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Rosie followed him to his van and stood back while he did a three-point turn on the grass. Her brain was whirling. It was very kind of Liam to offer to help her tomorrow but what on earth would they talk about for a couple of hours? Years ago they’d had nothing in common, and now they had even less. It was going to be what Matt would describe as ‘mega awks’.
Liam suddenly wound down his window and stuck his head out. ‘By the way, Nessa asked me to say, seeing as I’m here, that some people you know will be in The Smugglers Haunt tomorrow night, and you should join them. I’m supposed to persuade you.’
‘Um…’
‘Seven thirty-ish, and they’ll be eating pub grub. Fred does a passable fish and chips on Saturday nights but I’d give the pasta a miss. Nessa said she really hoped to see you there.’
Maybe she’d go, maybe not, thought Rosie, watching Liam’s van lurch back down the track. But when the dusty van reached the edge of the village and was hidden from view, a sudden wave of loneliness took her by surprise.
She’d been lonely before – in unfamiliar European towns before she found her feet; gazing at the endless Namibian desert with no one to share the experience; and recovering from flu in a Greek hostel with only bed bugs for company. But that loneliness had been eased by the excitement of being somewhere different and laying down memories. This loneliness was intensified by sorrow and a nagging, familiar sense of not fitting in that dragged her back to years gone by.
Talk of the get-together in The Smugglers had unsettled her, she decided, vowing not to go. What was the point when she’d be far away soon enough, under the Spanish sun and in the arms of Matt – who hadn’t been in touch at all since yesterday morning, actually.
She checked her phone. There were the two messages she’d sent him earlier, both with ticks to show he’d read them, but neither had a reply. That was strange. His phone had started ringing one thousand miles away by the time she changed her mind and jabbed at the screen to end the call. Mid-afternoon in Málaga, he was probably at work, mentoring Carmen, and too busy to talk. Or maybe he was still enjoying a siesta. Perhaps he was enjoying a siestawithCarmen.
Rosie pushed the thought from her mind. Carmen was gorgeous, with her long black hair and eyes the colour of coal, but she trusted Matt. Plus, she hadn’t broken the news yet that she was stuck in Heaven’s Cove for a while longer. And that conversation was best tackled when Matt was home and slightly sozzled after a glass or three of rosé.
She turned her attention back to the paint and supplies, now piled in the middle of Driftwood House. Was all of this a waste of time? Nessa was probably right and the Eppings would screw her over, but she couldn’t just give up. Not when she could almost hear her mother’s voice, urging her on. What was it her mum used to say to her all the time, when she was growing up?You never know what you can do, Rosie, until you try.
