Chapter 15 #2
“I realised that she does love you in her own way. She just struggles to show it.”
“How do you know that?” He shrugs, not giving me an answer, so I shoot him a sly smile. “You can’t blame her. I am very lovable. My charm works on most people.”
“You are, and it does.”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t bother with sentiment.”
“You’re the boss.”
I gesture at myself. “Which is patently untrue.” I look steadily at him. “Just know that I may have eaten this breakfast meant for an entire army, and come to the middle of nowhere with you—”
“It’s Tobermory, not Timbuktu.”
“But I will be exacting my revenge when I feel more myself.”
I swallow hard as he leans over me and cups my face in his big hand.
I should slap him away, but to my horror, I nestle further in.
“Baby, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
” He strokes my face, his own expression more serious than I’ve seen in a long time.
“I look forward to your guerrilla warfare.”
“That says something about you, I think,” I say in a hoarse voice.
He taps my nose. “It does, doesn’t it? Be good.”
Then he’s gone, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. I listen to the front door open and close and the sound of his car driving away.
I set the tray on the bedside table and lie back in the sheets only to jackknife up when a horrific thought occurs to me. I jump out of bed, standing still for a second to let the dizziness fade and then dart over to the pile of my clothes. I grab my jeans and plunge my hand into a front pocket.
“Please don’t let Reuben have found it,” I mutter and then sag with relief when I feel the familiar touch of leather.
Drawing out the small pouch, I grip it tightly and climb back into bed.
I settle back against the pillows and eye the pouch thoughtfully.
It’s small, and the leather is worn from the way I constantly run my fingers over it.
I hesitate, then open it, letting the object fall into my palm.
My wedding ring gleams in the sunshine. It’s a thick, plain, gold band and looks far too innocuous for an item that completely imploded my world.
I can still recall the moment he put it on my finger.
He’d looked happy, and for a brief few seconds I’d felt that happiness echo in my own chest. I’d never tell another soul this, but for a wild moment I’d wondered whether we could make marriage work.
Then reality had intruded like a cold wind, blowing away all the nice feelings and leaving me with the reality of that Cotswold hotel room years ago when he’d told me I bored him and that my passion for him was an embarrassment.
Despite that, like an idiot, I’ve never been able to throw the ring away. I’ve tried so many times, but every time I stood over the bin with the ring held out, my hand had clutched protectively around it, and I’d put it back in the pouch. My cheeks heat at the thought of Reuben finding it.
I put the ring back into its little prison and slide it into the pocket of my pyjama shorts. I’ll hide it in my bag later. Then I lie back and consider my next move. I should be standing on my dignity. I should be lying in bed, looking both forbearing and yet judgemental at the same time.
Instead, I throw the covers back. This is the opportunity to snoop that I’ve been waiting for years to arrive.
Opening the bedroom door, I pause to listen, but there’s no sound of anyone else in the house.
I poke my head into two other bedrooms that are furnished just as nicely as the one where I slept, and a huge bathroom with a clawfoot bath positioned in front of a tall window that looks out on the Sound.
Then I make my way downstairs. The lounge has a large stone fireplace with logs laid neatly for lighting.
A huge basket of cut logs rests beside it.
The walls are wallpapered in a heavy gold-and-blue pattern, and the sectional sofa and chairs are made of old, scarred leather and festooned with colourful cushions.
A large wooden coffee table holds a stack of books, and in a unit by the window, there’s a stereo and shelves of vinyl and CDs.
What I can’t see are any pictures of Reuben’s family or friends, or any of his own photographs.
I huff. If I were him, I’d have them all over the house.
His work fetches a lot of money. I think of my lock-up in London, where I store the few possessions I actually deign to keep.
One of them is a six-foot original photograph of an old derelict mill.
I’d bought it anonymously at an auction of Reuben’s artwork last year, and my cheeks go red at the thought of him finding out about it.
I just couldn’t resist it, though. He’s a genius at finding the right light and angle to make an image speak to you.
I browse along the shelves and around the room looking for something, anything, that would tell me if there’s a man in his life.
