Trust - Page 99

“Tomorrow. Get your boyfriend to drive you or take an Uber or whatever. I’ll be with Lee, beating him to a pulp at the back of the courthouse.”

“Sure,” I deadpanned and hung up. The Dieter was as bad as Michelle. No goodbyes.

“Gray?” Reuben said.

“What have I done now?” I was getting a little tired of being told off, but yes. I did that. Bought random houses. Ordered a bigger TV because the one from my old house looked like shit in here. And perhaps I couldn’t afford it but I was…me.

“Okay,” Stewart said, taking a deep breath. “Sit down, son.”

I liked when he called me son. Normally. Right now, he looked like he wanted to bite my head off. He ripped the piece of paper out of Reuben’s hand and gave it to me.

Vehicle registration document.

Oh.

“You can shout at me now,” I said. “My dad did. The gearbox had gone on the old Fiat, and the garage up there is a right scam outfit.”

Well, that was my excuse. Dad’s new car was being delivered next week, and I fully expected a similar reaction here to the one I got from my own father, with added moral pointers about never buying a new car and how much value they lost in just the first week. “Open the door and you’ve lost half the resale value,” my dad always said.

“Graham.” Stewart did that low tone of voice that made me shiver and want to curl into a tiny ball, but instead, I sat up straighter.

“Stewart. It was my fault your car got stolen, so it’s only fair I replace it.” There. Bam.

“Bullshit.” Stewart looked kind of unhinged. “How would that have been your fault? Some lowlife finally got into it and went for a joyride. The police found it burnt out somewhere in Essex. That is no way the fault of The Dieter.”

“Ehhr, your number plate was all over the web because I did something stupid. So, my fault.”

“Gray,” Now Reuben was on his haunches, holding my hand but with that mischievous look on his face he sometimes had. The little shit. “Why have you bought my dad a Range Rover Evoque?”

“Because I asked him, ‘If money was no object and you were buying a car, what car would you buy?’”

“That was a theoretical question!” Stewart protested. “Gray! You can’t just buy me a car!”

There it was. The shouting. Why was it anytime I spent a little bit of money, people shouted at me? I didn’t want a Range Rover Evoque. Stewart did. So what?

“This is a vehicle registration for a Range Rover Evoque. Black. Custom seats, because they were really cool. And it’s bought and paid for. In the name of Stewart Schiller. Take it or leave it. If you don’t want it? Documents are in your name. Just sell it. Like I care.”

Here I was. Standing up in my kitchen, shouting and kicking chairs like the big stupid diva I was. Truly. And…

Fuck.

Reuben got up as well, grabbed my arms. I tried to turn away.

“Gray,” he said softly. “I think you need to hear it, right now, but I’m not going to say it.”

It made me smile. Because I did need to hear that. “Baby—”

“Not your baby.”

“Okay. No. Not sure why that slipped out.”

“Maybe because I am a little bit angry with you, but at the same time, I want to say the stuff I’m not going to say because you’re impossible…mate. Seriously?”

“Seriously. It was my fault. I’m just trying to fix what I messed up.”

“Graham.” Stewart had his forehead on the table, banging it gently against our now very crooked spreadsheet.

“What?” I was being a little twat, just like Graham, aged fifteen, had been. Telling his parents he was off to London to become a megastar and that there was nothing they could do to stop him.