I looked down at my shoes then back up into his face. ‘I liked it when you called me Fliss.’ My voice was softer now.
His mouth flickered into a smile. ‘Then Fliss it is,’ he replied, his voice low and gentle.
I shook my head and to my horror, a tear freed itself and rolled down my cheek. I swiped it away. Crying in public was not the done thing. And certainly notmydone thing.
‘Do you still want that taxi, Fliss?’
‘I’m a mess.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ve just hit a rough patch. Happens to the best of us.’
‘Not to me, it doesn’t. When I fall down, I get up, straighten my tiara and carry on. The problem is, right now, I don’t even feel like I have a tiara to straighten any more. I’ve lost everything! I made an idiotic decision and ruined my life!’
Silence hung between us.
‘You done with the dramatics now?’
My head snapped up, eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
Jesse shrugged. ‘You heard.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. I poured out my heart to you, which, by the way,’ I gave him a shove, ‘is something I never do! And that’s all you can say? Thanks for nothing. And yes! I do want that bloody taxi! As soon as possible, but don’t bother putting yourself to any trouble. I’ll call it myself on the way.’
‘On the way to where?’
‘On the way to wherever isn’t here!’ I shouted back and proceeded to stomp across his block-paved drive back up to the road. I had no idea where I was going but, right now, I was being fuelled by pure rage and embarrassment and that was enough.
‘Fliss. Where are you going?’
‘And don’t call me Fliss!’ I yelled back at him as I got to the electric gate at the boundary of his house. Beyond it, through the fence, the long driveway stretched out, puddles glinting like quicksilver as the moon darted in and out of clouds. ‘Could you open this, please?’ I snapped, still not turning.
‘Nope.’
‘Fine.’ I started climbing it. Honest to God, six months ago, if you’d told me I’d be in the depths of the countryside, climbing an eight-foot-high gate in a Christian Dior dress and five-inch Louboutins, I’d have suggested a session with a therapist. But here I was.
‘Fliss! What are you doing?’
‘What the bloody hell does it look like I’m doing?’
‘Get down!’ Jesse’s voice was closer now and, in my haste to get further up – inconveniently, he had not installed an easy-to-climb gate – I missed my footing and slid backwards, my hands and shoes scraping on the wood as I fell, trying to stop myself. His arms were around me long before I hit the ground. Jesse adjusted position so that I was now in his arms, one around my back and one hooked under my knees.
‘You could have broken your bloody neck! What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Put me down!’
My shoes had fallen off in the fall and he bent quickly to scoop them up with one hand as he balanced me in his arms. ‘The ground’s wet,’ he said as he handed me the shoes. One no longer had a heel at all and both had huge scrapes down the sides, the leather shorn bare during their argument with the gate.
For a moment, I stared at the shoes I’d worked so hard for. The pair I had set as my goal, and had run in to fetch despite Jesse’s warning to stay out of the farmhouse. They were just a pair of shoes. But they weren’t. They were so much more.
The fight left me. Jesse felt it and began walking towards the house. Leaning us both towards the front door, he unlocked it and, moments later, having nudged the door closed with his hip, he gently put me down, his hands resting on me lightly until he was sure I was steady.
For a moment, we were both silent.
‘Fliss, I’m really sorry.’
I nodded my acceptance, too exhausted to do anything else.
‘Sorry about the shoes.’ He pulled a face.
