A Lot to Unpack, page 1
A LOT TO UNPACK
PORTIA MACINTOSH
For my wonderful family
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Thank you!
More from Portia MacIntosh
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Boldwood Ever After
About Boldwood Books
1
I sit up in bed, all of a sudden, and gasp.
Waking up is usually such a gentle process, sleepily stirring, slowly coming around as your eyes adjust to the light of day, but not today. Today it’s like flicking a switch. Today I’m quite anxious though, to be fair.
I grab the glass of water from the bedside table, briefly disoriented by the fact I’m not on my usual side of the bed – well, Ben doesn’t like to sleep next to the door, so he wanted to take the left while we’re here at the hotel. I wouldn’t read too much into it, except I remember the two of us watching a movie where the couple were arguing about who slept closest to the door, because that’s who would apparently get murdered first, and he didn’t say a word at the time, but I can’t help but feel like his actions have always spoken louder.
I clutch my glass in both hands, about to down the contents, when something hits me in the mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ I call out.
I look down into the glass and there it is, bobbing around like an especially minging ice cube. A retainer – Ben’s retainer.
‘Ewww…’
Ben appears in the doorway to the bathroom, brushing his teeth.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, toothpaste foam dribbling down his chin.
I hold up the glass.
‘Your retainer is… in my water,’ I tell him, not quite able to believe the words I’m saying.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he mumbles, totally unbothered, as he heads back into the bathroom to spit into the sink. ‘I forgot the case. I didn’t want to leave it on the hotel sink or sideboard. You never know what kind of germs are in hotels. If they shone a blacklight in here the place would light up like a Christmas tree.’
Not from anything we did, I think to myself, setting my glass back down on the bedside table, pulling a disgusted face at it as I do.
‘I didn’t think you would be drinking it,’ he says as he returns from the bathroom. ‘It’s almost time for the party. I’ll buy you a fresh one.’
He’ll buy me a glass of water. I’m one lucky, lucky lady.
We’re in a hotel in Leeds – my hometown – and while Ben might be concerned that the germ count is off the charts, it’s my stress levels that I’m worried about. We’re up here from London, where we both live and work, for my cousin Hannah’s engagement party, and while I’m sure her fiancé is lovely, and the party is going to be fabulous, I just know that I’m going to be plagued with questions about when it’s going to be my turn, and Hannah can’t hide her smugness that she not only managed to seal the deal first, but that she did it while she was still in her twenties. At thirty, sadly, I’ve missed the cutoff – I didn’t even realise there was a cutoff because, news flash, there isn’t.
Ben is staring at me, standing at the end of the bed with a towel wrapped around him – but not around his waist, like you would expect. It’s around his chest.
‘I think you’re nervous,’ he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, picking up one of his green trainers from the floor. ‘You seem nervous.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ I reply. ‘I’m just… mentally preparing myself. For what’s to come. I already know it’s going to be a whole thing because, for someone who usually likes to make everything about herself, I know that Hannah is going to somehow make this about me too.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘As long as we keep our heads down and just… smile and nod, we’ll get through it unscathed,’ I add.
He smirks and starts tightening his laces.
‘You worry too much about what people think of you, Liberty,’ he tells me.
‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ I ask, ignoring his comments, getting back to the task at hand.
‘My trainers?’ He wiggles the offending footwear at me. ‘Yeah – it’s a party in a garden.’
‘It’s a garden party with a dress code, at a luxury hotel,’ I remind him.
‘Exactly. Grass. Soft terrain. You need grip,’ he points out. ‘These are my smartest ones – I wear them in the golf clubhouse.’
‘Golf?’ I repeat back to him. ‘We’re toasting an engagement, not teeing off. I packed you some smart shoes – please wear them.’
‘The dress code doesn’t apply to shoes,’ he replies.
‘What are you talking about? Of course it does!’
He shrugs.
‘Liberty, I’m telling you, you need to care less about what people think. You’ll never be happy if you’re constantly worrying about appearances.’
This coming from the man currently tweezing his nose hairs in the mirror. With my tweezers.
‘And you need to stop using my tweezers for that,’ I tell him. ‘They’re for my eyebrows. Not digging around in your nose. Use the trimmer I got you.’
‘I don’t like it,’ he says, inspecting the monster hair he just yanked out. ‘It makes me feel old.’
‘You need to care less about what people think,’ I tell him, mocking his North London accent.
He finishes up and drops the tweezers back into my bag without giving them so much as a wipe. Then he steps into his suit trousers, still with his towel wrapped around his body, like I haven’t seen him naked hundreds of times.
