Chapter 57
A couple of days later, I’m still reflecting on my conversation with Selma.
I’d told her Mark was a good guy and someone I’d want to be friends with, so I challenge myself to put my money where my mouth is.
I message him.
It takes me ages to compose the perfect text. It needs to be light and breezy, but also show I’m interested in how he’s getting on. I work out the time difference and send it when I know he’s asleep so I don’t spend the next six hours climbing the walls.
When I don’t hear from him for a whole day, I want to kick myself for putting myself out there.
But then at midnight, while I’m sitting on my bed, reading a print-out of the first draft of my book, Zorba by my feet giving me evil looks because he wants the light off so he can sleep properly, my phone pings with a message.
It’s from him. I don’t open it, not for a few moments; I want to savour the relief and sheer delight he’s replied. The message itself will probably be disappointing – how could it not be when there’s so much riding on it – but he’s thinking of me and the proof of that has lit up my phone.
I open it, and I’m crestfallen because it’s so short. But then I read it.
I hate texting – are you around for a call?
Yes I immediately reply.
Maybe ‘sure’ would have been better? And maybe I should have waited five minutes to look a little less keen. But fuck it, it’s done and—
He’s ringing. On WhatsApp audio. I just have to accept.
‘Hello?’
‘Nella? I hope it’s not too late?’
I freeze, before I realise he means, not too late at night, rather than … not too late for us.
‘No, it’s fine. I’m just in bed.’
That sounds wrong, because I’m on my bed. And there’s a difference.
There must be a delay on the line, because he doesn’t respond.
‘I’ll have to talk quietly so I don’t wake my parents,’ I add.
‘You’re still at home?’ His voice is rich and deep, and it feels so intimate in my ear. Like he’s here.
‘Yeah, and my parents seem happy for me to stay. Zorbs is less happy because he likes to sleep in complete blackness, and I like to read in bed, but we’re slowly getting used to each other.’
‘Sorry, what was that?’ he asks carefully, like he’s not following. ‘Who are you getting used to?’
‘You know Zorbs,’ I say, without thinking.
‘I’m not sure I do.’
Wait, he thinks I’m talking about a man? And he sounds … affected by it?
A thrill shoots through me. Part of me wants to reassure him immediately, but a different part of me wants to hear that tiny break in his voice again that hints he might care.
I smile so hard, my cheeks hurt.
‘You do know Zorbs – he farts a lot, smells of tuna, has lost half his teeth but will still attempt to gum you to death if you cross him. I love him very much.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘He’s a cat, sweetie. He’s my parents’ cat.’
He laughs, rich and warm and I let myself ride a wave of bittersweet longing.
He has to leave before I’ve asked him how he’s getting on, but as first conversations go, it couldn’t have gone better.
Next time, we agree a date in advance, and the time after that Mark video calls.
I don’t remember what we talk about during that first FaceTime because he’s sporting three days’ worth of stubble and everything is drowned out by the thump of my ovaries playing maracas to the tune of ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’.
I manage a couple of surreptitious screen caps, though.
After that, we regularly FaceTime and keep each other abreast of what’s happening in our lives. Like friends do.
I tell him how well Pen is getting on under the care of Dr Benson and a new OCD therapist. She’s dropped out of her accountancy degree, and until she decides what she wants to do she’s working at the STD clinic on reception – against my better judgement.
She loves it, though, and she gets to enjoy our famous Friday night drinks.
I excitedly fill him in on the publishing contract I’ve signed. Amazingly, the advance might just cover a deposit on a small flat. In the meantime, I’m still at home, but I don’t mind. I enjoy spending time with my family. And I tell Mark he’s a big reason I’ve learned to appreciate them better.
He tells me about the time he almost got carjacked. And when a bullet missed him by millimetres and he felt it whistle through his hair. That titbit I could have lived without. But I think he secretly enjoyed seeing how much I worry and how badly I hide it.
I go on a couple of dates, but I don’t tell him about them. Not that they come to anything.
I don’t ask about his (ex?) girlfriend, and he doesn’t mention her.
I do keep him up to date about Yan’s new boyfriend, who’s called Spiros –another Praxitelis shacking up with a Greek, what is the world coming to?
I also keep Mark in the loop about Yan’s restaurant renovation. We’re having the grand opening tonight – 1 December. It feels like a good date for a new beginning.
