Ophelia hadn't intended to fall asleep.
Truly, she hadn't.
But when Ophelia woke up the next morning, she was curled up in Andrew's lap, his hand resting between her shoulder blades. His breathing was light. Even. She scrambled into a seated position, wincing as her head throbbed.
Andrew didn't stir.
She leaned against the wall, hugging her knees into her chest. Memories of the night before came flooding back to her: her fever, the pills, Andrew reading to her, the rumbling sound of his voice lulling her to sleep...
Dear god.
What had she been thinking?
Her head gave another painful throb, and she massaged it. Ah, that's right; she hadn't been thinking. She just needed drugs.
She peeked at Andrew.
Okay. That wasn't entirely true.
Ophelia knew that she should hate him. Hell, she had hated him, for a time; in December, she'd written a rather angry letter to Andrew, burnt it instead, and then spent the evening watching a Christmas film and eating ice cream as she ranted to a rather shocked Louise, Ella and Sophia about the cruelty of men.
No; Ophelia hadn't entirely forgiven him. He had taken her virginity, after all.
But things were different now.
She was with Digby. And — for some reason beyond Ophelia's comprehension — Andrew was with Eleanora. But they could still be friends, couldn't they?
Ophelia was so caught up in her musings that she hardly noticed when Andrew cracked open an eye, blinking slowly. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "Christ," he said. "What time is it?"
She glanced at her watch. "Eight."
"In the evening?"
"No." She smirked. "The morning."
Andrew stared at her. "Good lord. We slept for fourteen hours?" He rose to his feet, yanking on his loafers. "How are you feeling?"
"Better."
This was true; Ophelia's fever had broke, and she no longer felt like a thousand monkeys were banging against her skull with tiny hammers. Her nose was still a little stuffed up and she was on her period, but hey — at least she no longer felt like she was dying.
Andrew shrugged on his coat. "Good," he said. "We're going out."
"We are?"
"To Covent Garden."
"Why on earth are we going there?"
Andrew paused, looking at her as if this should be obvious. "To get you a new copy of A Tale of Two Cities."
Ophelia's heart dropped. Oh, hell. Did Andrew know somehow? About what Eleanora did in Scotland? But, no; his expression was too calm. He just thought that Ophelia had left her copy of the book in Canada.
Tears pricked at her eyes.
"That's really..." She cleared her throat. "That's sweet of you, Andrew."
Andrew looked alarmed. "For God's sake, Ophelia, there's no need to cry about it." He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Now put on your shoes. We can still beat the rush."
Twenty minutes later, their black cab was pulling up outside of Covent Garden. Ophelia shivered as she stepped out into the misty grey morning, tugging her black pea-coat closed. The piazza was basically deserted at this hour; the only other visitors were a handful of pigeons, pecking at a stray muffin under the towering Christmas tree.
"Come on," Andrew said. "This way."
Ophelia trailed him through an archway, looking around the open space skeptically. Glass roof. Heated alfresco terraces. Ivy wrapped around wrought iron banisters.
Still no people.
"Andrew," she said slowly. "Are these places even open?"
"I know a place." He winked. "Trust me."
They stopped outside a nondescript doorway. Andrew knocked on the door twice, and Ophelia yelped as a little slat popped open. Twin green eyes peeked through the opening.
"Andrew!"
A moment later, the door flew open. Rupert stood on the threshold, dressed in a striped robe and fuzzy slippers. The air smelled vaguely of eggs and fried bacon. Rupert leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at her.
"And lovely Ophelia," he added. "What a good surprise."
Andrew cleared his throat. "Hope we're not intruding, mate."
"Not at all!" Rupert ushered them inside. "James should be round to help me open the shop in a bit; I was just about to pop the kettle on. Do you want anything?" He led them down a narrow corridor. "Tea? Water? Brandy?"
Andrew looked amused. "It's not even noon, Rupe."
"Still."
"Wait," Ophelia said. "Do you live here?" Her eyes flicked to a framed wedding picture on the wall. "You and Jess?"
