The Felix Factor: The Laws of Love, #6

PROLOGUE

In retrospect, it had been a bad idea to wear Louboutin strappies and a gold lamé dress that hardly covered her panty line, Paige decided as an icy wind blasted onto her bare legs.

It was almost midnight.

And where the hell was Trent?

Just gotta take an urgent call, babe, he’d said, pecking her on the lips.

She’d opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already disappeared round the side of the building, his phone plastered to his ear.

Shivering, Paige clasped her wrap around her—a strip of white fur that was definitely synthetic, not mink or rabbit or anything that had ever been alive. Even so, she was careful not to take selfies wearing it. You never knew when the haters would clog up your Instagram and TikTok feeds with mean comments.

Truth was, she was tired and premenstrual, and hadn’t been in the mood for one of Trent’s schmoozy business dinners with his creepy associates. She’d been looking forward to going home to bed, so her heart had sunk when some idiot said, Let’s go to Glitteralia.

She hated that club. Full of influencers all trying to outdo each other. Okay, so she was an influencer too, but that was different.

She was a real influencer. With her own successful cosmetic company. They were all wannabes.

She hugged herself and stared down at her feet. Peered harder. Jesusss! Her toes looked like ten little sausages. Were they actually swollen? Even in this freezing cold weather?

Crapola. Like seriously, she’d just turned twenty-five and her feet had swollen up? Next she’d develop cankles. Did that mean she was old already? Well, she had lived for a quarter of a century. Phrased like that, it made her sound freakin’ ancient.

Turning towards the street lamp, Paige took her compact out of her bag, widened her eyes and studied around the edges for lines. Should she start injecting Botox? Her friend Candice used it, as—what did she call it—a precautionary measure, like those lines were horrible little gremlins waiting to pounce and you had to prepare your skin, ready for the onslaught.

Maybe she should stop smiling. She hated her smile anyway—her slightly crooked bottom teeth had, despite very expensive braces, somehow jiggled their way back to being a teeny-tiny bit not perfect. When she asked her friends, they said you wouldn’t even notice it. But friends always told you what you wanted to hear, so now it was hard to know what to do. No way could she put up with braces again, not with her career taking off. She’d just have to use the filters on TikTok that made your teeth look like a toothpaste commercial.

She was fumbling in her purse for her very own brand of Lush-O-Lash mascara when Trent bowled into her from behind, grabbing her roughly around the waist.

Let go of me, you oaf! she squealed, jabbing the mascara wand in her eye. Ow, that really fucking hurt!

And then a hand clamped over her mouth, and another pinned her hand behind her back.

And a voice—definitely not Trent’s—growled menacingly in her ear.

Boyfriend’s left you all on your lonesome, has he sweetheart?

Paige had felt fear before, quite often as a kid—with the camera crews and all the strange people in her parents’ house, sure she’d been scared. But never, ever like this. Like her heart had grown twenty times bigger and was beating so hard it was going to crack right through her ribs. Like her eyes were startling out of her head like a cartoon character. Like… oh god… like she may have even peed herself.

Don’t scream and I won’t hurt you, baby girl, the voice growled again, the guy’s horrible hot breath against her ear. It’s your low-life boyfriend we’re after; you’re just bait. This was accompanied by another sinister laugh.

She was shaking so badly her knees had turned to mush. The guy was dragging her now, like a rag doll, and… No! Fuck him. From somewhere, her survival instinct kicked in. No way was this creep going to rape her or kill her. She couldn’t go like that. Wouldn’t.

Tears of rage pricked her eyelids.

And then she bit him. Right on his meaty, fat, horrible finger.

Wrong move.

With a sharp expletive the guy yanked Paige’s head back. Pain ricocheted through her neck. Simultaneously, a car screeched to a stop, right next to them.

You’ll pay for that, little bitch, he rasped in her ear.

Paige whimpered as she heard car doors opening, footsteps. Muttered instructions. Where, gov? Boot or back seat?

