A Hopeless Romantic (47 page)

“Yes, but…” She put her palms flat on her lap, not knowing how much to say, wanting to tell him everything, knowing she should keep it all back. Laura turned to him, but she still couldn’t see his face, and so she just said rather weakly, “Yes. I did.”

“So why—” Nick began, but Laura found herself putting her hand up.

“Do you mind if we don’t?” she said. “Talk about it? Bit stressed about it at the moment. I think I’ve cocked up. I don’t want to think about it, not tonight.”

“Anything I can do?” said Nick. Laura gave a hollow sigh under her breath, and he said immediately, “Sorry. That’s probably the least helpful thing someone can say.”

“No,” said Laura quietly. “Thank you, though.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice close by. “If there is anything, Laura—”

She nodded. There was a ball of air in her throat, pushing down into her chest, making it hard for her to speak. He watched her as Laura shrugged, trying to look unconcerned; she felt she merely succeeded in looking a bit stupid.

“And how are you?” she asked, pulling herself together. “How is everything at Chartley?” She stopped, realizing she sounded rather like Aunt Annabel.

His voice soft with amusement, Nick replied, “Great, thank you. It’s a little quieter since the summer, of course. Since you were there.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Laura said, her head on one side, trying to pretend he was just a tour guide, and she was just a tourist. “Um. What are you up to at the moment, then?”

“Well, the crops are all in, and that’s gone well—the weather’s been fantastic, which made it easier, which is good.”

“Ah,” said Laura, trying to sound informed. “The harvest.”

“Yes,” Nick said gravely, but his mouth twitched. “The harvest. And we’ve just started a major project, cataloging all the paintings, sculptures, and so on in the house. Going to take a few years, but it’s important, needs to be done.”

Laura always loved hearing him talk about the estate, what he was doing with it. “Really? For insurance, or…?”

“Insurance, yes, and so we have an idea of what’s there.”

“Like what?”

Nick shifted closer toward her, half an inch, almost imperceptible. He paused before saying, “Well, when my father died, everything was a total mess. When I went through his study for the first time, I found two paintings, little watercolors. Didn’t think anything more of them. Turns out they’re sketches by this Victorian artist, worth about ten thousand each. Dad had just shoved them in a cupboard, years ago.”

“Blimey,” said Laura. “He must have had no idea.”

“He did,” said Nick, his voice flat. “He bought them for my mother, as a wedding present. We found the paperwork. They were framed. He’d obviously taken them out of their frames and rolled them up, put them out of sight.”

“Oh,” said Laura. She looked down. Their knees were angled toward each other, almost touching. She said quietly, “That must have been a bit weird for you.”

Nick ran a hand through his short hair, and glanced out the window. “Bit weird, yes,” he said, turning back and smiling slightly at her. “It’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” said Laura, watching him.

“I haven’t said this to anyone. But I keep thinking about her lately.”

“Who? Your mother?”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know why. I spent so long training myself not to miss her when I was younger. So sometimes months go by, and I don’t really…wonder about her. What she’s up to, how she is. And then sometimes…” He looked at her. “Like lately. Since you left. I keep thinking about how she is.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want to see her again. You know.”

“Nick, she’s your mother,” said Laura simply. “Of course you want to see her again.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, with a trace of the old impatience. “But you don’t understand.”

“I know I don’t,” Laura said, shaking her head.

“Sorry, that’s wrong,” he said. “You do understand. About some things.” His eyes were on hers, with an expression half-sad, half-smiling that she found terribly painful. They said nothing, but looked at each other in the darkness.

“You should get in touch with her,” said Laura firmly.

Nick shook his head. “Thank you, no. I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

His arm was still behind her on the back of the seat; he flung it next to his thigh, and drummed his fingers on the leather.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said eventually.

“But you’re the only one who can make that move,” said Laura. She wanted to bridge the distance between them, make it all all right for him, but she couldn’t. “Trust me. I know.”

“And how do you know that?” said Nick, amused.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Laura frankly. “I know what I think you should do.”

“As ever,” he said, his voice low. “That’s Laura. Rushing in, speaking before she thinks. Bossing people around, setting fire to things. Being hugely rude. And…running away, when I don’t want her to leave.”

