Chapter 40
Reaching the living room, Nella didn’t need to speak; as soon as Tommy saw her in the doorway, he said, ‘Shit, sorry, I forgot,’ and pressed skip to move on to the next track. Which, being ‘Vindaloo’ by Fat Les, was nearly as bad in a completely different way, but what could you do? It was one of Tommy’s favourites.
‘Forgot what?’ Juliet was confused. ‘Is it too loud? Tommy, turn it down.’
‘No need,’ Nella reassured her. ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’
‘What was that about?’ said Nick when she rejoined him upstairs. ‘Are they being rowdy house guests? Or is it something else?’
He was looking concerned. She remembered the day they’d first met, after their contretemps in the farm shop and just before her accident, when that song had begun to play on the car radio and she’d hastily switched channels. She took in the details of Nick’s face on the screen of her laptop and marvelled at the fact that if the accident hadn’t happened, there was no way she’d be here now, chatting over Zoom to the man she’d done battle with over a bunch of orange roses.
Before winning, naturally.
‘So that means it’s something else,’ Nick commented when she didn’t immediately reply. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to tell me.’
What was it with those words? Something about the way he said them immediately made her want to tell him. Being an ocean apart made it easier, too. When they were chatting together in close proximity, she was concentrating so hard on not reacting to his physical nearness, concealing how she felt about him, that it was almost impossible to properly relax.
But this was easier, like being in a confessional. He was here and listening to her but they were separated by a screen and thousands of miles. Nella adjusted the pillows piled up behind her on the single bed. ‘Didn’t you have to rush out?’
Nick shook his head. ‘Not for another thirty minutes.’
She half smiled. ‘It won’t take that long, it’s only short.’
‘I’m here,’ he said simply.
Was she going to tell him?
Apparently, yes.
She shook her head. ‘It was just one of those bad-timing moments that sticks with you. It was my eighth birthday and my dad had already said he’d got me a present, so I was really excited. But when I went into their bedroom that morning, he said he’d give it to me later in the afternoon. And I just had a feeling it wasn’t going to happen, because that was the way things usually panned out. Mum had given me a set of felt-tip pens and a drawing pad, which was good. After she went off with her friends and he’d gone out too, I spent ages drawing a picture of Dad giving me a present and me opening it.’
She paused, mentally reverting to eight years old, remembering that day and the picture she’d so carefully drawn and coloured in for him. Most of her childhood had been conveniently forgotten and remained a merciful blur, but it was as if this one significant event was forever preserved, like an insect captured in centuries-old resin. She drew a breath and felt her fingernails dig into her palms again. ‘Anyway, I waited all day and all evening for him to come back from wherever he’d disappeared to, but it didn’t happen. Mum came home and crashed out in their room. In the end I went to bed and left the picture on the table in the living room so Dad would see it when he did get back. Hours later, I woke up and heard music playing. That music,’ she emphasised, and Nick nodded but didn’t speak.
‘It was loud. Really loud. And I waited in bed for ages, to give him time to see my picture then come and thank me and wish me a happy birthday. It didn’t even matter by then if he hadn’t brought me a present. And all the time the same song kept playing over and over again, but still he didn’t come to my room, so in the end I went into the living room. Which was when I found him passed out on the floor. There was a syringe sticking out of his arm and my felt-tip pens were scattered on the rug next to his head. He was lying on his side with his cheek resting on the picture I’d done for him. It was all crumpled and he’d been sick on it.’ Nella took another shuddery breath; there, she’d said it.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Nick, horrified. ‘What happened after that?’
‘The song was still playing, so I turned the CD player off and went and got my mum. She sent me to bed. The next morning my picture had been thrown away, along with the pens and the rug with the sick on it. Nobody ever mentioned it again.’ She managed a crooked smile. ‘And needless to say, I was right about my dad not getting me a present.’
‘My God, I’m so sorry.’ Nick raked his fingers through his blond hair, visibly shaken. ‘And a year after that he died.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘You must have been devastated.’
‘I was. But now you know why I’m feeling a bit weird about this DNA business. I love Hugo to bits and I know he means well, but I still have mixed feelings about it. I don’t know if my dad even had any relatives, or if he’d just lost contact with them.’ She paused. ‘Which makes me feel guilty, because I know I’m supposed to want to meet any family that might be out there . . . but I’m not sure I do. I just feel I’d rather not, you know, take the risk.’
‘I wish I could hug you right now,’ said Nick.
I wish you could too .
‘You’d have to have long, spindly arms,’ Nella told him.
As she mustered a smile to lighten the atmosphere, there was a tap at her bedroom door. Without waiting for a reply, Tommy pushed the door open and said, ‘Are you OK? Still talking to Nick?’
‘I just told him about the song and why I needed you to turn it off.’ Glancing at Tommy, she discreetly wiped a lone tear from her right eye so Nick wouldn’t see it.
