Chapter Twenty
‘And everyone’s face when I knew the answer to the final question? They did not expect some “dumb American cowboy” to know his Bildungsromans from his Kunstlerromans!’
‘That was impressive,’ I chuckle, enjoying River’s unexpected enthusiasm at the fact that he, Jim and Sir Otto completely annihilated Henry, Marisol and me.
‘With pub quizzes and custard creams and those teensy little Yorkshire puddings, perhaps this country isn’t quite the hellscape I’d originally thought.
’ River takes off his cowboy boots and sort of dives onto the big, neatly made bed so that the wooden posts tremble and the blankets ruffle up.
He picks up the remote control and starts flicking through the channels.
‘Why does every show here have bunting?’
I snort. ‘Yeah, there is a weird amount of bunting over here. We are very into it as a country.’
‘But why?’
‘British sailors used to hang bunts in the olden days, I think. For celebrations? We probably just liked how pretty they looked and kept on with it.’
‘Bunts?’
‘That’s what they used to call the flags. Bunts.’ I turn to face him. ‘I guess we’re just a nation full of bunts.’
‘Ha!’ River barks, the sound of it seeming to surprise him.
He immediately clears his throat. ‘Anyhow, you feeling good about things so far?’
‘Yes. I’m nervous and totally weirded out, but I cannot believe how quickly everything is working out,’ I run a brush through my hair.
‘An invite to talk with Henry less than four hours after we got here. You were totally right, River. Making him jealous totally worked, I’ll admit it.
I’m just relieved I’ll be able to stop pretending to be into you. ’
River grins cockily. ‘Pretending? I saw the goosebumps.’
I scowl. ‘That’s just science.’
‘Science?’
‘Yeah. I’m very sensitive to touch. Any touch. Plus, uh, your hands were … cold. Ergo, goosebumps.’
‘Sure, Gertie. Well, you did a great job of pretending you were into it.’ He puts his arms behind his head. ‘Let me take a look at you. Uh-huh. I can see why he invited you over for a bootie call. That dress. It’s a fine dress.’
I head over to the mirror above the dressing table and dab on some lipbalm. ‘Henry didn’t invite me over for a bootie call! He wants to talk to me …’
‘Just talk? In his hotel room? At eleven p.m.? After seeing you swooning over me? Yeah, I don’t think so.’
‘I didn’t swoon!’
‘Oh, you swooned. No judgement. I have that effect.’
Ugh. ‘I write swoons for a living. I’m a swoon expert. I did not swoon. It takes a lot more than a finger in the mouth to make me swoon.’
River cocks an eyebrow.
Dammit.
I wave him away and turn around so he can’t see my rapidly reddening cheeks. ‘Anyway, mine and Henry’s relationship wasn’t ever, you know, about the sex. It was deeper than that. It was a soul connection.’
River rolls his eyes, unconvinced. ‘Just so long as you two get back together and I can get the hell out of here, I’ll be as happy as a hog in slop. But also … if you do fuck him can you try to make it quiet? These walls are like cardboard and I do not need to hear that.’
‘Fine,’ I say primly, snapping the cap back onto the lipbalm. ‘Although Henry and I were never vocal lovers anyway, so that won’t be a problem. We’ll probably just hold each other all night long and talk things through, him stroking my hair, me stroking his palm …’
I clamp my mouth shut; why the hell am I sharing this level of intimate information with what essentially is a near stranger?
Am I sharing with him because I know that him being here is temporary?
Or perhaps it’s because he seems to only be half-listening to what I’m saying anyway, attention now focused on an episode of Midsomer Murders, a frown of concentration on his face.
‘I probably won’t be back until morning,’ I say.
‘Yeah, good luck, Owl,’ he replies vaguely, already hooked into what is arguably a national treasure of British TV.
I head towards the door, turning back at the last minute as I remember to remind River to ask the concierge for more teabags.
I’m surprised to see that River is watching me leave, an odd look on his face.
‘Shit, what is it?’ I dash back over to the mirror.
‘Does my hair look weird from the back?’
‘What? Your hair is fine. What are you waiting for?’ He sighs. ‘Go already, my God. Go make tender love with your windbag and let me watch this pretty murder show in peace. Go on, get.’
‘Fine!’ I tut, self-consciously patting down the back of my hair and leaving the room. ‘Have fun with the bunts.’
