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CHAPTER 21
Maybe Felicity did cast a glance down the passage as she reached her room, but of course, Oliver hadn’t followed her. And Bonnie, having made sure she was safe, trundled back up the passage to her basket.
Before she did anything else, Felicity grabbed her phone and dialled up Evie on FaceTime.
Somewhat forlorn when her friend didn’t answer, she placed her phone next to the bed. And then she remembered that Evie taught a sculpture class at Islington College on a Monday and she’d no doubt be late and rushing and it would have to wait. It was just… being in Luke and Freya’s home with its warm hospitality and love had made her feel really homesick. She missed being around friends who accepted and loved her unconditionally. And after a week of emotional highs and lows, all she wanted suddenly was to be able to wander around in her multi-coloured striped socks in her shabby little Islington flat with a book under her arm and a cup of cocoa and a cat waiting to pounce on her tummy as soon as she lay down.
Not having to worry whether someone liked you or didn’t like you or more than liked you,
and what that might mean, and whether it had a future. It all made her want to bury her head in her pillow and scream.
Finally ready for bed, she got under the sheet and stared at the ceiling fan rotating.
She’d come to Australia hoping for the biggest adventure of her life and she’d found it. Oh yes sir, had she ever, but now she felt she was being tossed around inside a huge tumble drier, winded and breathless and totally disoriented.
She huffed out a breath. What was needed was a different perspective.
Whichever way things went, she was going to continue having an amazing adventure.
Evie would probably say go and shag your brains out. Then forget him.
Felix, in his measured way, would stroke his beard andsuggest(he’d never instruct) that she get out there alone and be at one with nature.
And Digby would give her a yellow-eyed cat stare that probably meant nothing at all.
She sighed heavily.
Should she take that flight and shag herself stupid with a man who happened to be the best lover she’d ever had? Or take to the road in a new wagon with no shaggin’ in sight?
In the end, she’d have to let her heart decide.
She grabbed her phone, typed.
Sending hugs to you and Felix. And Digby. Miss u all.
And then flicked on airline mode, turned off the light and willed the right answer to present itself by morning.
* * *
At exactly 9minutes past 8 pm the next day, as the plane landed, Felicity was still unsure if she’d made the right decision. Part of that could be due to the fact she’d been squeezed in next to Oliver with nothing to eat and now she felt light-headed. Or was it (more likely, to be honest) that Oliver’s leg had been almost touching hers the whole flight, and all she seemed to see in her peripheral vision was his crotch.
After two hours of this crotch-to-eye-torture, Felicity’s nerves felt like they’d been through a paper shredder and her eyeballs ached from trying to keep them glued to her book. Which meant she nearly jumped out of her skin when Oliver leaned over to point out the landmarks, at which point she very nearly died with delight. Because of the spectacular aerial view of Sydney, she told herself firmly, not the fact that now his thigh was plastered against hers and so was his bicep, and her insides were a jumpy, melty kind of mess (if that was physically possible).
“Over there you’ll see the Opera House and right next to it, the Harbour Bridge.” Oliver pointed and his arm slid against hers, sending tingles down her spine. The scent of him that a few nights ago had filled her with joy now opened up a big chasm of loss in her stomach. The tiny bed in the Shaggin’ Wagon, the little motel room, all felt like they belonged to a different Oliver and Felicity.
“You live in Bondi, don’t you?” she asked. “How far is that from the city?”
“About six kilometres.”
“I wish it was Christmas.”
He cast her a quizzical glance. “Why?”
“Because the BBC show Bondi Beach on Christmas day nearly every year. Just before the Queen’s speech. It’s a British tradition. To make us all suffer.”
“On both counts.”
“Are you insulting our Queen?”
