The Time of Our Lives (34 page)

I clear my throat. ‘Listen . . . about what happened. Between you and me.’

He opens his mouth to say something, but forces himself to stop.

‘What is it? I ask.

He puts down the bread. ‘I was going to say that you didn’t need to explain. But my curiosity got the better of me.’ He smiles.

I laugh, feeling heat rise up my neck. ‘Okay. Well, the issue, really, is this—’ My mobile rings.

I cut off the call and put the phone on silent while I prepare for the terrifying and liberating prospect of being honest with him.

‘I think, Harry, that . . . I think you’re absolutely amazing, actually,’ I say, barely able to believe those words have come out of my mouth. ‘I’ve only known you
six days but I’ve worked out that much. And’ – I take a deep breath – ‘I loved sleeping with you.’

He looks torn between delight and embarrassment, but I’m still glad I said it.

‘You already know it was a big deal for me given that it was the first time since Roberto died. So the fact that I enjoyed it so much . . . well, I’ve got a lot to thank you
for.’

He smiles.

‘But . . .’ I begin cagily.

‘How did I know there was a “but”?’

‘As much as I loved it, I was also a little scared by what that step represents.’

‘That’s understandable. You’re not sure you were ready.’

‘I suppose that’s it. In a nutshell.’

‘That’s okay, Imogen.’

I suddenly feel very stupid – and presumptuous – for even having this conversation.

‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not as though you’re proposing a relationship or anything like that. I mean, to all intents
and purposes this was nothing more than a fling. By definition. You’re moving to Aberdeen, so it couldn’t be.’

He takes a sip of beer. ‘You’re right. Technically, at least.
By definition,
as you say. Only . . .’ His voice trails off, and I can’t bear to not hear his
thoughts on this matter.

‘What?’

He puts down his fork and looks at his hands. ‘You know I told you I had that . . . problem?’

I smile at the word. ‘You want a thunderbolt, but you can’t find anyone to have one with.’

He laughs self-consciously. ‘Precisely.’

‘What about it?’

He shakes his head and looks into the distance, over the balcony and across to the far end of the beach. ‘Well, I don’t want to scare you off or anything’ – he looks back
at me briefly – ‘and I feel an absolute idiot for saying this to someone I met six days ago . . . But if I don’t say something then I’ll wave goodbye to you tomorrow and
wish I had, for no other reason than this doesn’t feel like something I ought to keep to myself.’ He stops talking, clearly having a change of heart.

‘So don’t keep it to yourself,’ I urge.

He rubs his thumb against his chin, troubled. ‘Well, it’s just this . . . ’ He finally looks in my eyes and swallows. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you,
Imogen.’

I can feel my mouth dropping wider and wider without any ability to stop the process. Because, frankly, the idea that this man, this beautiful, kind, charismatic man, would even give me the time
of day is revelation enough. My head begins spinning with the implications of it all, and I suddenly don’t know what to say, do, or where to even look.

It’s therefore entirely by chance that my eyes land on my silent mobile phone at the exact moment that a call rings off, followed by a list of the calls I’ve missed. There are nine.
And most of them are not from my mum, but Dad.

‘Oh God,’ I mutter, all other thoughts gone in an instant as I begin flicking through my phone. I have a very bad feeling.

‘Is everything okay?’ Harry asks.

‘Can you excuse me a minute?’ I dial the number as the sickly sensation swirls through my insides. ‘Dad, what is it?’

He hesitates, before the sentence froths from his mouth in a cold panic. ‘It’s Florence, sweetheart. She’s been in an accident.’

Five years ago I awoke in hospital and my dad was forced to tell me that Roberto had been killed.

The ominous nausea that engulfed me in the seconds before that now return to haunt me. Unlike then, when I knew immediately that the person I loved most in the world had been snatched away from
me, Florence’s fate is terrifying in its lack of clarity.

The blood in my veins seems to freeze over as I listen to what Dad has to say, noting how he’s trying to sound calm and how badly he is failing.

His knowledge is patchy. He’s in his car on the way to hospital and only has a mishmash of hysterical messages from Mum, left on his phone, to go on. But he knows this much: they were at
the zebra crossing near the park. Florence saw the swings and ran ahead. A car came out of nowhere and, seeing Mum at the side of the road, didn’t register a small child four feet away from
her. The car braked. Mum dived to grab her out of the way.