Then a gag was thrust hard into her mouth, a blindfold tied over her eyes.

Oh fuck—Oh Christ, she had peed herself, she could feel the warm liquid running down her bare thigh. Her breath came in sharp short snorts. But then, as rough hands thrust her into the back of the car, once again the need to stay alive surged through her, and with all her strength she gave a desperate kick with the heel of one of her Louboutins.

She felt the impact as her foot struck one of the guys in the stomach. He yelped out a harsh curse and rammed her legs into the car.

Then the door slammed shut.

And all she could hear was the crazy cascade of her blood in her ears, the rasp of her breathing like a tornado thrashing around inside her skull.

This was really it.

She was going to die.

At only twenty-five years old.

That was way too young to die.

CHAPTER 1

Plop!

Something fell on the grass at Felix’s feet. Clippers in hand, he glanced down to see a tiny ball of pale brown feathers. It was a baby sparrow, he realised on closer inspection, its beak opening and shutting, eyes bright with shock. It must have fallen out of the nest in the tree beside the flowerbed where he was working.

Felix knelt down. Was it hurt? He doubted it could fly properly yet. Most likely it had been jostled out of the nest by its siblings, or had simply miscalculated its abilities.

Hi, little fella, Felix murmured.

The sparrow eyed him warily, then flexed its neck so the feathers parted, exposing its vulnerable pink skin. Then it puffed itself up, and with obvious determination fluttered a few inches before nose-diving—or, more accurately, beak-diving—headlong into the grass. Moving slowly on all fours, Felix reached out a hand and gently scooped it up.

For a moment it sat right there on his palm, blinking up at him. And then, with a lean on it like an old vintage plane, it flew into the top of a nearby bush.

Mission accomplished.

Felix got to his feet. Playing good Samaritan to injured creatures was something he considered part of his job as a municipal parks gardener. He’d done it many times before.

The fledgling was out of danger now at least. Felix dusted down his hands and picked up his secateurs. He worked diligently, engrossed in the task of clipping and cutting and working out the exact places he needed to prune, until Neville’s familiar voice brought home the time. Well, lad, I’m done for the day.

Felix looked up and smiled. Neville was technically his boss, though Neville was too gentle to ever act superior to anyone. An ant is as grand in the scheme of things as any of us, lad, he’d say (or something similar) as they chewed thoughtfully on their sandwiches and drank their flask of tea each day. And those bloody politicians would do well to remember it.

Neville’s Yorkshire heritage was evident in his long vowels, and the way he shoved back his cap with a gnarly hand and scratched his head with his thumb. After ten years of working with him, Felix knew Neville’s life story backwards. Neville had worked for City of London parks since he’d come down south when he was a young’un, nigh on forty years ago. Felix knew exactly how Neville had met Donna: in the foyer of the picture theatre in Leicester Square. Neville even remembered the movie, a showing of Kramer vs. Kramer. It had been love at first sight across the popcorn vending machine and they’d never looked back. Felix sometimes wondered if he’d end up like Neville: still a parks gardener at sixty, with thick knuckles and a spine like a wizened old tree trunk.

He also wondered if he’d ever have a Donna of his own.

Felix squinted at the flowerbed, trying to work out the spring planting scheme in his head. He loved his life. Okay, he’d concede there was a gnawing feeling in his belly at times, of missing the closeness, the intimacy of a relationship, but he reminded himself he’d chosen to be alone—at least for now. Eyes wide open. The priority was to tread lightly on the earth, to hopefully leave the world a better place, if only by saving a sparrow or planting a sapling. If he achieved that, Felix knew he’d die happy. Or contented, at least. Happiness was fleeting at the best of times.

With this thought, he made his way back to the shed that doubled as a lunchroom, placed his sandwich bag in the back of his bike canopy, along with his slim volume of Rumi’s poems (he liked to read one before he started work for the day), and wheeled his way out the gates of Clissold Park onto Church Street for his ride home.

