Chapter 38
The rain had finally subsided, and as Paolo locked up the surgery, he was grateful for it. If he was going to have a good time with Fabien tomorrow, he wanted the sun out, so they could be over at Finnen beach, enjoying those margaritas against the perfect backdrop.
However, no matter how many times he told himself he was looking forward to seeing Fabien, Paolo had felt doubt drip through his body ever since he’d suggested meeting on the beach. Maybe he was forcing it, this idea of potential bliss. Fabian had, Paolo reminded himself, been a little toxic on occasion. Perhaps he ought to call it all off.
He walked back to the flat, the scales in his mind refusing to balance. Kneeling on the bench outside their building, and fiddling with her window boxes, was Mrs Brown.
‘Flowers are looking pretty,’ he said, admiring the box which overflowed with colour.
‘You need a spiller, a filler and a thriller,’ she replied, pulling out some dead leaves. ‘Talking of thrillers, how was Patrick?’
‘Och, I never bothered,’ said Paolo.
Mrs Brown stood up, arms folded.
‘Now, Paolo, I won’t see you left on the shelf. Do you need me to intervene?’
‘No,’ said Paolo, fearing what form that intervention might take. ‘Mrs B, when you met Mr B, how did you know he was the one?’
Mrs Brown had been married to her husband for forty years. Until he died of a stroke three years ago, they had been a famously devoted pair of lovebirds, according to Chloe. If anyone had the recipe for success, it was her.
‘I felt so utterly happy with him. He made even the darkest day seem bearable. You know, I proposed to him . He was a shy man. I did most of the talking, and it only seemed right. Why do you ask?’ Mrs Brown narrowed his eyes. ‘Is there somebody you have in mind?’
He thought back to Fabien, their time together. He forced himself to be brutally honest. Fabien’s refusal to fully commit, the fights, the texts that went unanswered, that feeling of angst as Paolo wondered what he had done wrong. He remembered running his fears by Chloe, who would try to be sympathetic, even though she must have thought he was mad to be trying to keep the relationship going.
Then he considered Hamish, quiet, pensive, rational. Who — when Paolo wasn’t fretting about them — made Paolo feel like his own skin fitted perfectly. He was the type of man, as Mrs Brown had put it, who could make the darkest days seem bearable.
‘I do,’ said Paolo. ‘I’ve got to make a call, Mrs B. Hold on.’
He made to reach into his pocket to call Hamish. He was going to make a date with him. A real one. But before his fingers touched it, his mobile started to vibrate against his leg.
Paolo felt his heart sink into his stomach. What if it was Fabien? If it was, he’d let it go to voicemail, sort it out later.
He looked at the screen. Hamish? Paolo gulped and picked up.