Page 3 of Wanting Mr Black

I think that’s a compliment.

“Then, why was he there last night?”

Big Steve gives me a reassuring grin. “Art’s a good man. Trust me on this one.”

He sidestepped my question, but I decide not to push it. It’s not Big Steve who should be giving me answers after all; it’s Art. I’ll keep any further questions for the man himself.

As we park outside Art’s apartment, the events of last night seep back into my mind. The hollow, empty look in his eyes as I left threatens to haunt me forever, and my stomach swims with nerves. This could go either way. But I need answers. I convince myself I’m doing the right thing and climb out of the car.

I push open the glass doors with Big Steve following close behind. A young male concierge who I don’t recognise is sat behind the desk in Derek’s usual spot.

He looks up and gives me a polite smile. “Good afternoon, madam.”

“Hi. I understand there were complaints of a noise disturbance from apartment thirty-two last night. Has there been any more bother?” I smile politely and steel myself.

When I left last night, Art sounded as though he had gone crazy.

“Ah, yes, Derek mentioned something.” He nods. “No, madam. There have been no further complaints. In fact, Mr Black currently has a visitor.”

I frown. I doubt he’s in the mood to entertain, given the amount he drank last night. “A visitor?”

“Yes, madam. She arrived about five minutes ago.”

My blood runs cold. “She?”

The concierge smiles, oblivious to the hornet’s nest being stirred. “Yes, madam.”

My hands ball into fists as I glare up the staircase. I feel sick. I don’t need to ask for a description. There’s only one woman who would make an appearance today. Tara. She’s come to pick apart the last threads of our relationship.

Anger propels me up the staircase at speed. Big Steve’s with me, telling me to “calm down” but I’m not listening. I’m going to catch them red-handed. I’m nobody’s fool, as they’re both about to find out.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke and whiskey hangs in the air and turns my stomach as I unlock the door and charge into the apartment. I head down the hall, a woman on a mission, glancing in every room as I go, steeling myself for what I’m potentially about to find when I reach the living room. And stop.

Art’s lying facedown, collapsed across the sofa, wearing nothing but black boxers. His arm dangles off the edge of the seat. A tall, slender, older lady with a salt-and-pepper bob stands in the kitchen. She’s wearing wide-legged navy trousers, and a sparkly brooch is pinned to a lilac cashmere pashmina draped over one shoulder. She’s got an air of sophisticated elegance about her, which only comes from age and money.

The woman looks at Big Steve and smiles. “Hello, Steven. Nice to see you again,” she says in a well-spoken, soothing voice.

He nods his head in acknowledgement. “Barbara.”

Her blue eyes survey me with interest. “Hello, I’m Barbara, Art’s mother. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

His adoptive mum? What’s she doing here?

“Is he out cold then?” Big Steve asks before I can introduce myself.

Barbara sighs. “I’m afraid so. I’ve tried to wake him. I was going to pop the kettle on and make him a black coffee to see if that might bring him round before I start clearing up.” She casts a worried glance about the trashed apartment.

There’s a fresh dent in the wall. Drops of bright red blood are splattered across the parquet floor, leaving a trail to the sofa. An empty whiskey bottle is smashed on the kitchen counter, and shards of glass glint across the white marble top. That would explain the sound of breaking glass last night when I left. The place is a right mess. And he’s injured.

I nibble my thumbnail, my nerves in shreds. “He’s bleeding. There’s a dent in the wall and blood on the floor.”

“Stupid sod.” Big Steve grabs Art by the shoulders and hauls him onto his back.

His eyelids are closed, and his usually tanned face is pale and pinched, emphasising the grey smudges beneath his eyes. The smell of stale alcohol oozes from his pores, tainting the air. Even in sleep, he frowns, brow creased, as though he’s in some restless dream.

Big Steve gives him a shake. “Come on. Wake up.”

He doesn’t respond, and panic slices through me. He’s had a lot to drink for a teetotaller. Please let him be okay.