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‘How long is he going to be?’ Maisie asks when I hang up.
‘He’s… not coming.’
‘What?’
‘He’s in a meeting. With Texas.’
Maisie’s face reddens. ‘What the hell is wrong with that bloke?’
I shrug as the tears finally come and I’m not even embarrassed that Pablo is here to witness it.
‘I don’t know, Maisie. I just don’t know…’
I’d fallen in love with Stephen because he was stable. My rock, really. But now I see that I am, in effect, single and I didn’t even know it. I only have myself and Maisie to depend on to see me through my darkest moments.
Stephen has given me everything I don’t need. Gifts. Surprise trips or nights out. What he doesn’t give me is sharing our deepest moments. But aside from the grand gestures and my efforts to bring us closer together, Stephen doesn’t do emotions. Nor does he do female psychology, he tells me. According to him, as adults, we should already have sorted ourselves outbeforewe engaged in a relationship. Coming from him, that’s a mouthful.
*
It’s going to be a very long night. El Paso is sleeping on the settee while Maisie tosses and turns in the double bed next to me, asking me every five minutes how I am, do I want something hot to drink, am I hungry and do I want to talk.
‘No, I’m OK, thank you, Maisie,’ I whisper so as not to wake the handsome man sleeping in the next room.
This is ridiculous. I don’t know him from Adam and yet, knowing he’s there manages to calm and reassure me. Somewhat. Because in truth, he, too, could have been some maniac or thief just waiting for us to fall asleep and rob us blind or murder us. Simply because he could.
*
The next morning, Maisie and I wake to the smell of bacon and eggs, buttered toast and steaming hot coffee. So much for our mysterious one-night stand murderer.
‘Buenos días!’ he chimes as we appear in his line of vision.
He’s already fully dressed and has found the good plates, which he’s set on the tiny bistro table for us. He’s even managed to find my festive tablecloth (not that my three kitchen drawers presented an effort to go through).
‘Morning,’ I murmur as Maisie pounces on him, smacking a thorough kiss on his mouth.
I must admit, in the light of day he’s particularly handsome. Good for Maisie. And he cooks. I make a mental note to suggest she make an effort to see him again. At least for our stomachs’ sakes.
They chat amiably throughout breakfast as I contribute with my meagre Spanish – a couple ofgraciasandmuy buenos(thank yous and very goods) – all the while thinking of Stephen.
We’ve known each other for three years now and have decided to get married and start a family. And yet, we have nowhere near the same amount of complicity Maisie and heruna sola nochebloke here have. The mere thought is humiliating. And bears some serious thinking.
‘… Emmie?’
I look up, suddenly aware of Maisie’s voice and her hand on my shoulder. ‘Hmm? Sorry?’
‘I said are you going to be OK while we go home and change? I’ll come right back.’
‘Oh, of course. Go, go. I’m fine. And thanks so much for staying the night. But really, you didn’t have to.Gracias, Pablo,’ I say in his direction. ‘For the amazing breakfast. And everything else.’
He smiles and takes a final swig of his coffee as he stands. He really is kind. And he makes a mean breakfast. I hope he and Maisie will continue to see each other.
‘Pablo is a chef at the Cancun restaurant in Chelsea,’ Maisie informs me as they shrug into their coats.
‘Now I get the amazing meal,’ I say with a smile.
‘Come, both of you, whenever you like,’ he says, throwing a sexy look at Maisie, who begins to gush.
Ah, the thrill of attraction. I truly miss those first furtive glances, waiting for the right moment for that first kiss to happen. All behind me now. Anyone who is engaged (if I still even am) should be happy to have left the uncertainty of romance behind them to welcome with open arms the maturity of a fully-fledged relationship – marriage. And yet, I can’t bring myself to be cheery about it.
The rest of the day, with no sight or sound of Stephen, I lounge around, trying hard not to think about my attacker. I’d been lucky this time, but the next? Anyone living in a metropolis knows that there may well always be a next time. And I might not be this fortunate again. Where the hell has Stephen got to?
I look out of the window at the pre-Christmas buzz below me. Mums dragging children around or pushing them in their buggies, all the while ticking off lists. Why don’t I feel the same buzz back here in London? Even before the attack, I felt nothing – no buzz, no rush. For the first time I have a real reason to be excited – my very own (which is debatable) engagement party. And yet, I can’t seem to find any joy.
Perhaps the fact that my grandmother had been a disappointment is bothering me more than I thought. It looks as if, apart from the funeral, I won’t have any reason to go back to Starry Cove. Because I feel that I owe my grandfather whom I’ve never met at least that much. He wasn’t necessarily like his wife. For all I know he was a decent man. And it’s a shame that she and I didn’t hit it off, because I really like everyone I’ve met in Cornwall, from Rosie to Nettie to Penny and Laura at the inn. They seem to be the salt of the earth. I wonder what they’re all doing…
I even wonder what bloody Jago Moon is up to. Probably taking the mickey out of his next conquest.
And speaking of conquest, it’s as if Stephen has lost all interest in me. This is no way to be in a relationship. Granted, maybe I really am old-fashioned, but shouldn’t a man drop everything if his fiancée gets attacked? This is ridiculous. Coming over the next morning, assuming he’s going to, simply isn’t good enough. Not anymore.