His eyes flicked up to the front seat, where Paul and Charles were still engaged in low, desultory conversation, and he looked back at her and down again. She followed his gaze. His hand was inches away from hers, both resting on the seat. She remembered his touch, how warm and strong he was. She closed her eyes briefly, overwhelmed with wanting just once more to hold his hand, to lean against him. Both of them looked down at their hands, neither of them saying anything, though Laura desperately wanted to say something, the right thing, wanted to move her fingers toward his. And then Nick lifted his hand and scratched his cheek, and the spell was broken.

“You didn’t reply to my text,” he said eventually in a low voice.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

He smiled and said, “So, here we are. I made up my mind I wasn’t going to speak to you when I got into the car.”

“That’s nice of you,” said Laura, recovering herself.

“I mean it.”

“Really?” said Laura.

“Yes, Laura. I did. The way you left…”

“I know,” said Laura. The car reached the end of the Strand; they were at Trafalgar Square, and light flooded across Nick’s face as they drove through the square and under Admiralty Arch.

“Do you understand why I had to leave?” she said, hardly breathing, wanting him to give her the answer she didn’t dare to hope for.

“I didn’t, no,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

“Really?” said Laura, her heart pounding.

“Not at first, no,” said Nick. He nodded to himself. “But now I do.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “Right.”

She knew exactly the reasons why she’d left, why she’d given up on them; but she couldn’t, at that exact moment, remember what those reasons were. “It’s just—not meant to be, is it, I suppose,” she said, scanning his face, but his expression was formal, closed again, and she couldn’t read him anymore.

“I don’t think it is,” he said. “If that’s what you think, too.”

Laura rubbed her eyes and looked out on the Mall as they drove sedately along the wide, tree-lined boulevard. The rain had stopped. She looked at him suddenly, and caught him staring at her with that old, familiar look, his eyes searching her face, drinking her in. His lower lip was caught between his teeth. He winced, as if he were biting down too hard, and wiped his hand across his mouth, smiling suddenly at her.

“Is that what you think?” she said, looking intently at him. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Nick. He gave a half smile, and patted her leg. “Funny, isn’t it.”

She felt the warmth of his skin on hers. “Nick—” Laura whispered. “I think—”

A mobile phone buzzed angrily in the quiet. Nick pulled his phone out of his pocket as Laura sank back into her seat.

“Hello…. Good, thank you. And you…. Thank you.” His tone was expressionless.

Hearing the break in conversation, Charles turned around in his seat and peered at her. “Oh, hello, Laura!” he said, as if he were surprised to see her there.

“Hello, Charles!” Laura said. “What a shock, how long have you been there?”

“Oh. Ha-ha-ha,” said Charles, looking confused. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Laura. I just wondered—”

“No. It’s a friend. She was at the party.” Nick’s voice was quiet, and he had turned to the window, but Laura could hear every word. “I’m giving her a lift home…. No. Cecilia, I’ve told you—”

Charles started talking over him. “Where in North London do you want us to take you? I just wondered.”

They were at Buckingham Palace, turning up toward Hyde Park Corner. Laura pressed her hands to her cheeks, the events of the evening crowding in on her. Marcus kissing her in the bar. His hand on her thigh. The feel of Mary’s necklace on her skin. Nick’s hand, next to hers, but so far away. She looked down at her lap, saw her bag with the list of points about the investment program she’d planned to give Marcus sticking out of it, and anger and sadness and frustration at her own failure washed over her, this time with such force that it nearly knocked her back against the seat. What was she doing, in this car, with a man who clearly wasn’t ever going to be hers? How had she managed to get herself into such a stupid situation again? How was she going to make it right with Rachel, who had put her faith in Laura, only to be disappointed again? She dug her nails into her palms. She had to get out, she had to get out.

“Actually, Charles—I’m meeting some friends just off Piccadilly. Can you drop me at Hyde Park Corner?”