Felix biked everywhere. He didn’t need a car, and couldn’t really afford one anyway, not on a gardener’s salary. He’d learned to tune out the smell of fumes, be constantly vigilant for large red buses and lunatic taxi drivers. After a decade of playing dodge the vehicle, he considered himself an expert at cycling around London.

Finally reaching the three-storey Victorian villa in Islington where he rented the ground-floor flat, he hauled his bike up the steps and left it in the shared entry, along with his bike helmet, work boots and jacket.

He eyed the letters on the bench, a pile for each of the three flats. There were the usual circulars from local businesses, an electricity bill and… Felix felt his scalp tighten as he eyed it. An officially printed but discreet envelope. He sliced it open to see a reminder of his appointment on Monday. He’d booked it weeks ago, but he hadn’t forgotten.

How could he?

Shoving the paper back in the envelope, he entered the flat and padded down the narrow passage, until he reached the kitchen with its brightly painted yellow walls and Frida Kahlo prints. On the fridge was a magnet that read A clean house is a sign of a wasted life (left there by Felicity, who had now moved to Australia to marry the love of her life) and three little figurines that Evie had constructed out of oven-baked clay and magnetised. There was Evie with her bright pink hair, Felicity sporting a big pink hat and sundress and Felix in his standard green overalls and work boots.

Those fridge magnets always made Felix smile. Evie – being a sculptress – had caught the essence of each of them perfectly. He stuck his appointment letter under the butt of his own figurine, then re-arranged Evie and Felicity so they were on either side of him, almost touching. It was his way of keeping them close now they were gone. And while his new flatmate, Adjo seemed like a really nice guy, they’d only known each other a couple of months – it was too early to suss out if they’d become friends.

Strolling over to the window, he gazed out at his tiny tomato seedlings, the pots of herbs and the broad bean shoots making an appearance in the small backyard, and removed his phone from his pocket. It was off as usual. Technology was something else he minimised, switching his phone on for an hour a day to make calls and check messages. But now as he flicked it on, a string of messages pinged.

Unusual. His brows tightened as he checked them.

They were all from Evie. She was in Australia with her rock star boyfriend Byron, on his first ever tour there. Felix liked Byron, but the guy could be a loose cannon at times. If he’d done anything to hurt Evie…

His frown deepened as he read, Answer your ffffuckin phone!

Pleasssse pick up!

I need your HELP!

Christ, this must be bad. Felix brought up Evie’s number.

He wasn’t sure of the time in Sydney, but almost straight away she answered. "Oh thank God. Finally!"

Yep, this sounded bad. Are you okay? Byron hasn’t—?

Oh no, we’re good. It’s not about me. It’s about Paige.

Paige?

Felix had met Evie’s younger sister barely a half dozen times. She was tall and willowy, with dark hair that panned to her waist and big brown eyes. Pretty, very pretty. The male in him could acknowledge that. But he’d found himself making a rather snap judgement about her when her main topic of conversation was the false nail that she’d snapped opening a can of Coke. At the time he’d rebuked himself for stereotyping her. Paige was a successful millennial entrepreneur. Just because he didn’t dig what she was successful in didn’t make her any less successful.

And then the most godawful thing had happened to her, and there was no room for petty judgements. He’d supported Evie while she in turn supported her sister through the aftermath of the kidnapping, the police interviews and media frenzy that followed.

But… he’d thought Paige was going okay now. It must be at least six months since the incident. What’s up with Paige?

Evie sighed heavily. You know how she seemed to bounce back fine? She didn’t wait for his answer. "Well… no fucking way has she. She’s a complete mess, pretending to be fine on her Instagram posts and her dumb-arsed TikTok videos, playing the I’m so resilient card and I’ve sacked my therapist ‘cos I don’t need them. She sucked us all in, Mum and Dad as well. I’m so pissed that she’s lied about this—"

Okay, slow down. What’s happened exactly?

She finally admitted to me yesterday that she’s locking herself inside and… hiding.