Ophelia hadn't thought much about where Rupert and Jess lived, admittedly, but she had assumed it would be somewhere fancy. With large clawfoot bathtubs. And twelve cocker spaniels. And at least one turret.
Rupert nodded. "Just above the shop."
"Speaking of which," Andrew said quickly, "I was hoping to show Ophelia around the store." He paused outside a door. "She's browsing for a new book, you see."
"Ah."
"It'll only be a few minutes."
Rupert sighed, but there was fond exasperation in it. "Nobody ever says no to you, do they, Scott?" He shook his head. "Look around, then. But make it quick; I need to sweep before we open for the day."
"You're a star, Rupe."
Andrew tugged her through the door. Immediately, Ophelia froze. Two floors of books unfurled before her, a riot of oak shelves, leather armchairs, and an old grandfather clock. A narrow, winding staircase stood at the heart of it all, coiled like a strand of DNA.
"Oh, gosh," she breathed. "It's incredible."
Ophelia walked to the nearest shelf, stroking the leather-bound spines reverently. She was vaguely aware that she was salivating like a kid in a candy store, but she no longer cared. Books. So many pretty books.
"Dickens is over here," Andrew called.
Ophelia ignored him, resisting the urge to coo at the books. Pretty. So pretty. She was never leaving this place.
"Ophelia." Andrew's deep voice was right in her ear now, low and amused. "Did you hear what I just said?"
"Hmm?"
"Dickens is this way."
Andrew tugged her towards a section at the back. Morning light filtered through the window, haloing his blond hair with dust motes. His white shirt was rolled up to his sleeves, and she watched as he carefully pulled a book off the shelf, opening it to the first page.
Ophelia's heart twisted.
He was so lovely, Ophelia thought sadly; it made her wish sometimes that she had never met him. You wouldn't know if it was cloudy if you never had the sun.
"Here," Andrew said, thrusting the book out. "It's not as sentimental as your copy, obviously, but it—" He broke off, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
"Hmm?"
"You're looking at me strangely."
"It's just..." Ophelia nibbled her lip. Oh, screw it. She'd just say it. "You can be so sweet sometimes. That's all."
"And that surprises you?"
She gave him a long look. Of course it did. He had broken her heart, hadn't he? Slept with her ad then cast her aside like a used tissue. And even before that, Andrew had repeatedly cheated on Eleanora.
He wasn't a good person.
He had admitted as much to her.
"Look." Andrew swallowed. "I know that you don't always think well of me, Ophelia, but I'm not a monster." He closed the book. "I know I've made mistakes—"
"Like the cheating?"
He winced. "Yes. Like that."
"Why?"
She had never been brave enough to ask him, before, but she had nothing to lose now. Not even her own heart. Andrew sank on to a window bench.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I suppose that after my father's diagnosis, I was a mess. I had this feeling like there was a hole in my chest, and I couldn't stop looking for ways to fill it. Money. Women. Winning prizes." He shrugged. "I tried everything, but nothing worked."
"Andrew..."
"I'm not defending myself," he continued quickly. "It's inexcusable, what I did."
"You were hurting."
"I was suffocating." Andrew's eyes were dark. "That sort of pain is all-consuming; I would have done anything to make it stop. Hurt anyone."
She shivered. "You don't mean that."
"I do." Andrew stared down at his hands. "I did hurt people. A lot of them." His jaw was tight. "When I was in Canada, did you know that there was a rumour that I used to stuff burrs under my horse's flank strap? To make the animal kick higher?"
She stared at him. "But that's not true."
"No." Andrew blew out a breath. "It's not; it was started by a stable-hand after I slept with his girlfriend. But the point is that people believed it, Ophelia." His knuckles were white. "People believed that I could be capable of it."
Ophelia swallowed. Sadness and sympathy and something like reproof warred in her chest, fighting for dominance. Standing this close to him, she could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Autumn leaves on the sea.
"Andrew—"
The door flew open.
She jumped, spinning around. Rupert popped his head in.
"You two almost done?"