It’s sunny in Venezuela when we FaceTime. I’m not sure what time it is, but Mark’s already got five o’clock shadow. His Ray-Bans are resting on his head, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt that shows off his tan.
He’s at a friend’s house when he calls. It’s near a market, and I struggle to hear him above the shouts of traders advertising their wares in excited Spanish. I hear a word that sounds like ‘grenade’ and I freeze.
He shakes his head. ‘He’s talking about pomegranates, not grenades.’
‘How can you be sure? You keep missing your Spanish lessons.’
Mark gives me an indulgent smile that I secretly call his Nella Smile.
I promise to send him some photos from tonight, and we sign off.
The black computer screen is like a mirror. I smile at my reflection and metaphorically pat myself on the back. Look at me being all grown-up and slaying at such a super platonic friendship. Go, me.
I allow myself exactly five minutes and six seconds of wallowing a day. Coincidentally, it’s the exact amount of time it takes to listen to ‘Gia Ena Tango’. Maybe one day I’ll be able to hear it without feeling sad.
I’m doing okay, even though Yan thought I was a hopeless case.
What he doesn’t know about is the picture on my laptop from the official wedding photos.
It’s of Tig and Theo standing outside the church, but Mark and I are in the background.
I’m smiling as he picks confetti out of my hair and the way we’re looking at each other is, well, difficult for me to process.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks like the final image in a romantic comedy. It’s an illusion, of course. A happy accident caught randomly by a photographer. I don’t usually like photos of myself, but this one I look at more than is probably healthy.
My other guilty secret is a new-found fondness for spicy romance books. Surrendering to the Sicilian Surgeon wasn’t hard to track down, and it was every bit as hot as I was promised. Especially the mascarpone scene.
Tonight will be the first time I meet Spiros, although my parents met him when they went to Yan’s for dinner a couple of weeks ago.
They were very taken by him, even though he’s from Athens and islanders suffer from reverse snobbery about people from the big smoke.
Spiros is an antiques dealer and travels a lot.
He’s not due until much later because he’s been in Brussels, and his plane has been delayed. I spot Yan checking his phone a lot.
I arrive an hour before everyone else so I can help with any last-minute preparations.
‘The place looks amazing,’ I tell Yan. And it’s true – the transformation from the building site it was ten days ago is impressive. Although if his builders had kept to their agreed timetable, poor Yan would currently be sporting fingernails rather than bitten stubs.
The walls are painted a rich emerald colour, contrasting wonderfully with the white tablecloths. The bar is beautiful black marble, with a mirrored back wall featuring a glittering array of artisanal gins and whiskies.
The menu, which Yan has stressed over for months is Mediterranean/French fusion. Tonight, staff dressed discreetly in black will circulate with a constant flow of canapés – a preview of some of his signature dishes in miniatures.
‘What can I do?’ I ask.
‘There’s a delivery of paper shell pecans that should have arrived before six but there’s no sign of them. Keep an eye out, would you? They’re crazy expensive. I don’t want them left outside the back door for the blooming foxes to eat.’
‘No problem. Your overpriced nuts will be safe with me.’
Soon after, my parents arrive with Tig, Theo, and Pen.
‘You look lovely, Nella mou,’ says Mum.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Shame your father didn’t get the memo.’ She cuts her eyes to him. I don’t know what the problem is – he looks fine. Is she unhappy he’s not wearing a tie? Then I notice he’s wearing his M&S trainers – her pet hate.
Yan encouraged everyone to dress up tonight, so I’m wearing a black chiffon dress with spaghetti straps and some very high and expensive shoes. They were an impulse buy and are completely impractical, but I love them.
Spiros arrives at nine and the whole family descends on him – poor guy. I’m looking forward to my turn to interrogate him – in a fun, totally non-Gestapo way – when Yan catches my eye from across the room and mouths the words ‘nuts.’
I give him the thumbs-up and let Pen ahead of me in the interrogation queue.
I walk through the kitchen towards the back door.
‘I hear you have some special nuts for me.’
A man stands in the shadows of the courtyard outside. He’s dressed for a smart party, not a delivery. I pause, confused.
He steps forward into the light.
‘Never had them called that before.’
My heart jumps.
It’s Mark.