In her flat in Soho?

No, she’s moved to Dad’s house in Hampstead. The one he bought last year for him and Marcia to move back to from LA sometime. We all totally got that Paige didn’t want to be in the city, and she liked the idea of staying in Hampstead for a while. But we thought she was okay. Another breath. I think she’s got agoraphobia, Felix.

How badly?

Quite badly. She’s cancelled appointments, is ordering in all her shopping, not going out at all as far as I can tell.

Oh, shit.

Yeah, I know. I really need you to go and see her.

Me! Felix felt his eyes widen with surprise. She’s literally only met me a handful of times—am I the best person? What about your mum?

"Mum’s on a cruise in the Caribbean, and you know what she’s like, she’d only make things worse. Dad’s trekking in the Himalayas on some spiritual reawakening thing and we’re only halfway through Byron’s tour. And sure, if I need to, I’ll come back, but Byron really wants me here because, you know, with it being his first tour in Oz, it’s emotional for him and… Oh Felix, you are literally the one person I totally trust."

What about her friends?

He heard Evie snort. What fucking friends? Snuck off like the users they are as soon as there wasn’t anything in it for them.

You really think she’ll be okay with some random guy turning up on her doorstep?

You’re not some random guy. You’re my best friend. And she likes you. She calls you Shrek.

She calls me what!

Shrek. He could almost see Evie wince as she delivered this body blow.

"Well… Fuck!" Felix almost spluttered.

Sometimes the Swedish Mountain Man. Evie added.

Guess that’s marginally better. He grinned, running his hand over the knot of his man bun. Good job he didn’t have an ego to speak of.

Paige really does like you, Felix. Evie’s tone was placatory. And she’ll trust you, I know she will.

Felix felt his heart shift in his chest, the way it had when that darn sparrow fell out of the tree. The way it did when he sat, quietly listening to the men in the support group he ran, talking about their mental health struggles, their sadness and pain.

Of course I’ll help, he said soothingly. Just tell me the best way to approach it.

Paige is stubborn and proud, so I reckon the best thing is to go over there on the pretext of helping with the garden.

That sounds a bit forced.

Not if you say my dad has hired you to do some gardening. Then you can at least keep tabs on her, report back on how she really is.

Does this place actually need gardening?

Badly. Dad’s had the internal renovations done but hasn’t got round to the garden. It’ll be overgrown as shit. He was going to hire a gardener, but Paige said she wanted to do it. Evie gave another snort. Can you imagine Paige getting her hands dirty?

Felix stifled a smile, remembering Paige’s perfectly manicured hands. Maybe not. When do you want me to go round there?

"Tomorrow morning?’

Felix blinked. It was the weekend, and he’d been planning to visit his parents in Oxford. Tell them he’d bitten the bullet and made an appointment to sort out his own issues. But this took precedence. Sure, give me her details.

I’ll text you her number so you can let her know you’re coming. Evie gave a hollow laugh and added, Just don’t let on that I sent you.

Felix grimaced. I don’t think I can lie, Evie bean.

Yes you can.

I’ll try to be circumspect with the truth.

Oh, Felix. You’re an angel. He heard the relief in his friend’s voice. Evie and Paige had always had a difficult relationship. Evie, being five years older than Paige, had taken the brunt of being a teenage celebrity in their parents’ reality TV show, The Essex Wags. Paige had always adored their flamboyant mother, Kelly-Jean, and had never understood why Evie resented Kelly-Jean so much. It was good that the sisters had finally made up, but Felix knew Evie still trod carefully around Paige.

They talked for a while longer, mostly about Byron’s tour. Evie didn’t like the constant living in hotels, but she guessed that was the price you paid for dating a rock star. And at least she was seeing a lot of Felicity, who lived in Sydney now.

When she asked if Digby was missing her, Felix had to smile. He seems to have taken a shine to Adjo.

Such a tart that cat. And how are you and Adjo getting on?