"Yes." Ophelia shook her head, the spell broken. "Sorry. Yeah. We'll take this one." She took the book from Andrew. "Thanks, Rupert."
Andrew insisted on paying for it, and Rupert insisted on giving it to her for free, and it took a significant amount of arguing before Ophelia was allowed to fork over £50 in exchange for the leather-bound book. Rupert still didn't look happy as he took the money.
"I'm spending this on you," he warned her. "Your next birthday gift, or whatever."
She winked. "I look forward to it."
They stepped back out into the blazing sunshine. Covent Garden was busier now; shoppers rushed through the open-air piazza, toting shopping bags and dogs in sweaters. Ophelia smiled as they passed a pair of children sitting on top of the railing, their legs dangling through the iron bars. The girl giggled as she threw a napkin on to a passerby below them.
Nothing could ruin this, Ophelia thought contentedly. Nothing could ruin such a lovely morning in London, not even—
"Andrew?"
Ophelia froze. Oh, no. No, no, no.
Eleanora was storming towards them, shoving aside terrified shoppers. A bouquet of pink carnations was clutched in one hand, and she was gripping them so tightly that Ophelia feared she would crush the bulbs.
"Darling!" Andrew cleared his throat. "What a surprise."
"Well," she said stiffly, stopping in front of them. "Isn't this a cozy little scene?"
Ophelia winced. Eleanora was still crushing the flowers in a way that suggested she would like to do the same to Ophelia's head. She licked her lips.
"I should go," she blurted. "I'll see you around, Andrew."
He frowned. "You don't have to rush off."
"No, I do," Ophelia said quickly. "I forgot that I'm meant to be calling Digby."
This wasn't a complete lie; Ophelia had woken up to several missed calls on her phone, as well as at least five drunk text messages. She really should call Digby back. Andrew's face tightened, and he rubbed at his jaw.
"Go on, then," he said stiffly. "You wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
Ophelia didn't need to be told twice.
Andrew stared at the painting.
It was something about the face, Andrew thought in frustration, tapping his paintbrush against the easel. Something wasn't right about it. The nose, maybe? Or the lips?
Andrew sighed, setting down his paintbrush. A cool breeze filtered in through the window, filling the room with the smell of dirty London streets. Dear god; he was going mad. Why couldn't he get this right?
He was so close to be able to paint again.
Finally.
Andrew stared down at his phone, massaging his neck. He was probably staining his skin purple and crimson, but whatever. He no longer cared.
Should he call her?
Well, no. He shouldn't. But sod it; he was going to, anyways. He picked up the phone, closing his eyes. She answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Ophelia." Andrew blew out a breath. "I need a favour."
"Really?" Ophelia paused. "Well, I suppose I owe you for the paracetamol, don't I?" He heard a male voice — Digby? — and then the click of a door. "What do you need?"
Andrew gripped the paintbrush. "I need a model. For one of my paintings."
"Oh."
She sounded surprised. She didn't sound opposed to the idea though, Andrew realized with some relief. Merely taken aback.
"Can't you ask Eleanora?"
"I did," Andrew said smoothly. "She's too busy."
Andrew hated lying to her, but what choice did he have? It had to be Ophelia. That much was clear. He stared at the half-finished painting, at the swatches of cherry red, merlot, and scarlet, all swirled together in a sort of mesmerizing whirlpool.
Ophelia let out a breath. "Alright, then. How's tomorrow for you?"
A/N: Hello lovely readers!
Okay, so a bunch of you guessed that Ophelia was pregnant in the last chapter, and I have to (sheepishly) admit that I hadn't even considered that possibility! But it makes total sense. Cravings? Nausea? I mean, I was giving you lots of hints ;)
Alas, I must disappoint and say that Ophelia's not pregnant — she just had a really bad flu. So, oops! My bad (*face palms*).
In other news, I am now done writing Louise's book, "Bottled Up," and I'm feeling very emotional after finishing the Toronto Girls series. What a ride. I can't wait to share the final book with you all in March :)
Affectionately,
J.K.