“Really?” said Charles as they swooped past Green Park. “I thought we were—”

“No, it’s fine,” said Laura, panic in her voice, as Nick lowered the phone, frowning, and shoved it into his pocket almost viciously. “I’ll just hop out here. It’s only quarter past ten, you know. Still time to meet them.” She tapped the handle. “Can I get out?”

“You’re going?” said Nick. “What?”

“Yes,” Laura gabbled, trying to stay calm. “My flatmate’s in a pub just round the corner from here. With some friends. I’m going to meet them.” She clutched her bag. “Thank you, Paul,” she said as they drew up on Piccadilly. “I’ll just hop out here.”

“Why on earth do you want to get out here?” said Nick. “We can give you a lift home.”

“I want to meet my friends.” Laura knew she was sounding slightly shrill. “Please. It’s been a…weird evening, what with one thing and another, you know, and I have to explain it at work, about Marcus—”

“What do you mean?” Nick interrupted. “What’s Marcus got to do with work?”

“Oh, God, nothing, nothing,” said Laura, pressing her hands to her cheeks, which were burning red. “Just—just please let me out.”

“Laura.” Nick took her hand then, curling her fingers up, wrapping his hand around hers. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to let him be kind to her, that was worst of all. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just…need to get out. Please, Nick. Honestly.”

“Don’t go, Laura,” Charles said in a low voice. “Please.”

“I think she wants to go,” said Nick. She turned to him, but he flashed her half a grin, almost a grimace. “Well, Laura…”

“Yes,” said Laura, opening the door.

“Take care,” he said, and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Nick,” said Charles, looking at his friend. “Don’t you want to—”

“Laura has to go,” said Nick. “Don’t you, Laura?”

“Yes,” said Laura, suddenly anxious to beat him in the Who Is the Most Nonchalant stakes. “Thanks for the scarf, Nick. Bye. Great to see you again!”

Charles turned away again and sighed.

She squeezed Charles’s shoulder, then got out of the car, and as she did she felt Nick clutch her wrist, only for a fleeting, tiny second, and then it was gone. She looked into the dark interior, wanting to see his face once more, but the engine roared up again and they were off.

Laura breathed in deeply, watching them go, and walked up the quiet street, not looking, not caring, and when she opened the door into the steaming pub, full of wet drinkers, happy drinkers, drunk drinkers, she leaned against it for a second, desperately wanting to turn around to see if he was there, in case he’d got the car to turn around, to come back and find her. But she knew he wasn’t going to do that. She looked across the tiny pub, and caught sight of Yorky and Hilary sitting in the corner. Her feet hurt. She made her way over to them.

“So,” Hilary said, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Yorky tells me you’ve been sleeping with a duke or something.
And
you had a date tonight. How the hell was it?”

chapter forty-four

B
y the end of Friday night, curled up against Yorky on the last Tube home after a few more glasses of wine, Laura was of two minds about what had happened that evening. She kept trying to think it all through, and then her brain hurt, and she fell asleep until Yorky had to wake her up by yanking her hair.

But on Saturday, Laura woke up convinced that Marcus would still give them the money, that her job was okay, and, more important, that Nick still felt something for her—she knew it. It was there. It was hard for them both, but there was just something there. She bounded around the house all day feeling chipper, made a cake, cheered Simon up when he rang to complain about how he and Jorgia had had a row, bought some odd-looking crocus bulbs from the corner shop and planted them in her window boxes, then went to Shana’s birthday party in Dulwich and had a great time.

On Sunday, however, she woke up absolutely certain that Marcus would wash his hands of the program forthwith, that Rachel would be forced to sack her, and ultimately that Nick had been, very kindly, giving her the brush-off, telling her they couldn’t be together, that Cecilia Thorson was his bride-to-be—and hey, fine, whatever, you know. And she couldn’t get rid of that feeling of creeping, enervating, horrible Sunday certainty, coupled with despair at herself for mucking it all up,
again.
She couldn’t have a proper conversation with Nick—she was emotionally stunted and pathetic. She’d basically led Marcus up the garden path—how totally unprofessional could you get? And she’d led Rachel and Nasrin and the others up the garden path, too—making them think the bad times were over, that she, supergirl Laura, could sort it all out for them. Hah. What a joke.