.

Hah! You keep telling yourself that, Faith, and one day you might actually believe it.

“Cheers.” Dylan leaned across the table to chink my glass. “You were amazing earlier. Saved the day.”

“Cheers. And thanks for inviting me. You saved
my
day from a
potential cheese puff overdose on the sofa. And I enjoyed being in charge of a kitchen.”

“I don't just mean in the kitchen. Not many people are comfortable making conversation with some of those guys. You didn't bat an eyelid at their more bizarre behaviour. Or the flirting.”

“Err – hello? Nobody flirted. They were just grateful for the pie.”

“The bloke with the Doctor Who scarf wouldn't leave you alone the whole time you were clearing tables.”

I helped myself to another piece of pizza. “Maybe so, but repeatedly grabbing a person's backside isn't classed as flirting.”

“Right. That might explain my lack of success with women…”

“Really? I think there must be another reason you're still single.” I mean, come off it, how
did
that happen?

He took a moment to wipe his hands on a napkin. “Yeah. It's a long story.”

“I like hearing stories.”

He shook his head. “I don't like telling this one. Maybe another time.”

“Okay. I'll hold you to that.”

We ate in silence for a couple of minutes.

“I meant it, though,” Dylan said. “It's a rare gift to mix with people like the Uppertons and some of the guests today and get along with all of them. You should do something with that.”

I put the half-eaten pizza slice back down on my plate. “Right. One – I don't get along with most of the Uppertons. I'd tell you what Perry's mum called me at Christmas dinner but I don't want to wreck your high opinion of me. Two – I can mix with messed-up people struggling along the bottom rung of society because I used to be one. I've lived with people like that. And for a short time, I had nowhere to live at all.”

He looked at me, deadly serious. “Can you tell me about it?”

Could I? Could I tell someone? Could I tell
Dylan
? I stole a peek at those soft, clear eyes and thought I could try.

“I left Brooksby and took a train to London. I don't know why
London
– I thought I'd find work there. But obviously I didn't in the first couple of days, and within a week my money ran out. I spent thirty-one nights sleeping rough.” I paused, took another drink of juice. “I did some stuff I'm not proud of, the kind of stuff desperate women do, to protect myself, and in exchange for food and some shelter. It was November. I don't know if I would have survived otherwise.”

Dylan's hand slid across the table, towards mine, veering at the last moment to fiddle with the pizza plate. I ignored how badly I wanted to feel the strength of his rough fingers wrapped around mine, and tried to concentrate on the words.

“I had an injury. Not from then; from before. But unsurprisingly it got infected. Eventually, when the fever grew so bad I knew I'd die if I didn't get help, I crawled to the nearest doctor's surgery and passed out on the doorstep. I spent a week in intensive care. Another on a normal ward. One of the nurses found me a place in a women's shelter. That gave me an address, so I could find a waitressing job, and once I had work I found a room to rent.”

“How old were you?”

“I turned eighteen in the ICU.”

Dylan breathed the kind of word I'm sure church ministers aren't allowed to say. I could see his knuckles turn white where he gripped his glass.

“Who hurt you, Faith? How did you get injured?”

I opened my mouth to answer and found I couldn't speak. Who hurt me? Kane, my mum for staying with him so long, Snake, Sam, the girls at my new school who didn't want to be my friend because I spoke funny and wet myself, the teachers who failed to notice my life falling apart after Grandma died, the man who paid for my body, the neighbours at the bedsit, the boss at the strip club, and his countless clientele. Would that do for starters?

And I hated it. I hated having been a victim. Loathed the power these people had wielded over me. Raged that it still bothered me, that the me I called Anna still lived inside. That it still hurt me. That
no matter how hard I fought, or worked, or put the barriers up, they still hurt me.

Whew. I was a mess.

Dylan handed me tissues while I cried, all the same.

He drove me home soon after that. I felt weird, having told him, and awkward trying to explain why I hadn't told Perry. We rode home in silence. Dylan's face was set rigid in the silver light, and when he said goodnight he barely looked at me.

I remembered the joke about the street corner. Would he still be my friend now? Could he be? Would he tell Hester, or someone else at the church? Maybe they had rules about people like me getting married in the chapel.

Another sleepless night, staring at the ceiling.

The Monday after New Year I woke up to the doorbell ringing. Fumbling for my phone, the time read seven o'clock. I lay there for a moment, hoping the caller would go away, but the bell rang again, followed by a sharp knock. I tumbled out of bed and crept over to the window, peeping out through a chink in the curtain. A black four by four had been parked behind my new car, but the person at the door stood too close to the house for me to see them.

After another ring, I pulled on a sweatshirt over my pyjamas and went to peep through the front window. A man, about my age, stood on the doorstep. He caught me looking, smiled, and gave a salute.

“Hi. You must be Faith,” he said when I opened the door, his accent hailing from somewhere in the southern hemisphere.

I nodded, still too asleep to speak.

“Anton. Your personal trainer. I'm guessing you'd forgotten your appointment?”

That would explain the shorts in January. I rubbed my face with one hand, trying to get my brain going. “No. I really think I would remember making an appointment with a personal trainer. Sorry.”

“It was a gift card? From Mrs Upperton? For Christmas?”

Eugh. Now I remembered. I hadn't even bothered to check if an actual appointment had been made, presuming it would be left up to me to call Anton and arrange a session. What a ridiculous presumption, considering whom the gift came from.

“Um. She never told me an actual session had been booked.”

“Riiiight.” Anton frowned sympathetically, still managing to smile at the same time. He bounced up and down on his heels. “Not to worry. You go on and trackie up and we'll get going. The session's two hours, so plenty of time to work off some of those mince pies.”

“Actually, I think I might give it a miss. I haven't slept all that great, and, well, you know how it is. Stuff to do, places to go.”

Anton leaned against the door frame and began stretching his leg muscles. “No can do, I'm afraid. I heard you got a wedding emergency. Too fat for your dress. And that was before the holidays. We've got serious work to do.”