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He moistens his lips, and for a second, it looks as though he might say something.
But the moment passes, and his expression remains placid.
Silently, Nick turns away from me and gives our suite the final onceover before we close the door. Linking his arm through mine, he leads me out into the corridor and locks up. Then we take the elevator down to the lobby and drop off our keys at reception. As promised, Nick mentions the wardrobe to the concierge and a phone call is made. Minutes later, the manager appears and takes Nick to one side for a chat. In no time at all, an agreement is struck.
“So, I’ll post you the cheque on Monday?”
“Yes, sir,” the manager replies. “Whatever’s most convenient for you.”
Nick grins, shakes his hand, and leaves a big, fat tip for the concierge. Then, taking my arm, he leads me out of the building.
Wow. It seems Nick has friends in high places.
Feeling numb and a little spaced-out, I gaze around the wide West End streets in an attempt to get my bearings. A harsh breeze whips my cheeks, and I turn up my collar to fend off the morning chill. Instinctively, Nick reaches in his pocket and rolls out the scarf I made for him.
My heart swells at the sight of it.
Releasing my arm, he ties the scarf around his neck and looks into the middle distance. “Right, where do I need to take you? The nearest station is Charing Cross. Five minutes in that direction.”
“Charing Cross will be fine,” I shrug.
We start walking and in no time at all, we’re standing at the entrance to the Underground.
“So, you’ll be all right getting home?” Nick asks.
I nod stiffly. “Of course.”
The silence stretches thin between us.
Taking a step forward, I wet my lips and ask in a strangled voice, “Aren’t you getting the Tube, too? I thought you said you were going to Shepherd’s Bush?”
“That’s right, but I might have a browse of the shops first. I’ve still got some time to kill before the meeting.”
I tuck a hair behind my ear and shift my weight awkwardly.Why can’t I go to the shops with him? Is he trying to get rid of me?
As if sensing my thoughts, Nick snakes his arm around my waist and draws me close. Instantly, all of my misgivings fade away and I’m grinning like a happy five-year-old. Softly, he kisses my cheek. “Safe journey, darling. I’ll call you when I get out of the meeting.”
My face perks up. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
With a shy smile, I add, “Thanks for a wonderful night. It was simply …awesome.”
He doesn’t reply, just gives me a final squeeze before letting me go. In a daze of euphoria, I wave goodbye and stand by the entrance to the Underground, watching his dark figure disappear down the street. With a blissful sigh, I turn around and make my way down into Charing Cross Tube station.
“A phone call would have been nice,” Dad gripes as soon as I get home. “I’ve been mad with worry. I don’t mind you staying out all night, but you could at least have had the decency to text me.”
“Sorry,” I reply sheepishly. “You’re right; it was irresponsible of me. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“So, what did you get up to? I take it you were out with a bloke?”
I nod feebly. “Yes. We went to the theatre and then dinner. It was a pretty good night.” Hanging up my coat, I head swiftly through the entry hall toward the kitchen. “I could murder a coffee. Do you want a coffee? I’ll make us one. Jesus, my head’s absolutely killing me.”
And that’s the last we say on the subject. I know there’s a lot more he wants to say, questions he wants to ask. But Dad knows better than to grill me about my love life. We’ve already been through this with Andrew, and of course I understand why he’s worried, but the past is the past, and I can’t go through life living in fear. At the end of the day, I’m not a teenager anymore and for this set-up to work, Dad needs to allow me some privacy.
After I’ve demolished a bacon sandwich and two cups of coffee, my hangover starts to diminish a little. In high spirits, I go upstairs and spend the rest of the afternoon watching Disney films. Every so often, I glance excitedly at my watch and wonder how Nick’s day’s going. I wonder how his meeting went and whether he enjoyed his browse around the shops. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him. I relive last night’s events constantly, savouring every sweet moment, every sweet detail. I repeat aloud all of the lovely things he said to me. I may as well admit it. I’m irrevocably stuck on Nick Craven.
However, as night falls and there’s still no call from him, my mood begins to dampen a little. I try to busy myself with random tasks that keep popping up one after another: getting my clothes ready for work tomorrow, organising my DVDs, but it’s no use. Each little stir of enjoyment is short-lived and I’m constantly on edge; I can’t relax no matter what I do. By nine o’clock, I’m really starting to panic.Why hasn’t Nick called?
