The Countdown Begins #2
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘How about an ice cream?’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’
They were in Deia, a picturesque coastal village on the northwest coast. With views out to the Mediterranean below, it was one of the prettiest on the island and had long been a magnet for famous artists, creatives and writers.
Now a popular tourist destination, it was filled with crowds of holidaymakers, who meandered through the cobblestone streets, taking pictures and browsing the many galleries and shops.
Two being Flick and Rory.
‘Ah, but didn’t you tell me that women always say they’re fine when they’re actually not fine?’ Rory tapped his nose, as if he had some kind of insider info, and looked very pleased with himself.
‘No, but really I am this time,’ protested Flick as they paused to look at a display of painted Spanish pottery.
His earlier bad mood had disappeared and he was being so nice, but now it was actually becoming rather irritating.
She caught herself. How could someone being nice be irritating?
It didn’t make sense. And yet, nothing right now was making sense.
‘You seem annoyed,’ he observed.
‘I’m not annoyed.’
‘Hmm. Distracted then.’
Flick chewed the inside of her lip and tried to count to ten.
He was driving her potty with all this attention.
Where was the Rory who could barely drag his eyes away from his phone when she was trying to talk to him?
Apparently this was called phubbing. She’d read an article about it once and researchers said half of relationships were affected by phubbing.
Holding her hand tightly as they continued to walk down the street, he turned to her all doe-eyed and brushed an invisible hair from her face. God, what she’d do for a bit of phubbing right now.
‘No, I’m not distracted,’ she said, smiling.
What I am, thought Flick, is Frustrated with a capital ‘F’.
She’d had enough of all this lovey-dovey stuff; she wanted to be down by the port, standing guard by the cruise ships, watching the passengers come and go, on full alert for You Know Who.
But instead she was romantically meandering the cobbled streets with Rory, who had inexplicably transformed into The Perfect Man.
She glanced sideways at him now.
Gone were the goofy jokes and comedy T-shirt, instead he was being thoughtful, super-attentive and wearing a freshly ironed linen shirt.
Freshly ironed! By his own hand no less this morning in the hotel room.
She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.
For a moment she’d lain in bed and thought she was hallucinating with the hangover, but no, it really was Rory in charge of an iron.
‘You’ve been stressed this past year, what with your mum and work and everything; I just want you to relax,’ he was saying now, stopping in the middle of the street to stare into her eyes.
He really was being lovely.
‘I just want you to be happy. That’s all I care about.’
A bit too lovely. Plus, she was really sweating now and she wanted to stop holding hands.
It was romantic at first but it must be about a hundred degrees and her palm was all wet and sticky.
She tried to casually disengage her fingers – but, feeling her pulling away, he clung on tighter.
Out of nowhere, she felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia.
‘I love you, babe.’
‘Love you, too.’
And panic. There was no letting go.
4.35 p.m.
Maggie woke herself up by snorting.
‘Huh? What? Where am I?’
She lay there a moment, discombobulated, wrapped in a cocoon of fluffy white towels; all warm and comfy and drowsy and floaty. It took a few seconds for her brain to click into gear and then –
Oh. My. God.
She bolted upright, causing the towel wrapped around her head to collapse over her face, smothering her with damp hair and towelling. She must have fallen asleep. Drifted off after the shower. Shit.
What time is it?
Blindly stumbling around the room, she grabbed her bag, rummaging around inside for her phone to check, whilst cursing handbag manufacturers everywhere for always using black lining so you were forever fumbling around in the dark.
Not to mention all the rubbish she kept in there. Seriously, chopsticks?
Finally she found it and snatched it up – only to discover it was dead. Fuck. She’d forgotten to charge it. Where was her charger? Panic-stricken, she turned her hotel room upside down. She couldn’t find her charger! And then she remembered. She’d lent it to Flick.
FUCK.
Chucking the useless thing back in her bag with frustration, she dived on the phone on the bedside table and quickly dialled reception.
She was meeting him at five o’clock so she needed at least a couple of hours to get ready and get to the bar in time.
Finally, after what felt like for ever, a chirpy voice answered.
‘Buenos días.’
‘Hi, can you tell me what time it is, please?’ she gasped.