‘Sorry, I’m such a dick. I can’t believe I forgot.’ Tommy was carrying a glass of red wine and a bag of Maltesers. Crossing the room and placing them on the tiny bedside table, he wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a hug. Nella clung to him, closing her eyes and imagining he was Nick.
OK, wishing he was Nick.
Finally she said, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ and Tommy released his hold on her, twisting round on the narrow bed to wave at Nick in his elegant hotel room in New York.
‘Sorry for the interruption. I wasn’t thinking earlier. Like I said, I’m a dick.’
‘You just did what I wanted to do,’ said Nick.
‘I’ll leave you to it. Drink some wine and eat your Maltesers,’ Tommy ordered. ‘And you can get back to your business chat.’
Which they did, although Nella was glad Nick couldn’t see the message from Tommy that flashed up on her laptop five minutes later:
He fancies the pants off you, by the way. I hope you know that.
Continuing her conversation about a potential booking for a group of a dozen female novelists wanting to get together for a writers’ retreat in November, Nella typed back to Tommy: Pants fully intact.
The reply arrived in seconds.
Tommy: What’s wrong with you? Playing hard to get?
Nella: He’s my boss. If it went wrong, I’d be out of a job.
‘That sounds perfect,’ said Nick, startling her.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Twelve female novelists. They’ll just spend all their time writing. Won’t be getting complaints from the neighbours that they’re being lairy and loud, blasting out music and firing Prosecco corks at the ceiling . . .’ He paused. ‘What are you typing?’
Thank goodness he couldn’t see the messages. ‘Just work stuff. Answering a query from a client. Nearly done.’
Tommy’s next comment had just appeared on the screen, directly above Nick’s head.
Go for it – if I was a woman I’d definitely shag him. He’s fit.
Nella hid a smile and typed back: Of course you would. Night! Xx
Nick said, ‘What are you smirking about now?’
So she hadn’t managed to hide it. Feeling a bit hot, she took a hefty glug of wine. ‘Sorry, just thinking about the couple from Brighton who moved into the Cedars today.’
‘What’s wrong, are they trouble? I thought they were old!’
‘They’re the opposite of trouble. Reg is ninety-one, Dorothy’s ninety, and theirs is the best story.’ Nella didn’t mention that hearing it had brought her to tears. ‘They met as teenagers and fell madly in love, but Dorothy’s father disapproved and moved her abroad, so they lost touch but never forgot each other. Then last November she saw a piece on the news about charity fundraisers. And one of the men was Reg.’
Nick’s face lit up. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘I know! She told me she recognised him right away, let out a scream, knocked over her gin and tonic and frightened her cat. Then she contacted the TV people, who helped to track him down. They were both widowed by then. But the moment they met up, it was love at first sight all over again. So they’ve brought both their families here for a big party, and on Friday they’re getting married at Cheltenham Town Hall!’
Nick was nodding. ‘Amazing.’
‘But wait, that’s not all. When Reg got married and had a family, he named his eldest d-daughter Dorothy . . . and Dorothy n-named her eldest son R-Reggie . . .’ Whoops, it was happening again.
‘Are you crying?’ said Nick.
‘N-no . . .’ But her chest was heaving, tears were streaming down her cheeks and he was leaning sideways, disappearing from sight. The next moment he was back, holding out a tissue from the box on his bedside table.
‘I think you might be.’
‘Thanks.’ She pretended to take it, and for a second their hands met on either side of the screen. It was no good, she could no longer ignore her body’s intense physical reaction to him. It was becoming more and more impossible to deny her feelings for Nick Callaghan. It wasn’t even a crush, she reluctantly acknowledged; it felt like far more than that. And the way Nick was looking at her was just making it worse.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go out tonight,’ he said now. ‘But I do. And I’ve just had a message to say my cab’s downstairs.’
‘Go. Be nice to everyone.’ Nella pushed her own emotions aside. Playfully she said, ‘Bowl them over with your dazzling personality and your irresistible British charm. Squeeze zillions of dollars of investment money out of them so you can expand your empire.’
Nick laughed, causing her heart to do that exhilarating dolphin-leap it did more often than she would ever admit. ‘I’ll do my best.’
The Zoom ended, leaving her feeling suddenly bereft. Downstairs, she could hear Tommy singing along to ‘Wonderwall’. She debated heading down and joining them, but she was tired, and the memory of Nick’s voice was in her head saying he wished he didn’t have to go out tonight. Maybe if she went to sleep now, still thinking about him, he might feature in her dreams . . .
Except he didn’t, of course, because the subconscious was never that obliging. Instead, her night was interrupted by a ridiculous dream about trying to cook a roast dinner in a rusty bucket whilst angry wasps darted around her singing a buzzy version of ‘Wonderwall’.