It was too late.

‘Is she conscious?’ Nicola asks, as I frantically stuff clothes into my suitcase.

She and Meredith spent the morning relaxing in the spa. The air of tranquillity with which it left them disintegrated the second they heard my news.

‘I don’t know,’ I manage through trembling lips, zipping up the case. Nicola has had a look online and discovered that there isn’t a flight from Barcelona to the
north-west of England for four and a half hours, but I want to get to the airport as soon as I can, even if it’ll mean hanging around. ‘Dad’s trying to play it down, but he knows
little until he gets to the hospital. He said he nearly didn’t phone me at all until he knew more, but I’m glad he did.’ I pick up my passport and slump on the end of the bed,
looking at the clock anxiously as the second hand moves inordinately slowly. ‘This is torture.’

Emotion prickles through me and, despite my attempts to hold it together, tears flood down my face.

‘I’m going to phone the airline and try and get you onto that flight,’ Nicola tells me.

‘In the meantime, let’s get you downstairs,’ says Meredith, putting her arm round me. ‘You should go and have a stiff drink – there’s no point going to the
airport yet, the flight’s not for ages.’

I shake my head. ‘I just want to get there.’

I drag my bag out of the hotel room and Meredith and I take the lift to the lobby, while Nicola stays in the room on hold to the airline.

Harry is waiting downstairs for me. ‘There’s a taxi outside – I’ve spoken to the driver for you, and he’s all geared up to take you to the airport.’

I nod, still trying to hold it together but failing miserably. And, suddenly, Harry’s arms are around me, squeezing me into him. I close my eyes and for a brief, quiet moment, allow the
tension gripping me to float away. Then I fill my lungs with air and pull away, rubbing my hand across the wet skin on my cheek.

‘Don’t you think you’d be better off waiting to see what the deal is?’ he asks. ‘You should speak to your dad, once he knows exactly what’s happened, before
you do anything hasty. She might be okay . . . ’

He has a way of saying things that makes it impossible not to feel optimistic, despite evidence to the contrary. ‘She might, mightn’t she?’ I mutter. ‘I mean, I
don’t know she’s badly injured. It might just be a scrape.’ But as soon as I’ve said it, I am overcome by the notion that I’m being complacent.

‘You should wait here and try to stay calm until you’ve got news. That plane’s not taking off any earlier, whether you’re here or sitting in some crap café in the
terminal.’

‘He’s right,’ insists Meredith.

Knowing full well that I’m not thinking straight at the moment, I defer to the judgment of those around me and follow Harry to a sofa by the bar, while Meredith goes to the loo.

‘Have you got a picture of Florence?’ he asks, clearly trying to distract me from my own hysteria.

I nod and pull up my favourite of dozens of choices stored on my phone. She’s wearing a pink Hello Kitty bobble hat, the apple of her cheek pressed hard against mine as we grin like
lunatics. ‘That was at Christmas when we went ice-skating at the Tower of London. Have you ever been?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’d break my neck.’

I manage a smile. ‘She was surprisingly good at it, considering her age. They have these special little skates with two blades. I could’ve done with them myself, to be
honest.’

‘So she’s a natural?’

‘Definitely, although she’s got this terribly independent streak – which is good, obviously, and I’m glad she has – but when it comes to things like that she
absolutely refuses to do something as babyish as hold someone’s hand. It resulted in quite a few falls. It’s the same when she’s crossing the road . . .’

My voice trails off as a horrifying thought occurs to me that I may never be able to take her ice-skating again.

‘’Arry Pfeiffer!’ All of a sudden, Delfina is marching towards us, fury imprinted on her face. ‘This is ’ow you say . . .
beyond a joke
. No wonder I am
getting the sack with you not turning up on our excursions!’

‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault,’ I tell her. She looks me up and down, before turning back to Harry.

‘It’s not her fault,’ he insists. ‘It’s nobody’s fault. Let me explain . . .’ He takes her to one side and I suddenly feel very alone.

I stand up and walk towards the big glass doors, where I gaze across to the beach with a hideous, numb feeling of time slowing down. I need to know what’s going on. Now.

As if answering my prayers, my phone rings. I nearly break my arm trying to answer it.

