A Hopeless Romantic (35 page)

She pulled away from him, and saw George’s trusty, beloved Rover lined up in the darkness next to the battered old Range Rovers and a Rolls-Royce.

Nick stepped back, his arms falling heavily by his sides, and looked at her in disbelief. “You’re actually going to throw this all away, because you’re an inverted snob,” he said angrily.

“If you like,” said Laura, keeping her emotions in check with one last herculean effort.

“You’re a coward,” he said, his voice harsh, his fists clenched. He shook his head. “Coward.”

She turned and walked toward the car; she took the keys out and, trembling, tried to unlock it. Her hands were shaking. He watched her as she opened the door.

“You know, I actually thought I might be falling in love with you,” he said quietly. He stepped away, turned around, and walked toward the house, and didn’t turn back once.

Laura drove out of the stables onto the long, wide driveway, not daring to look in the mirror in case she caught sight of Chartley behind her, or the figure climbing the steps at the front to disappear inside. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she gripped the steering wheel, and put her foot on the accelerator.

“The trouble is, I’ve already fallen in love with you,” she said softly to herself as she reached the end of the long, long drive, and turned onto the main road, back toward home.

part three

chapter thirty-two

S
o, what’s she like?”

“What are they like together?”

“I heard she stayed the night, did she? God. So has she seen him being himself yet?”

“Yes, you know. Really Yorkyish. Awkward and yet bizarrely self-confident,” said Hilary, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray, her long, elegant fingers squashing the butt like a helpless insect. She wiped her fingers and looked up expectantly. Next to her, Jo nodded patiently.

“I don’t know!” said Laura, laughing and holding her hands up in protest. “I haven’t seen them together yet.”

Jo moved the crisps into the center of the table. “But you have
seen
her, though, right?”

“Becky? Of course!”

“So, she’s not…imaginary?”

“No!” said Laura. “Poor Yorky. Of course she’s not imaginary.”

The three of them were sitting in Jo and Chris’s newly designed garden, enjoying the warm evening and Jo and Chris’s John Lewis garden table and chair set, a wedding present of which Jo was inordinately proud. The French windows were flung open, music was playing softly in the kitchen, and, way back in the sitting room at the front of the house, Chris and his brother, Jason, were watching telly. It was Sunday evening, and Laura had arrived back from Norfolk early that morning.

She had crept out of the house, waking only her mother, saying she had a lunch to go to that she couldn’t miss. She had left a note for Mary, and had already embraced her inner guilt about not saying a proper goodbye. But she couldn’t stay there any longer. She had to come back to London, or else go mad with thinking about what she was leaving behind.

Here, in Jo’s tiny, welcoming back garden, sitting with Jo and Hilary and a bottle of sauvignon blanc, she could imagine it had all been a dream. She knew she would think about it later, that it would hurt, that she would think about him, but here, right now, on a warm July evening, she asked nothing more than to sit with two friends and chew the fat over a few glasses of wine.

“So,” said Laura. “What’s happened while I’ve been away?”

Jo and Hilary looked at each other. “Nothing, really,” said Jo. “Yorky having a date with someone is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me for a long time.” She paused. “Ooh, though. Me and Chris are going to Australia next month! I forgot that bit. And we bought some lovely eggshell paint for the bathroom.”

Hilary looked disgusted and rolled her eyes at Laura, but Laura said, “Right—eggshell, that’s great, but—Jo! You’re going to Australia, wow!”

“Yes,” said Jo, clapping her hands. “I am so excited, I can barely speak. It’s like a delayed honeymoon, and we weren’t going to go, but we had three weeks booked off anyway, and we got these flights, and…so we’re going!”

“You lucky things,” said Laura. “I’m going to miss you! Three weeks, my goodness.”

Jo took her friendship responsibilities very seriously. “I know,” she said, patting Laura’s hand. “Perhaps I…well, obviously I’m not going to
not go
, but we should talk. If you need me. You know.”

Laura laughed. “I’m not that hopeless, you know.”

“Yes, you are,” said Hilary. “Look at the mess you got yourself into when you and Jo weren’t speaking back in the spring.”

“Thanks,” said Laura. “Charming.”

“Sorry. But you know what I mean,” said Hilary, as Jo held Laura’s hand. “Talking of which, I hear all is not well in paradise. Or Miami, to be more precise.”

