Love And Liability. Katie Oliver
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Название: Love And Liability
Автор: Katie Oliver
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
isbn: 9781472083968
isbn:
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
About the Publisher
Copyright
The girl stepped down from the bus, clutching the strap of her rucksack tightly. The doors closed behind her with a gassy wheeze, and the N38 rumbled off towards Charing Cross Road, leaving her alone on the pavement.
She eyed the deserted street uncertainly. What now? It was nearly dawn, and she had fifty quid to her name. That wouldn’t go far in London. At least she’d managed to sleep on the bus.
Too bad her sleep had been plagued by nightmares…
No one knew she was gone. Not mum, nor dad. Not Erik. She shuddered. Especially not him. So it was okay. She was in London, and she was safe. She had a bit of money. And — she slid her hand into her jeans pocket just to reassure herself — she had her mobile phone.
Her stomach rumbled. She re-shouldered the rucksack and trudged down Shaftesbury Avenue, intent on finding breakfast somewhere.
It’ll all work out, she reassured herself. Once she had a nice greasy fry-up of bacon, eggs and grilled tomatoes in front of her, she’d figure out what to do next.
There was a restaurant on the corner. It stayed open all night to accommodate hungry theatre-goers from the West End and time-pressed employees from the office towers nearby.
She went inside and slid onto one of the sticky red pleather banquettes and ordered fried eggs, bacon, and coffee.
Twenty-five minutes later, except for a bit of congealed egg yolk, her plate was clean. She pushed it aside and withdrew her mobile, and the black screen sprang to life.
She glanced down at the screen and frowned. The icons looked…different. And the background wasn’t the usual photo of a Himalayan sunrise; it was a snapshot of a blonde woman.
A woman she’d never seen before.
Puzzled, she pressed the “Contacts” icon. She didn’t recognize any of the listed names or numbers.
She scrolled through the list, her frown deepening, pausing on the entry named “My Phone”. She pressed it.
Erik’s picture popped up.
She gasped and dropped the phone with badly trembling fingers, and it landed with a clatter on the plate.
“You all right, love?” the waitress enquired as she paused to refill her coffee cup. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
“Fine,” she mumbled, and cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
As the waitress left she retrieved the phone and found the “Settings” icon. Her finger shook so badly she could barely touch it. A glance confirmed her worst fears.
The mobile was Erik’s. She must’ve grabbed it by mistake on her way out of the door. And he’d enabled the satellite navigation…which meant that if he tracked this phone from another device — which he most certainly would — he’d know exactly where she’d landed.
She disabled the sat nav, but she knew it was too late.
Erik already knew she was in central London. And he wouldn’t stop looking until he found her.
She found a Superdrug and went inside. She needed to change her appearance, and fast. She handed over ten quid — money she really couldn’t spare — for a box of cheap hair colour and a tube of hair gel. On her way out she nicked a pair of scissors someone had left on the counter. Ten minutes later she locked herself inside a petrol station lav and set to work.
She stood in front of the dirt-clouded mirror and held out a length of her long, honey-brown hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she whacked it off with the scissors. Grimly she cut off the rest. When she’d finished, her hair lay all over the tiled floor and the sink was stained with black dye. Someone pounded on the door.
“’Ere, what you doin’ in there?” the woman demanded.
The girl paid no mind as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Staring back at her was a fierce creature with a menacing scowl. Her hair, now as dark as boot black, stuck up on top where she’d gelled it into a sort of mohawk; the sides and the nape of her neck were as close-cropped as a boy’s.
Her hair. Her beautiful, long hair…
She unlocked the door and brushed past the woman waiting outside to use the toilet. After exchanging glares, the woman went inside and slammed the door.
Well, she’d done it. Erik would never recognize her now.
How could he, when she barely recognized herself?