And if Rich hadn’t had an affair, would he even have proposed? I’m suddenly doubting it now. The mad dash to get a ring, the random weekend in Paris, a few months off our anniversary … Was this Rich papering over a canyon-sized crack in our relationship and hoping for the best?
And if I was still with Rich, would I have been batting away Mark’s attention easily and painlessly, or would I have felt seriously tempted? Whatever drove Rich to pastures new, was it possible that I could have been the one to throw a grenade into our relationship? With the man who made me pull the pin on my time with Leo.
For the first time in a long time, things don’t feel quite so black and white.
I’m woken up by the smell of charcoal. It’s 5 p.m. already. I must have slept for two hours. Everyone’s coming for six. I jump up and start getting ready.
I’m still wrapped in my towel, blow-drying my hair, when there’s a tentative knock on the door. ‘Who is it?’
The door opens, and Pen sticks her head around it. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ I motion for her to sit on the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well, the anxieties are still there, but I realise something else is there, too – the tiniest sliver of hope.’
I come to sit next to her. ‘I’m so pleased to hear it. Remember this feeling because it might come and go. So, even when you feel low and you doubt you will ever feel better, remind yourself of sitting here with your gorgeous sister who hasnoidea what she’s going to wear tonight.’
Pen laughs. ‘That’s exactly why I’m here. I don’t know, either. Does a pool party mean we have to wear our swimming costumes?’
‘You can if you want. Or you can wear regular clothes, or – and here’s a mind-blowing concept – wear what you like, and you can change halfway through the night.’
‘Tig says she’s going to wear her swimming costume but with full make-up, jewellery, a chiffon shirt cover up and evening sandals.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Really? It doesn’t sound OTT?’
‘Go for it, Pen. It’s our last night. Maybe I’ll do the same.’
It’s funny, things that look run-of-the-mill during a day at the beach give off a totally different vibe at night. I’m wearing my bikini with a white beach dress that stops mid-thigh. It’s made of diaphanous chiffon and does up with a bow at the low neckline. I walk out of my room at the same time Mark comes down the stairs. He stops dead in his tracks, his gaze starting at my red heels and slowly working its way up.
My toes curl under the microscope of his stare.
‘Too much?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and swallows. ‘Is that the dress you were wearing that night …?’
‘Oh God, no.’ I don’t need to ask which night he’s referring to. ‘I’ve no idea what happened to that.’
The lie trips off my tongue easily. I know damn well that dress is stuffed in a box in the attic along with the Coke he gave me. But he doesn’t need to know how our encounter secretly thrilled my teenage heart. Not when it caused so much pain.
‘This is barely a dress,’ I say lightly. ‘It’s more of a beach wrap.’
‘Thatdress was barely a dress.’ His low voice rumbles through me. ‘I’d never seen you in anything like that before.’
‘I know – you didn’t recognise me at first.’
‘Of course I recognised you. I just needed time to pick my jaw off the floor.’
His admission surprises me. It never occurred to me that he might have been wrong-footed and was trying to cover it up.
‘You look good, too,’ I say, to change the subject. Not that hedoesn’tlook good. In his board shorts and unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, he looks good enough to eat.
We head outside where Yan has already laid out three huge skewers ofsouvlaon the enormous brick-built barbecue.
‘Are we going to get through that much food?’ I ask.
Yan nods knowingly. ‘Nothing like the smell ofkarvounato whet the appetite.’