“Eh?” said Laura, pouring Jo and herself another glass of wine. She looked up to see Jo making cut-throat gestures at Hilary. “What do you mean?”

“Miami?” said Hilary. “Who’s there at the moment, do you remember?” Laura looked blank, and then recognition dawned on her face. “There you are. I bumped into that ghastly friend of Amy’s yesterday. Camilla? The fitness instructor?”

“She
is
ghastly,” said Jo loyally.

“Anyway, she let slip that Dan and Amy were on their way back. Early. They’ve had a massive row.”

“Really?” said Jo. She looked at Laura anxiously. “Oh, Laura…”

Laura smiled at her. “It’s fine, really.”

“Oh, Laura,” Jo said again, staring at her. “He’d better not…ooh, if he tries to get in touch with you, I’m going to tell Chris to Have a Word.”

“Have a fag,” said Hilary unemotionally. She gave Laura a quick smile. “Thought you’d want to know, anyway.”

“Thanks, Hil,” said Laura. “No thanks. Look…” She shook her head. “I can’t explain why, but it really is okay. Good luck to them. I hope they work it out, seriously.” She rummaged in her bag as diversionary activity, looking for her lip salve. As she was holding her phone, it beeped, a text message. It was from Nick. She didn’t open it, see what it said; she just stared at her phone, almost in disbelief. No, no. This was her real life now, that was a dream.

“Who’s it from?” said Jo, mildly intrigued by Laura’s sudden silence.

“Er—” said Laura. “No one.”

Jo looked at her. “Why didn’t you see Becky last night?” she asked.

“What?” Laura took some more crisps.

“Becky. You came back last night, didn’t you?”

“No,” said Laura. “This morning.” She was still looking down at the phone; she felt Jo’s eyes on her. She put it away, shoved her bag under her chair. “I stayed up in Norfolk an extra night.”

“Why?” said Jo doggedly.

“I…” Laura faltered. “I wanted to. Granny’s birthday, you know. We—er, I…in the evening, I…”

Hilary was watching Jo with something like impatience. “Great,” she said. “Back to the main event though, Jo.” She grabbed Jo’s arm and jerked her head in the direction of the house. “Tell me. Is Jason still single?”

Jo was still watching Laura. Laura looked back at her uneasily, until with horror she saw something like realization dawn on her friend’s face. “You met someone in Norfolk, didn’t you?’ she said slowly, aghast. She shook her head. “My God. You did.”

“What?” said Hilary. She swiveled her head around. “You’ve met someone? Already? Laura!”

“She has, hasn’t she,” said Jo, nodding at Hilary. “Who’s the text from?”

“I haven’t read it. No one,” said Laura, only half truthfully.

“Good grief, Laura…”

“It’s nothing, I promise,” said Laura.

Laura didn’t feel surprised, or annoyed, or patronized, or cross, or any of that. No. She ran her finger up and down the stem of her glass and she felt glad, glad that she could justify her behavior of the previous night to herself. It meant that she knew she had made the right decision last night, to leave him, leave it all behind, even if at the moment she still felt raw. Even if, at the moment, it seemed—had it really only been last night that she was there? With him?

“Who is he this time?” said Jo, shaking her head.

She tried to imagine Jo and Hilary’s reactions if she told them the truth, if she blurted out, “You’re right. I did meet someone. He’s a marquis. He owns a huge stately home. He’s a millionaire. He’s really handsome. Oh, and I actually think I love him, I’m not just falling for him because I’m me and this is what I always do. You don’t believe me?
Really
? Why on
earth
not?”

No, she wouldn’t say anything. Even if Jo was looking at her with her big brown eyes, and even if more than anything she wanted to tell her about it, talk to her about what had happened, try to make sense of it all. She’d flirted with the boy who cried wolf too many times.

Taking a sip of her wine, she shook her head again. “I swear, honestly,” she said. “Nothing happened in Norfolk. Very boring. We saw some really interesting windmills, though.”

Hilary cracked a smile, then Jo, and Laura tried to persuade herself that she’d got away with it, even though there was something in her best friend’s expression that told her this was not over.

Jo blinked rapidly, and stood up with the bowl of crisps. “Let’s have something to eat. How’s Simon?” she asked, clutching the bowl—varnished beechwood, part of a set of three, also from the wedding list—to her chest.

“Who knows?” said Laura. “He didn’t make it back in time for the party,” she explained to Hilary.