There was a pause. Every second taking for ever. Her mind racing ahead. She had all these best-laid plans about what she was going to wear. How she was going to do her hair. Her make-up. She wanted to make sure she looked her absolute best.
‘Four thirty-five, madam.’
She went hot and cold.
‘Can I help you with anything else?’
‘No. Gracias.’
Naked in a hotel room, with wet hair, a bare face, a dead phone and several miles to commute to a bar on the other side of town to meet the man who stole her life, Maggie hung up, threw her face into a pillow and screamed at the top of her lungs.
‘Fuuuucccckkkkkk!!!!!!’
5 p.m.
‘We can watch the sunset from here.’
‘Since when did you like watching sunsets?’
‘What are you talking about? I love sunsets. Can’t get enough of them.’
Having left Deia, Flick and Rory were now at the beach, lying side by side on a pair of sun loungers, underneath a tropical-style straw umbrella.
Normally Rory would have refused to pay on principle, preferring to lie instead in the full sun without any shade whilst getting covered in sand, but this was the new Rory, and Flick was enjoying the novelty.
‘Whenever I want to take a photo of one, you always tell me they’re boring. In fact, I think your very words were, “Once you’ve seen one sunset, you’ve seen them all.”’
Rory coloured. ‘A man can change his opinion, can’t he?’
‘Sure.’ Flick tried to keep the doubt out of her voice. She hoped that was true; after all, her job as a journalist involved trying to present the facts and change people’s views and opinions. But could he change his entire personality?
‘Perfect here, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it’s lovely.’
‘Would you say perfect, though?’
‘Hmm . . . yeah, pretty much.’ Lying in a bikini, she gazed through the Polaroid lenses of her sunglasses at the waves lapping against the shoreline and the stretch of spotless blue sky. ‘But then is anything really ever perfect?’
‘What do you mean?’ Rory sounded aggrieved.
‘I’m just saying in general. Life’s not like Instagram. It all looks so perfect in the photos but it’s all a bit bollocks really, isn’t it? Life’s a lot a messier than that.’
Rory looked put out.
‘You don’t think this is perfect? Me and you. On this beach. This spot. Together.’
And now Flick felt guilty. She’d hurt his feelings. ‘Sorry, ignore me, I didn’t mean—’
‘Do you think that rooftop restaurant is better?’ He gestured to one over in the distance.
‘Better, how?’
‘Well, more perfect.’
‘This is perfect.’ she said, mostly to appease him, but also because it was pretty goddam gorgeous; it was just her overthinking things as usual. ‘It’s lovely, Rory, thanks for bringing me here, for today, it’s been really special.’
He looked cheered up.
‘Shall we do a selfie?’
‘Another?’
They’d done dozens all day. Flick didn’t know what had got into him, he’d been whipping out his phone at every occasion, snapping pictures, instructing her to smile. She smiled dutifully and leaned in and he took a selfie, but he was looking everywhere but the camera.
‘Now you’re the one that seems a bit distracted,’ she teased.
‘No, not at all.’ Taking the phone, he turned back to her, like a man that had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. ‘I’m just going to go to the loo.’
‘What, again?’
Rory was acting very oddly. This was about the fourth time he’d gone to the loo and he had a cast-iron bladder. He could drink half a dozen pints and sleep through the entire night without needing the bathroom. It was quite remarkable.
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘OK.’
‘Stay right there.’
‘Where do you think I’m going to go?’
And then he was off, dashing up the sand, which was too hot and burned his feet despite his flip-flops.
She watched him, jumping side to side, like a crazed grasshopper, then dug out her phone and WhatsApped Maggie.
No reply. Just one tick. It looked like she hadn’t even received it.
Huh. Strange. Leaning back on the sun lounger, she closed her eyes.
Oh well. Tomorrow Rory was flying home, things would be soon getting back to normal, whatever that was.
5.25 p.m.
‘Move. Please! Senora! Out of the way!’
Ringing her bell incessantly, Maggie pedalled furiously on her bicycle.
She’d taken one from the hotel; it was electric and she had it on full power, and she was racing across town, dodging pedestrians and traffic like being in a video game.
So much easier than her crappy old one at home.
With any luck, she wouldn’t be too late. Or kill anyone.
A man with a small chihuahua stepped out in front of her.
‘Arrggghhh, senor!’ she yelled, swerving just in the nick of time.