I blink, scared I’m imagining him. But when I open my eyes he’s still here, in the gorgeous flesh.
I run to him and he picks me up in a hug.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ I say, my face buried in his neck.
He puts me down but keeps his arms tight around me.
I link my hands behind his neck, my elbows resting on the soft wool of his black trench coat. The colour brings out the amber in his eyes, and his smile sparkles against his stubble.
Lord, I’m going to faint.
He looks indecently good for a man just off a trans-Atlantic flight, and I can’t stop grinning.
‘Yan said you’d be happy to see me,’ he says.
‘You planned this with him?’
He gazes at me. ‘I didn’t want to presume …’
‘You think I didn’t miss you every single day?’
He plants a soft kiss on my lips.
It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. I stand on tiptoe and deepen the kiss. It feels familiar but as wildly exciting as a first kiss.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be this happy, though.’
We stand toe-to-toe, his forehead bent to mine. ‘How long do I have you for?’
‘For however long you want me. But if you’re asking how long I’m in London for, then that’s easy. I’m back for good.’
I gasp. ‘What happened?’
‘You happened.’
I shake my head. ‘You can’t change your whole life for me. Eventually, you’ll resent me for it.’
‘No, what I’ll resent is being back in London in two or three years and seeing you all loved-up with some lucky prick whenever I catch up with Theo and Tig.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m not asking for a commitment right away.
I’m happy to take things as slowly as you’re comfortable with.
Maybe you’ll get tired of me in six months, or six years, or, if I’m really lucky, sixty years.
I can live with anything except being too scared to tell you how I feel. And I hate being afraid of anything.’
‘But you’ve always craved action and danger in far-off places.’
‘What I’ve always craved is somewhere to belong. Chasing the next big thrill was a way to forget that I never had anywhere that truly felt like home.’
‘Home is this little corner of west London?’
‘Home is wherever you are.’
Warmth blooms in my chest, making me brave enough to tell him how I feel.
‘I think I might love you, Mark.’
‘I think I might love you, too.’
He holds me, and I feel a heady mix of deep peace and fizzing energy.
My mind buzzes and I can’t stop talking.
‘And you know, if you ever get bored of me, Ealing has some exciting attractions.’
‘So I hear.’
‘We’ve got the film studios.’
‘Exactly.’
‘The Wharncliffe Viaduct.’
‘Yes – whatever that is.’
‘The Hanger Lane Gyratory.’
‘The only gyratory I get hard for.’
I grin. ‘Wait a minute. We talked earlier – how did you get here so fast?’
‘I wasn’t in Caracas. I got back this morning and when we spoke, I was in my hotel room at Heathrow.’
‘And the sound of a Spanish open-air market?’
‘Background noise on my phone. You can find all sorts on the internet.’
‘So you’ve been back a while?’ I reach up to cup his cheek, his stubble tickling my palm. ‘You had time to shave but … you didn’t?’
He smiles slowly. ‘Thought I’d bring out the big guns. In case you needed reminding how much you like me.’
‘Maybe you can remind me in this room of yours. Does it have a double bed?’
My mind is racing ahead, but I don’t think his is far behind. Not from the way his irises have blown out.
‘Queen-size. Plus, there’s a walk-in shower, enormous sofa and excellent soundproofing. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you’ve got a spare six or seven hours.’
‘Must be a big room.’
‘Don’t worry, we can take breaks.’
‘As much as I want you to drag me back to this magical room of yours, we need do things properly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No hiding from my family, or Theo, or anyone else. I want to walk into the restaurant holding your hand so everyone knows.’
‘Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘You came all this way for me. Sneaking around was fun for a while, but I’m all in. This isn’t just friction and nerve endings.’
He pulls me against him, my cheek smushing against his chest.
‘My nerve endings have had to make do with my hand since the wedding,’ he murmurs. ‘They won’t know what’s hit them.’
I smile against his lapel, silently thanking him for the elegant way he answered a question that often kept me up at night.
I step back so we can see each other ‘I promise to be gentle on them.’
He gives me a quick kiss on the lips. ‘Before we go any further, I need to ask you something.’
‘Anything.’
He looks serious for a moment. ‘Do I need to worry about this man you were waiting for? I’m not sure I can compete with his special nuts.’
‘Oh, I think you can.’