“Typical,” said Hilary.

“I know,” said Laura, but she added dutifully, “I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

“Some Brazilian pole dancer called Evita,” Hilary said. “One night only.”

Jo nodded in agreement.

“I know,” said Laura. “Well, we’ll see.”

“When’s your thingy at work?” asked Jo.

“What thingy?” said Hilary.

“I have to go in and kind of, er…reinterview for my job,” Laura explained.

“Oh,” said Hilary, looking embarrassed, as one does when confronted unexpectedly with someone else’s problems. “Course. Sorry. When is it?”

“Wednesday,” said Laura. She stood up as well. “I have to do my homework before, though. That reminds me,” she said, putting her bag over her shoulder. “I think I’m going to head off.”

“But I was going to make some food,” said Jo, astonished.

“Yeah, Laura, stay,” said Hilary.

“Thanks, thanks,” said Laura. “I’m just really tired.” She kissed Hilary. “Thank you, Jo, so much for tonight.”

“But—” said Jo. “I want to talk to you!”

Laura ran her hand over her forehead. “Please, Jo,” she said. “I’m sorry, I—I need an early night. I’ll call you tomorrow. Can we go over what they might ask me on Wednesday, maybe?”

“Course,” said Jo. Laura kissed Jo goodbye, and Jo walked her through the kitchen to the hall.

“Bye, Chris!” Laura shouted, but there was no response.

“He’s useless. Honestly,” Jo said, but she smiled.

Laura looked at her. “Thanks again for tonight,” she said. “It’s been great.”

“I’m glad you had a good time in Norfolk,” said Jo. She shifted from foot to foot. “Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?”

“Absolutely,” said Laura, trying to keep the tremor she felt in her voice from coming out too much.

“Don’t want you making the same mistakes as before, that’s all,” said Jo. “I’m allowed to say that, I’m your best friend and I love you,” she added, patting Laura’s cheek as if she were her mother.

As Laura walked down the path, she heard Chris shout to Jo from inside the house, “What’s up with Laura? She gone?”

“Yep,” she heard Jo call back.

“She okay?” Chris said.

“I don’t know,” Laura heard her best friend say. “Not sure.”

Laura walked down the road toward home, the flat, down the dusty, quiet Sunday streets. She pulled her phone out of her bag.

Laura, still think last night was a bad joke. All of it. Reply to this. Tell me I’m right. N

The image of Jo’s face, leaning over her lovely wooden garden table, asking in tones of dread, “Who is he this time?”

Hilary’s sympathetic expression—which in itself was rarity enough.

Her mother’s worried stare that morning as she knocked on her door and told her she was leaving, there was a cab waiting outside, she was sorry.

Yorky’s blissful smile when she’d got back to the flat at lunchtime, having just waved goodbye to Becky from downstairs, eighteen hours after their date originally commenced.

There were dry leaves on the dry street; they crunched under Laura’s feet as she walked home, dog-tired, as she thought about it; and gradually it became clear to her: The only way this would work was if she did precisely what she’d never done before—just blocked it out. Blocked him out, tried to forget the whole thing as soon as possible.

Usually, when Laura broke up with someone, she almost enjoyed the post-split wallowing. She embraced the playing-sad-songs, getting-rid-of-shared-possessions, crying-to-friends-over-wine portion of the whole experience. The post-dumping analysis of subsequent texts and e-mails. The his-friends-think-he’s-mad conversations—all of that could be immensely soothing to a hopeless romantic like her, someone who needed to believe that the person she’d just split up with was actually The One, and thus worthy of weeks more lolling around and sighing.

She knew this about herself, post-Dan, and this was where it had to stop. She looked down at Nick’s message, and thought again about how she’d explain to Jo that she’d fallen in love with someone, and how she’d explain who he was. Of course, it was ridiculous. Of course, she had to get over it, as quickly and painlessly as possible, because they couldn’t be together, and that was that.

Ahead of her loomed the apartment block. She pressed
DELETE
, and slowly put the phone back in her bag, rummaging for her keys and trying not to think about him, about him typing that text message. The thought of Nick standing there in the stables, his expression bleak and angry, tall and dark yet so oddly comfortable and easy to be with, made the breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t bear to think of him in pain, couldn’t bear to think she had upset him. She wanted, more than anything else, for him to be happy and well, and to be able to get on with doing what he had to do.