I don’t find anything, which sends a thrill of relief dancing through me.
I move through the dining room and back into the hall.
Opening a couple of doors, I locate a small boot room and a downstairs loo.
I hover in the kitchen for a while. It’s a big room with navy-painted units, brick walls, and an oak worktop.
A fire blazes in a wood burner, bright artwork hangs on the walls, and industrial-looking pendant lamps are suspended over a massive pine table, the wood scratched and scarred.
Mismatched chairs are pulled up to the table with colourful seat cushions, and a large rag rug covers the old wooden floor.
Nothing matches, but somehow it all comes together.
The house is warm and quiet, the only sound the crackle of flames in the grate and the ticking of a clock.
I shake my head. This is a proper home and not what I was expecting.
I devoted many hours to wondering what his spaces looked like and what home he would make for himself.
Then I would push the interest to one side, too intent on fucking him over so that he’d remember me wherever he went afterwards.
I’d consoled myself that wherever he went and whatever he did, I’d linger in his mind, impossible for him to ignore.
This, though—this is a home. It’s shabby in places, comfortable and full of warmth and colour. And why am I surprised this is the home he’s made? It’s like him.
I gently touch the bright wildflowers in an old mason jar on the table.
They’re fresh. Did he pick them this morning?
It seems unlikely to me, but what would I know?
Five years of angry sex doesn’t give you a particularly penetrating insight into a man’s character.
Underneath my admiration for his home, something is bothering me about the place, but I can’t work out what it is.
I shake my head, dismissing the feeling.
Time to enact a teeny bit of revenge. An evil smile curls on my mouth, and I rub my hands together.
“Siri, play electro bagpipes.”
Reuben
I shift from foot to foot. The queue in the post office is long and not getting any shorter because every person seems to want to have a conversation.
I try to repress my impatience because this is why I came to the island.
I wanted a community, a home away from my past, and I’ve largely made that for myself.
And if, sometimes, I lie in bed at night and still feel plagued by loneliness, then I could wake in the morning and find someone in the village to talk to.
“You’re fidgety, Reuben.”
I turn to see Angus behind me. He owns the old pub in the village and is a source of all information, largely because he’s a massive gossip. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Not like you.”
I want to smile because back in the day I was always rushing and living my life at a frantic pace, worrying that if I stopped, it would catch up with me. Living here has taught me to slow a little, to take a breath, to enjoy a beautiful sunset rather than rushing on to the next experience.
“I hear you have a guest.”
I nobly restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “Who told you?”
“Ah, no one here. I caught the ferry this morning. They were all talking about it.”
“Is there nothing more interesting than my social life?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Of course not. It’s the first time you’ve been seen with anyone new, so you can’t blame them for being curious.”
“Well, he definitely isn’t new,” I say and immediately want to take it back when I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“Really?”
“Yes, I’ve known him for years.”
“Fergus says the lad was a bit under the weather on the ferry.” His lip twitches.
“Yeah, I’m not sure there was anything left of him by the end of the trip.”
“Ah, the Sound’s choppy at this time of the year. Ferries will stop soon.”
I wince. I haven’t told Xavier that little tidbit yet. He’s going to be even more bloodthirsty at the news that he might not be able to get off the island easily. It certainly won’t be like catching a cab in London.
“Fergus said the lad looked ill before he even got on the boat.”
“Oh, did he? Fergus has become quite the chatterbox.”
He smiles. “Give the man a break. It’s the most interesting thing to happen to him since Layla Drummond got drunk and tried to dive off the boat.”
I laugh. “Oh dear. We have stiff competition, then.” My smile fades. “Yes, he’s been poorly. He’s recuperating with me for a bit.”
“Ah, the Mull air will do him the power of good,” he says staunchly. “Nowhere better.”
I’m inclined to believe it for Xavier. Honestly, anywhere away from the fashion industry will be a good thing.
I’d played a good game, telling him what was going to happen, but it only worked because he was feeling ill.
Once he’s up and running at full force, I have no way of directing his life.
My wedding ring confers about as many rights as an uncashed cheque.