‘Dad!’

‘It’s Mum. I’m on your father’s phone as mine’s run out of battery.’

‘Mum, is she alive?’

Mum starts to cough. ‘Florence? Of course she’s alive!’

My body goes limp with relief and it takes a moment for me to gather my thoughts. ‘Dad said she was hit by a car.’

‘Not Florence. Me.’ Her voice is trembling. ‘I’m afraid your dad got his wires crossed when I left him a message. I was in a bit of a state so I mightn’t have been
as clear as I could’ve.’

‘Mum . . . what happened? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, just about. My nerves are in tatters and I’ve got a leg full of cuts and bruises, but apart from that it’s nothing serious. I’m walking out of the
hospital now, or at least limping.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ I breathe, holding my hand over my mouth.

‘Imogen, it was my fault. I dread to think what might have happened.’ Her next sentences are delivered in a frenzied stream. ‘I couldn’t get Florence to hold my hand. She
slipped away and the car appeared out of nowhere. I managed to push her out of the way, but tumbled to the ground myself. It was a miracle nobody was really hurt . . . if Florence had been a foot
closer . . . oh God!’

‘Mum.’ I’ve never heard her so upset.

‘I’m so sorry, Imogen. I nearly . . . she nearly . . .’

I sit down on the nearest sofa, my knees are shaking so hard. ‘Mum, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I know more than anyone else that four-year-olds are not like robots. Trying
to keep them under control can be a nightmare. Sometimes, accidents happen. All I care about is that both of you are okay.’

‘We are,’ she whimpers.

‘I think I should still come home now,’ I say. ‘There’s a flight in four hours.’

Nicola taps me on the shoulder and I look up. ‘Sorry, Imogen, but it’s full,’ she mouths.

I groan and go back to the phone. ‘I can’t get on that flight, but I’m going to see if there’s another one today.’

‘Imogen, don’t,’ argues Mum. ‘You’re flying back tomorrow and that’s soon enough. We’re all fine. I’m so sorry we scared you. You must’ve
been out of your mind. Would you like to speak to Florence?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ll put her on. And . . . Imogen?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t say it often enough, but you’re the best daughter anyone could hope for.’

The phone crackles as she hands the phone to Florence. As usual, she dispenses with any pleasantries and starts talking as if the conversation has been going on already for several minutes.

‘I’ve been helping out the doctors, Mummy,’ she tells me. ‘I stuck a plaster on Grandma’s leg. They said I can do an operation next.’

‘Wow.’ I laugh. ‘You must be a natural.’

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

I pause, wondering where on earth this has come from. Then I glance at Harry, who is watching me make the call. He smiles, totally unaware of the question. ‘What makes you ask
that?’

‘I heard Grandma saying last night she wished you’d get one.’

I’m suddenly lost for words, and I can hear my mum trying to wrestle the phone off Florence. She loses.

‘Um . . . well, what would you think if I had one?’ I feel compelled to ask.

‘Good,’ Florence says simply. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

‘Okay, sweetheart. I love you.’

But she’s already gone. My living, breathing, well and truly okay daughter.

A hot, early evening breeze dances across the beach as I emerge from the hotel under a vivid pink sky. This stretch of sand has been largely deserted for the day, except for a
group of teenagers playing volleyball and three game, elderly men – mercifully all wearing trunks – bracing themselves for a swim.

The waves are stronger than usual, fizzing against the shore like spilled champagne and splashing against the boardwalk, where rollerbladers whiz past kissing couples and ladies walk overgroomed
dogs.

I bypass the hotel sun loungers and remove my flip-flops, my toes sinking into hot sand as I head for the beach side of the boardwalk. There, I perch on the edge, dangling my feet as I take my
notepad and pen from my bag.

Despite there being no future with Harry, there’s one thing that this week – and today – has taught me. And that’s that being on my own for the rest of my life probably
isn’t a good idea. That I’m missing out on a whole bundle of stuff: support, companionship, fun and, although my feelings for Harry won’t have the opportunity to blossom into
anything so grand . . . love. Something that even my four-year-old daughter recognises.

Tomorrow, I go home and Harry flies to Aberdeen. We are destined never to see each other again: a thought that makes my stomach turn inside out when I dwell on it too long.