I finally swing my legs out of bed, avoiding eye contact with the retainer cocktail I sipped, and psych myself up for the day.
It’s a lunch party, thank God, which means with a bit of luck it’ll be over before we know it, and we can escape into the city for dinner and maybe a drink or twelve to decompress.
It’s not that I hate my family – well, not all of them. I love my parents. But my cousin Hannah and her mum, Auntie Eleanor, are not easy to love. Not unless you like passive aggressiveness and feeling bad about yourself, at least.
I think the problem comes from Hannah and I both being only children, and the only two of our generation, so everyone has always compared us to one another, pitted us against each other even, and we’ve always been so different that that was never going to go well. Hannah was captain of the netball team, so bubbly and confident, whereas I was more shy and preferred to hide from the world by getting lost inside other worlds – books.
Everyone knew Hannah. No one knew me, and I liked it that way. But when you’re unknowingly participating in a popularity contest, that doesn’t work out all that well for you. At school I always got top marks – of course I did; I read every book I could get my hands on – so maybe that’s why Hannah and Auntie Eleanor always leaned into other things being more important – things that would go with us into adulthood. Things like getting married first and/or before turning thirty.
Honestly? I try to let it go over my head. So what if I’m thirty? I have a job that I love, a good boyfriend, and we’ve talked about marriage (as a concept at least) and I’m sure it’s on the cards, for the future, when we’re ready. But why rush? I’d rather get married at fifty, when I’m sure, than thirty, only for it to end in divorce.
‘Are you going to be a while, getting ready?’ Ben asks, buttoning his shirt.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I tell him.
He leans over to kiss me so I move my lips to meet his, only to realise he was actually leaning over me to grab his watch from the bedside table. His watch – a vintage Omega one that his grandad left him – really carries his outfit sometimes, to the point where, as uncomfortable as Ben might look in a suit, the watch adds a level of style and sophistication. Even I have to admire it. Apparently, the face used to be white, but they’ve all discoloured and changed over their lifetime, giving each watch a unique look. Ben’s is a vibrant orange shade now, with a crackled pattern – sort of like tiger bread. I don’t think he loves the look of it all that much, but he knows it’s expensive, so I think that’s why he wears it. And then, of course, he wears an Apple Watch on his other wrist, which undoes all the hard work of wearing a stylish watch. I love a smartwatch, but a man wearing a watch on each wrist looks mad.
‘You’ll be fine. Just smile and nod and drink all the prosecco,’ he tells me.
That’s not a terrible idea.
‘Thanks,’ I say, grabbing my dress, ready to become a blur of hair and makeup and clothes. If I only had time for one, I think it would be the makeup. Today definitely feels like a day for war paint. Today, I don’t want to give anyone any excuse to say I wasn’t present, or that I wasn’t happy for my cousin – and I definitely need to make sure I don’t give anyone any excuse to think I’m jealous. If anyone thought I was jealous of Hannah marrying Samuel, the kind of guy who lives up to the donkey in his name, I would be mortified. He’s one of those guys who always manages to say the wrong thing, who puts his foot in it whenever he can, who always seems to find the words to offend.
Ben throws on his suit jacket like it’s an old hoodie, tugging it over his shoulders with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for putting out the wheelie bin.
‘Can I go watch the football in the bar while I wait for you?’ he says, already halfway out the door.
‘I won’t be long,’ I point out, unrolling my heatless curls. ‘I only need to cake on my makeup and put on my dress…’
‘I could catch the first half, please,’ he says, giving me big sad eyes, like I’m keeping him from visiting a dying relative, not sitting in a hotel bar watching a bunch of men running around a field.
‘Fine,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Go on then.’
‘You’re the best,’ he replies, leaning in for a kiss that is mostly on my nose. ‘I’ll meet you at the party, I won’t be late.’
And boom, he’s gone – as fast as his trainers will carry him. Fantastic.
Ben and I have been together for a couple of years – living together for a few months now – but we work for the same company so we spend a lot of time together. Sure, there are things about him that drive me kind of crazy, but being in an adult relationship means overlooking those little things and focusing the stuff that matters. Nobody is perfect, right?
I head into the bathroom to get ready and immediately stop in the doorway because… wow. The place is a mess.
There are beard hairs pretty much everywhere. In the sink, on the sink, somehow under the sink. Oh, and I can’t even count how many towels he’s been through.
I tidy as I go – mostly so I can make my way through the room – moving the towels, flicking rogue beard hairs from my toiletries. Ugh, I hate the feeling of having someone else’s hair sticking to my hands. I know it’s only hair and that I’m not bothered about it when it’s attached to him, but it’s a bit grim when it’s loose and everywhere… right?
