‘Won’t be long,’ he calls back.
‘Great. Because I’m starving.’ I glance around me withinterest. Ryan would be in a hotel room for five minutes and it would look asif the place had been ransacked by a team of burglars. But Doug, I’m happy tonote, seems quite tidy. I wander to the window and look down over PrincesStreet where life is already stirring, gearing up for another day of EdinburghFestival fun. I almost wish we could stay a bit longer, but I suppose this is awork day for Doug. He needs to get the Jag back to the showroom. Maybe I’llsuggest a break away somewhere romantic, like Paris or Venice? It would be mytreat, of course. Doug’s already shown me he’s not the type of man to get all affrontedif a woman pays the bill.
I wander over to the mirror above the antique writing deskto check my teeth for lipstick, and I glance down at Doug’s mobile phone lyingthere. It’s ancient. It probably doesn’t even take photos! It makes me smile,though. He’s clearly not the type of man who’s bothered about appearances,otherwise he’d have taken out loans to get the smart car and the newest iPhone.I really like that about him. He’s the most genuine, down-to-earth man I’ve metin a long time, and I don’t care how fast this relationship is progressing, I’mthere for it. One hundred per cent.
I really think Doug could be The One.
I had my doubts last night when I thought I was going tohave to pay for the rooms. But he took charge of it and I’ve never been happierto be wrong about something in my life. The receipt for last night’s dinner islying on the desk with his open wallet, and I catch sight of a head andshoulders photo of him. Smiling, I peer closer at his handsome face. It’s hismembership card for a gym – an exclusive spa-type place, actually, which quitesurprises me. But I suppose everyone’s priorities are different. Doug obviouslyvalues his health and fitness above other more material things, which islovely.
Spotting another card with a photo, tucked into a differentsection, I pick up the wallet, unable to resist sliding the card out to lookcloser. He seems a little younger in this photo, and the card is for a finewines club. I’m about to slip it back inside when I happen to glance at thepersonal details at the bottom of the card.
My heart lurches with shock.What’s going on?
I stare at the name printed there in total confusion. Thephoto on the card is quite clearly a picture of Doug taken a few years ago.
So why does it say his name is Mr Charles Burrows?
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
If he’s lying about his name, what else has he liedto me about?
All the way home in the passenger seat of the powerfulmotor, thoughts like this are whirling around inside my head, and the longdrive I was so looking forward to seems never-ending.
All thewarmth that was between us has vanished. I was withdrawn during breakfast andwhen Doug asked me what was wrong, I said I had a headache, which was true. Heassumed it was the wine we drank last night. But I knew it was the shock andthe stress of discovering that I definitely didn’t know Doug as well as I’dthought.
Iclearly didn’t know the real Doug at all. Or was he called Charles?
Littlethings that jarred at the time – like when he pretended he’d forgotten aboutthe lottery win, and how slow he was to reassure me he’d pay his way, and thendiscovering he was a member of an exclusive and very expensive spa gym – werenow being forced in front of me. And the only conclusion I could draw was that...something weird was going on that I couldn’t fathom at all. And that had to bemy cue to leave.
I’d stuckaround for far too long after my feelings for Ryan had started to wane – whenthe blinkers had come off and I’d seen his true colours – and now I regrettedthe time I’d wasted on him. So I definitely wasn’t going to waste time pursuinga relationship with a man who was so obviously hiding things from me...
Thesadness sits like a heavy weight inside me all the way home, and Doug – afteroffering me pain-relief and being refused (‘I just need to close my eyes’) –takes the hint and we travel most of the way in silence, stopping only brieflya couple of times at motorway services.
I want tochallenge him and ask him why his name is different on the wine club card. Butthen he’ll know I’ve been snooping in his wallet. And besides, I just don’thave the energy for a confrontation right now. At the back of my mind, I’m alsoaware that if I don’t bring up the name change, we can continue along as wewere.
I’m soconfused and just longing to get back to the cottage where I’ll have the timeto think.
Doug looksat me sadly when he pulls into his street, where I parked The Beast, and sayshe’s really sorry I’m not feeling well, but that he’s glad I made the trip withhim.
‘Would youlike to come up to the flat?’ he asks. ‘Or would you rather just go home tobed?’
‘Er...better go home,’ I mutter, tears filling my eyes and my throat aching as Iattempt a smile. I escape quickly, saying my goodbyes as he’s leaning over tokiss me, and bolting from his car to mine as if a stampede of bulls were afterme. I drive home in a daze and when I arrive at the cottage, I walk slowlyinside, shutting and double-locking the door behind me.
Feelingsick and shaky, I sink down on the sofa. I allowed him to get inside my head –and worse, my heart.
But Iwon’t be seeing Doug again. Or Charles.
Or whoeverhe’s calling himself now.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
I haven’t told Adam about my trip to Edinburgh. Butit’s Wednesday and I’m meeting him for lunch at the Swan in Sunnybrook, afterpopping into the newsagent there to buy my ticket for Saturday’s lottery. (Yes,of course I still buy a ticket. I’m such a creature of habit, and lightning canalways strike twice, after all!)
When I worked at the Brambleberry Manor Café, my weeklyroutine used to be to call at the Sunnybrook newsagent for my ticket everyWednesday afternoon on my way home to Buntingford. Now, I still buy a weeklyticket, but I buy it wherever I happen to be.
As a result, I don’t see Amanda quite as often, so it’s goodto catch up.
‘Hi, Krystle.’ She welcomes me in with a rather nervous smile.‘Look, I’ve been feeling really bad. I hope you don’t hate me.’
