The Neighbours: A gripping, addictive novel with a twist that will leave you breathless. Hannah McKinnon Mary

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       THEN ABBY

      WHAT AN IDIOT. An absolute, dumb, stupid, moronic idiot.

      Me. Not Liam.

      We were five days into 1992. Five days since I’d met Liam at Rowley’s. Five days since he’d kissed me. Five days since I’d seen him. Five.

      It may as well have been five hundred.

      Lying in bed wrapped up under my blankets, I could still feel his lips on mine, his hands pressing into the small of my back, pulling me closer. The scent of his musky aftershave lingered on the scarf I’d worn that night, and I’d slept with it ever since. I closed my eyes as I nuzzled it, rubbing the fabric against my cheek. God, he was hot. But that wasn’t all—he was nice, too.

      I wanted to call him. I would have if I hadn’t been such a dumb, stupid, moronic idiot. I’d said he should take my number. Insisted on it, in fact. Why? Because I was sure he’d phone? I shook my head. No. More like because I was sure he wouldn’t. If I didn’t have his number it meant I couldn’t call him. And if I couldn’t call him, I wouldn’t look like an imbecile when he made some crap excuse about not seeing me again, like “my dog died,” or “I’m running away to join the circus,” perhaps even “sorry I’m being abducted by aliens tonight.” I hadn’t heard all of those before, but a couple came pretty close.

      “You’re so beautiful,” Liam had whispered after our first kiss at Rowley’s, and I couldn’t believe how genuine he sounded. But guys like him were never genuine. Everything about him seemed too good to be true, from his dirty blond hair that fell slightly into his gray eyes, to his apparent kind, gentle nature. He couldn’t be real. In my experience, guys like that always turned out to be phonies.

      In any case, I’d already decided I wouldn’t be going home with him. If, if the chemistry between us turned into a long-term thing—and how, after knowing him for all of an hour, was I so sure it would—I didn’t want to be the girl who had sex on the first night. Quite a departure from my usual open-to-pretty-much-anything self.

      He’d taken my hand, and we danced together in the corner, arms wrapped around each other, moving slowly even to the fast songs. We barely spoke. Nothing needed to be said.

      “Hey, mate.” Dwayne had appeared next to us and put a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “What the hell,” he’d yelled over the music, “are you doing with my girlfriend?”

      “Your girlfriend?” Liam had shouted back, shrugging off Dwayne’s grip, towering over him and frowning. He took my hand and held it over his heart. “Sorry, mate. But you must be mistaking her for someone else.”

      Dwayne’s eyes narrowed but he took a step back. Then he looked me up and down as his lips curled into a sneer. “You’re only doing this because I’m going to Thailand.” He turned back to Liam. “She’s all yours, mate.” He stomped away with the scent of another Benson & Hedges trailing in his wake.

      Liam looked at me and shrugged. “Why’s he going to buy land?”

      I laughed. And that was the moment I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble. I’d heard about love at first sight, feeling like you’d been struck by lightning, that it was meant to be and all those other clichés. I’d heard about it, but I’d never actually believed it. It was no secret I had trouble keeping hold of relationships—any kind of relationships—something my kid brother pointed out on a fairly regular basis. But even he agreed he’d gone too far the last time.

      “You’ve broken another guy’s heart? Jesus, Abby, I bet you’re like Dad,” Tom had said a few months back. “He’s probably on his tenth ex-wife by now. You two are destroying both sexes for the rest of us.”

      I didn’t speak to Tom for a week. Not until he came over to my flat and apologized, groveling with two bottles of my favorite wine and a very large curry.

      But now, here I was. Lying in bed in my little flat above the Kettle Club Tea & Coffee Shop. Almost five days after kissing the most handsome and interesting guy at the pub, wishing he’d call. And then the phone rang.

      “Hello?” I held my breath.

      “Shabby!”

      I groaned. “Don’t call me Shabby, Tommy.”

      “Then don’t call me Tommy, Shabby. I’m not three.”

      “Okay, Golden Child, Oh, Chosen One.”

      Tom made growling noises down the phone, and I grinned. Most of our calls started off this way.

      “What are you doing?” he said.

      “Lying in bed.”

      Tom laughed. “You’re not still nursing your New Year’s Eve hangover, surely?”

      I sighed. “No.”

      “Still no news from eye-guy?”

      “Nope.”

      He sniffed. “Maybe his beer goggles wore off.”

      “He wasn’t drunk.” At least I was pretty sure he hadn’t been. Oh, god. Maybe he had. Maybe he didn’t even remember me. Maybe—

      “Well, in that case he must’ve thought you’re a rubbish kisser,” Tom continued, obviously enjoying himself. “What did you eat that night? Onions? Garlic? Snails?” I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of a clever answer quickly enough before he said, “Or I suppose he could have lost your number.”

      “Yeah. Let’s go with that.” I rolled my eyes. “At least it’ll make me feel better.”

      “You said his name was Liam? Short for William?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Jefferson.”

      The words hung in the air for a while.

      “How did you know?”

      Tom cleared his throat. “You must have told me.”

      “I did not. I know I didn’t.” I laughed. “Come on. How did you know? Spill. Or else.”

      The grin in Tom’s voice was audible. “William Jefferson.” He let out a half snort. “Sounds like a future Prime Minister. Anyway, his phone number is...”

      My head spun as he reeled off the digits. I grabbed a pen from my bedside table, smoothed out a tissue and scribbled the digits, trying not to СКАЧАТЬ