Maybe I’m being overcritical. I think maybe I’m just irked about the trainers because would it really be so difficult to wear shoes for a few hours?
I apply my makeup and blast myself with hairspray, then check myself for Ben’s hairs before I head back into the bedroom. I swear, I need a decontamination unit.
I take my green silk dress from the safety of the wardrobe, sighing as I admire the fabric. I suppose I should be grateful that his trainers are colour coordinated with my dress. At least we can style it out like we’re doing a thing.
I finish off my outfit with gold jewellery and a pair of yellow heels and that’s me ready. See, I told you it wouldn’t take me long.
I grab my clutch from the dresser and spot Ben’s shoes lying on the floor. His real shoes. I wonder about taking them to him, making out like he’s made a mistake, so he has to put them on, but then we’ll have to bring his trainers back, and I don’t want to embarrass him, so I guess he’s won this one.
Shaking my head, I grab my phone from the charger, to chuck it in my bag, when the screen lights up with a notification. It’s a message that says ‘Liberty, you should see this’ and a picture from an unknown number. Curiosity getting the better of me, I click it right away, only to instantly close it again.
Oh my God, ew, I only saw it for a split second but it was unmistakably a dick pic. Who would send me a dick pic? No one I know, but they knew my name, so they know me, unless it’s spam? Some kind of scam? We deal with these things at work all the time – maybe Ben knows what I need to do.
Why do I feel so shaken up? I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to be there, for one thing, but worrying it might be something sinister has me freaking out.
And now I’m even more annoyed that Ben didn’t wait for me because I need him. He’s techy. He can look at this and tell me what I’m supposed to do. He’ll sort it.
Well, he will when it’s halftime, I imagine… Oh my God, if Hannah finds out I’m having a crisis at her party she will freak out, say I’m trying to steal her thunder or something, so I need to get to Ben before he gets to the party.
There has to be an explanation for this, right? I’m sure it’s nothing.
…then why do I have a bad feeling about this?
2
I don’t even think sliding down the shiny wooden bannister on my bum could get me down the hotel staircase faster than my feet are carrying me right now.
I know you might think it’s only a dick pic, lord knows I’ve had a few (never solicited) sent my way by well-meaning (I’m sure) suitors while I’ve been playing the dating game, but something about this one seems so sinister. Not the dick in question (I didn’t look at it for long enough), more like the dick who sent me it – although, while we’re on the subject, they’re never great photos, are they? I’m not saying I want to see them with more artistic merit (I don’t want to see them at all) but a few seconds’ thought to the lighting or the background – most notably what’s in shot, because you’re doing yourself a disservice by leaving the remote control for the TV in the frame. It really helps figure out a scale.
Anyway, I didn’t look at this one for long enough to see if it was giving ‘dead baby bird’ or ‘smart TV remote’, because I was worried that if I left it open too long it might, like, I don’t know, drain my bank account or something. Well, what little there is to drain.
I work as an assistant, for a firm of private investigators in London, and honestly the number of clients we get who are trying to track down the person or organisation who has scammed them is frankly alarming. This is why I need to find Ben. He works for the same company, in IT, so I’m sure he’ll know what to do.
I scan the lobby, looking for directions to the bar, only to be stopped in my tracks.
‘There she is…’
Shit.
‘…our daughter who defected to the south,’ Dad continues, joking for the most part, but he’s one of those Yorkshire men of a certain age who are offended by the existence of London.
‘Hello, darling,’ Mum adds.
I head over to greet them with a smile, trying my best to mask my panic, because my mum has always been able to see right through me.
They’re both dressed in their best – Mum in a beautiful, floaty peach dress, Dad in a navy chinos and blazer combo that makes him look like he just stepped off a yacht.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Mum tells me as she kisses me on the cheek.
‘Thanks – so do you guys,’ I reply.
I notice the look on Mum’s face, almost like she’s analysing me, as she steps back.
‘Where’s your Ben?’ Dad asks me as he gives me a hug. ‘Has he seen the score?’
He says this in a way that suggests something has happened – not that I care, or would understand even if he told me.
‘I think he’s watching it in the bar,’ I reply. ‘I was just going to get him, actually.’
‘We’ll walk with you,’ Dad suggests. ‘I want to see the look on his face – his team are taking a hammering.’
‘Erm, okay, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I think it’s this way…’
‘Are you okay, darling?’ Mum asks, linking her arm with mine. ‘You seem a little flustered.’
‘Oh, no, I’m fine, just… antsy about today, I guess.’
