How many times had they gone over this? ‘Flo hasn’t done anything to you,’ said Zander.
‘Er, hello? She’s living in our flat!’
This was the thing about Lena: listening to the voice of reason simply didn’t feature on her radar. The fact that their grandmother had made the relevant specifications in her will was irrelevant as far as his sister was concerned.
‘Officially, she’s living in Jeremy’s flat. It’s his for the rest of his life.’
‘It’s the most ridiculous situation ever.’ Lena’s narrow mouth pursed with irritation. ‘Stupid cat.’
Zander raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Listen to me. The way you’re behaving isn’t helping anyone. You can resent Flo all you want, but it’s not going to stop me seeing her. I really, really like her. A lot.’
‘You don’t. You just think you do. You’re probably just doing it to spite me.’
‘You’re not going to ruin this relationship. I won’t let you.’
‘You’re so gullible,’ said Lena. ‘Can’t you see what she’s like? You deserve so much better than her.’
‘I deserve so much better than this.’ Zander shook his head at his difficult sister. ‘You’re living here in my flat. I could tell you to leave.’
‘But you can’t do that. Where would I go?’
And how many times had they been over this? Dozens? Hundreds? Zander said wearily, ‘I could do it. Lena, you’re thirty-six years old. You need to stand on your own two feet.’
‘I will do, just as soon as that complete bitch moves out of our flat. Anyway, you can’t make me leave here. You promised Mum, remember.’
There it was, the argument she always produced as a trump card, the one she knew he didn’t have the heart to ignore. When their mother had been dying of cancer, she had begged him to take care of Lena and he’d agreed. Obviously.
It might have worked out a bit better if she hadn’t then gone on to share the news of the promise with Lena. On the one hand, it had been closure for their mother. On the other, it had effectively given Lena a get-out-of-jail-free card for the rest of her life.
‘I’m going to bed. Good night.’ Tired and resigned, Zander left his sister in the living room; there was no point arguing with her any more. Oh, but it was an endless circle of frustration, being responsible for someone older than yourself.
At this rate, he’d still be stuck with her when he was eighty.
Chapter 39
The wind was blasting Tasha’s face and she was tumbling through the air. The parachute should have opened by now, but it was still tightly packed into the bag on her back and the toggle to release it had vanished. Having fumbled frantically to find it without success, she gave up and began to flap her arms instead . . . maybe if she flapped them fast enough she could save herself . . . except now the ground was rushing up towards her. Oh God, too late, she was going to crash—
Tasha gulped, gasped and woke up, shuddering with relief because she was at home in bed, not splattered somewhere in a field. God, the relief. Still alive, not dead. Although the way her poor overwrought heart was currently crashing around inside her ribcage, it might not hold out too much longer.
Next to her, Rory slept peacefully on, his breathing slow and even. Amazingly, she hadn’t woken him up with all her arm-flapping and thrashing about.
Ugh, though. Was there anything worse in the world than that horrific sensation of falling from a great height? No, there wasn’t. Her stomach was still knotted at the memory of it, her breathing ragged, her palms tingling and damp with adrenalin-fuelled sweat.
OK, just close your eyes and relax. Stop thinking about it. Go back to sleep.
Ten minutes later, since that clearly wasn’t going to happen, Tasha slid out of bed and headed for the kitchen. She boiled the kettle, made herself a mug of tea and sat down in the living room with her laptop.
It was four in the morning on Thursday. Three days from now, the skydive would be over. With a bit of luck, the parachute would open and she wouldn’t die. Hopefully too, once the hideous experience was behind her, tonight’s recurring dream would stop and she’d be able to sleep like a normal person once more.
‘There you are.’ Ruffling her bed-head hair, Rory joined her on the sofa. ‘I woke up and you were gone. Thought you’d run off with another man.’
‘He’s picking me up in an hour.’ Tasha rested her bare legs across his lap and watched his hand massage her left knee.
‘Did you have the dream again?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, felt him give her knee a gentle squeeze. ‘Maybe.’ Rory knew about the dreams; last time she’d been flapping her arms so hard she’d whacked him round the head.