Just fine. But he’s not you—or Felicity. He glanced at the fridge magnets of the three of them. They shared a special bond from way back, and no-one could ever replace that.

Once they’d said their farewells, Felix rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Seemed like he had a mission ahead of him: coaxing Paige out of hiding.

As he put his phone back in his pocket, his gaze strayed to the envelope magnetised under his clay butt on the fridge.

At least he’d be too busy over the weekend to give any more thought to what lay ahead.

CHAPTER 2

Paige woke with a start, the breath catching in her throat.

Staring up at the ceiling, she gulped in air, trying to calm her racing heart.

You are in a bed.

In Dad’s house.

It’s a really nice bed, with a really soft goose down pillow and duvet. The door is locked.

You are not tied to a chair. You are not gagged.

It’s okay, okay, okay.

Breathe, just breathe.

This was how it was every time she woke up these days.

Every. Single. Fucking. Day.

At least when she was asleep she wasn’t aware of the fear. But during the day it hounded her like some hideous monster waiting to pounce. For hours she’d pace the house trying to evade its clutches, or submerge herself in re-runs of Schitt’s Creek and cringy nineties romcoms, before huddling back in a ball under the duvet and quivering.

Groaning now, Paige ratcheted up into a ball, fisting her hands into her stomach, as if that would stop the gnawing terror inside her.

After a few minutes she tentatively unfurled one leg. Then the other. Stretched them out and flexed her toes. Took a big breath.

Okay, so today… Today she would call Jacinta, her PA, and agree to do that interview with Belle magazine.

Oh god, no. Way too fucking hard. Back she curled into a ball, her heart rapping against her ribs and a horrible queasy feeling in her gut. Probably due to the wine she’d drunk to get to sleep—one of the better bottles she’d found in Dad’s stash.

This had to stop. It really had to stop.

Jesus! Why had she thought living here would be a good idea? In a mock-Tudor house in Hampstead surrounded by a jungle of garden, down a leafy street where anyone could hide in the shadows of the big trees?

Because she couldn’t stay in her trendy Soho apartment, it was too close to where she’d been kidnapped. Dad had been fine with her moving into his London house, but he’d wanted to do more. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come over to LA? he’d asked over the phone.

She’d refused. Her life was here—Cosmetica, her business, was here—but she figured the peace and quiet of Hampstead would be easier than central London, where people kept recognising her and stopping to ask if she was okay. It had been huge news, after all, her face splashed all over news channels and social media worldwide (not her favourite shot, but not the worst, either).

No doubt it would have been big news even if she wasn’t already a celeb. But with her dad being a soccer star from the nineties, her mum being famous just for being famous—and don’t even get her started on Evie—her Instagram and TikTok accounts had exploded. One post—a close-up of her eyes with a comment saying that no cowardly kidnappers would ever make her cry off her Lush-O-Lash mascara—had received nearly twenty million views.

Sales had skyrocketed.

Until the anonymous calls started, and then she’d freaked out. The caller hung up every time she answered.

And then out of the blue, the unthinkable happened. The very day after releasing her Wrinkle Nuking Night Cream, Paige ground to a sudden and stupefying halt.

For a full twenty-four hours she didn’t get out of bed. Didn’t eat. Just lay curled up in the foetal position. When she finally did crawl out, something had changed irrevocably.

She didn’t feel like her anymore.

The simplest things, like showering or cleaning her teeth, were suddenly harder than climbing Everest. For days, weeks, she’d rattled—or more accurately, tiptoed—around like a little ghost of her former self, sucking on her thumb, biting down her nails.

And the worst of it was that whenever she tried to venture out the front door, her body went into the same awful panic as it had the night of the kidnapping.

Going outside meant she was going to die. It didn’t matter how much logic she tried to apply to the situation, she just could—not—go—out—there.

She’d tried, really and truly had. Spent hours huddled next to the door, hugging her knees and shaking, willing herself to open the fucking thing and walk out into the garden.

And in between