*
My heart starts to pound as soon as I’m outside Henry’s hotel room next door.
I knock three times. After half a minute Henry answers, wrapped in the soft white robe of the hotel, hair damp from what must have been a speedy shower.
Hmmm. Maybe River was right and this is a bootie call?
Maybe my undone dress buttons really did get him going?
‘Hello!’ I say with a coy little wave, which feels a bit weird since this is a man who has seen every single part of my body up close and in HD.
‘Come in,’ Henry grins. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Ooh. Well, yes. Minibar? A beer?’
‘Or a cup of tea?’
‘Okay, yes. That sounds good.’
‘Would you put the kettle on while I go put on my pyjamas?’
Pyjamas? So not a bootie call? Which is …
good. Definitely good. Henry was never the type to pounce on me at the best of times, but he did always like to fool around in hotels – said it made him feel like we were having an illicit affair.
So this means he actually does want to just talk about things.
A serious discussion. Figure out a way to fix what went wrong.
Maybe I could suggest couples counselling for us?
That would be a start. He could move back in while we do that.
And once he’s moved back in, I won’t feel so lonely and sad.
I’d barely have time to ruminate over Josie at all.
I’d be done and dusted with the bath wailing and the Tucci cocktails.
If he moved back in, I’d be able to write, I’d get my characters back and they would fill my head with all their stuff instead of all my stuff.
‘Sure thing.’ I head over to his tea-making station to prepare two cups.
When Henry returns dressed in a pair of green cotton pyjamas I’ve not seen before, I hand him his mug. He takes a sip and lets out a sigh of delight.
‘Best brew-maker in the land,’ he says, sitting on the suite’s lush velvet sofa and indicating that I should do the same.
‘When your parents are from Yorkshire, you have no choice. It’s in the blood, I can take no credit.’
‘Are Greg and Annie doing well? Have you seen them recently? Did Greg get the decking finished at last?’
At the mention of my parents my stomach flips sadly.
Since Josie died, my relationship with my parents has pretty much turned into a non-starter.
Every time I travelled to Yorkshire to see them, they would cry and talk about nothing but Josie, which I totally understood but couldn’t handle.
After that, each time we made plans to see each other, I’d find myself coming up with excuses to bow out or postpone.
And then about six months ago we just stopped making plans at all.
Henry never really noticed that I’d stopped going to see them, and I never brought it up.
Instead, it seemed much less painful to pretend I’d been chatting to them over the phone and that everything was A-OK.
‘Oh, they’re great,’ I lie, pasting a smile onto my face. ‘Yeah. All well.’
Henry stares at me for a moment, a fond expression playing around his eyes. He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s really good to see you, Gert.’
I nudge him with my shoulder. ‘You too, Hen.’
We look at each other for just a touch longer and I feel my mood pick up as I study the planes of his face.
My favourite face – haughty and sharp at first glance but then, with a closer look, softened by freckles across his perfect Roman nose and kind blue eyes that seem like they’re holding only thoughts that are clever and interesting.
I remember the first moment I saw him. I immediately thought – that’s a grown-up.
Which is an odd thing to think when you first meet someone.
But his bearing was so self-assured, so together, it was almost intimidating.
He’d approached me because I’d accidentally taken the desk he’d been sitting at – the best spot in the library, over-looking St James’s Square.
Then he’d peeked over my shoulder and asked what I was writing.
When I told him I was trying to write a book for the first time, his eyes lit up.
He told me he’d been writing for years and if I ever wanted some tips he’d be more than willing to help a fellow writer out.
I liked that he called me a fellow writer, like we had something in common even though I was just starting out and didn’t really know what I was doing.
I remember my chest warming pleasantly and the sheer relief at feeling an emotion that wasn’t sorrow.
Three hours later he was in my bed and when I asked him not to leave the next morning he said, ‘All right then!’ like it was an easy decision for him to make.
And then later that afternoon, when I tried to leave for an appointment with the grief counsellor I’d been seeing, he wrapped me up in his arms and told me he had developed a guaranteed shortcut for happiness, and it involved me staying in bed with him and having my hair tickled while he relayed funny anecdotes from his past. He was right.
Burrowing down with lovely Henry, immersing myself in him, was much easier than talking with some stranger about the utter dread that now plagued me most of the time.