She raised her face. His hand caught hers, thumb gently stroking. I should step away, she thought. Her feet did not move.

“I didn’t mean to spend all night talking about Constance again.”

“Then stop,” she said, her fingertip tracing his knuckle.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he said, leaning closer, letting his lips brush hers.

Ruby’s eyelids fluttered closed. Her lips parted. Gregor’s hand encircled the back of her neck with gentle fingers.

Suddenly, she went cold, realizing what she was about to do.

“No,” she said, grabbing his wrist. “Stop.”

Gregor stepped away, looking shocked. “What’s wrong?”

“This is,” she said.

“I thought you … wanted to.”

She did. So badly. The hurt on his face cut her deeply, and she wished with everything she had that things could be different.

“I’m sorry” was all she could say.

Ruby let the door to the flat slam shut as she ran down the stairs, wondering if she’d done the right thing, if she should have just gone ahead and let it happen. He was so perfect. And yet. There was too much to lose here. She couldn’t betray another woman in that way. If there was even a chance that when Constance was better, she and Gregor might get back together, for Leonie’s sake she didn’t want to be in the middle of that. And even if there was no chance, he’d said himself that she wasn’t the one who wanted to split. If Constance still held a candle for the father of her child, then Ruby wasn’t going to be the one who destroyed that dream for her. She was better than that. She had to be.

CHAPTER

18

NOW

The Injured Man

HE HEARS MUFFLED sounds. Voices. Two or three people are speaking, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. They’re not talking to him, only to each other. There is darkness and the beeping of machines. He appears to be floating, weightless, unsure which way is up; the voices are all around, above, and beneath him, as if he’s suspended among them. Then, a sharp certainty about what this is: he’s in hospital. He can smell it now; cleaning fluid and the faint stench of human waste. Someone leans over him; their voice is booming near his face and he tastes perfume, thick and chemical in the back of his throat. He doesn’t understand the words, though they are being pronounced clearly enough; nonsense syllables. No, that’s not right. They’re just speaking in a language he doesn’t understand. He can’t think in a straight line; the links between ideas are broken, thoughts floating as freely as he is. Nearby, someone is unfolding a blanket or a sheet and shaking it out. It swishes, plasticky, and then it’s laid on top of him. He fades out.

CHAPTER

19

NOW

Joanna

Saturday, December 22