18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
N ate watched the sunrise over the city skyline from his balcony. The blaze of orange and pink glistened on the Thames below. The first day of a new year. At home, where he was expected to be. His eyes ached as a hangover threatened to hit. He longed for the crash of waves on the harbour wall to replace the drone of traffic and distant emergency sirens, and to smell the aroma of kippers and saltiness of the sea rather than insulting fumes from the streets below, and to hear the screech of the gull tapping on the roof rather than the cooing from the lone pigeon pattering on his neighbour’s balcony. Since his return to London, he felt out of touch, out of place, like Alice returning from Wonderland. Before, he’d been content and proud of his plush apartment with its sleek and modern furniture and fittings, but now it felt cold, impersonal, and soulless. Even the large Christmas tree dressed in the best, most expensive designer decorations added no festive cheer. Not that he or Rebecca had decorated it. George had arranged for a professional to swoop in while he was at work. A ready-made Christmas scene. Nate shook his head. No wonder the Christmas spirit failed to arrive; it required active involvement, attention, and care.
He sipped his tea in his favourite mug and opened his phone again. Fresh disappointment hit when no new notifications showed. His fingers hovered over the keypad, tempted to wish her a happy New Year, check she was okay, or share the photo he had spontaneously taken of his new gleaming red teapot sitting in his monochrome kitchen. Sighing, he put the phone away. Willow had made it clear she didn’t want contact. If only he knew why or what he had done wrong.
One minute he was happy, content, and full of anticipation of enjoying Willow’s company before he left in the afternoon, and the next, he received an emotional punch in the stomach with no warning. It had started off a good day; Willow leaving the bed woke him, and he admired her shape as she gingerly walked across the room. He contemplated calling her name and enticing her back to bed into the warmth, but she whispered to Vincent to stay so he assumed she would be back shortly. Hopefully, with a coffee. Or tea—a drink he had become accustomed to despite his continual protestations. The rhythmic feline snore lulled him back to sleep. He woke to Vincent scratching incessantly at the closed bedroom door. Despite the space on the bed next to him being cold, he remained upbeat. When she’d said she knew the night before, a rush of guilt had frozen his heart. What did she know? He breathed out when she revealed she knew he had to go home, back to his life. He did but, in that moment, he knew; he didn’t need the brew from the cracker to give him clarity of his feelings. He was deluding himself to think he could return to his normal life without her. She was a drug he had to have more of. He would go home, finish it officially with Rebecca, and return. Today wasn’t the end. He whistled while he made tea, enjoying the relaxing steps, and pondered which cup suited the day ahead. His tune continued as he descended the stairs, expecting to find her in the workshop catching up with work. He shivered as if someone walked over his grave and was about to joke whether it was one of her ghosts when he saw her, standing in the dark shop. On hearing his approach, she straightened up, ready to fight. Her sorrow couldn’t be disguised when with steely determination she declared it was over.
Nate grabbed his phone again and scrolled through the photos. Glenn and Amber beaming into the camera. The four of them crowded on the sofa. It captured her in mid-laugh as Vincent rushed by in a blur. Proof that it wasn’t his imagination. Whitby wasn’t a dream, despite the dreamlike quality to it. They were happy. He wanted to hear her voice and feel her. He wanted the woman currently sleeping in his bed, to be her.
***
Nate’s first task when he arrived at his office was to strip it of the offending Christmas decorations the department’s self-appointed elf, Linda, had insisted on strewing across his bookshelves and computer. Every workplace had one, someone who from the middle of November brimmed with excitement, whipped open a spreadsheet for Secret Santa and parties. Nowhere escaped tinsel and festive trinkets once December arrived. The last offending bauble failed to hit its intended target of the cardboard box on a chair but ricocheted off the wall and narrowly missed George as he entered, proffering Nate’s morning coffee.
‘One double espresso with a little cream and sugar on the side,’ said George, scanning the now-bare room, his eyes lingering on the box brimming with the decorations. ‘Would you like me to take them with me when I go?’
‘Please, and tell the others I want all the decoration removed from their desks by lunchtime. It’s a new year, we don’t need any distractions.’
‘Oh,’ said George and Nate knew what was coming. ‘They prefer to wait until the sixth as tradition dictates.’
‘It won’t hurt them this year.’ Nate dug his heels in. He’d rather hear the discontented mutterings from his staff than be mocked by the festive season any longer, reminding him of what he had, however briefly, and what he lost. There was still no contact. The small spark of hope she’d send some New Year wishes snuffed out as the days passed.
‘I’ll tell them. My wife is over the moon with your glowing review of Sand Dale on Tripadvisor. She’s a new booking already.’ George grinned over his tablet, ready to tell Nate of the day’s schedule.
‘About that. I’ve a confession to make.’
‘If it’s about the rug, Kelly’s sent a photo of the replacement and she’d be thrilled with it. And the coffee machine. Some visitors do like their coffee.’
‘It’s rather big for the space, so I can replace it with a smaller version. No, it’s not the rug.’ Nate shifted his pens around his desk. ‘I borrowed a book.’
George chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s what the bookshelves are for, Nate. Books get borrowed, books get left. I assure you it won’t be missed.’
‘It wasn’t from the bookshelf in the lounge. It was from the kitchen. A recipe book on baking.’ Nate wasn’t sure why he reached for it while making a hot milk on Christmas Eve. Sleep had proved impossible with the fresh memories of Willow’s lips against his and his regret of leaving her on the doorstep of the Emporium instead of accepting her invitation of a nightcap. The battered cloth cover, yellowed, torn pages with smatterings of stains, and handwritten annotations beside the recipes soothed him. The calm he felt while weighing out the ingredients for the mince pies and gingerbread and the satisfaction of seeing the end product earlier replicated as he read. He itched to try some of the simpler recipes. He couldn’t leave it behind.
‘Again, I’m sure it won’t be missed. All Josie’s favourite recipes are in her head. Never saw you as a cook but maybe give bread making a go, she swears by its mood-modifying properties.’