The Countdown Begins #3
After screaming into a pillow, she’d thrown on some clothes, tied her wet hair into a ponytail, shoved a lip gloss in her handbag and jumped on the bike.
Luckily she’d been so panicked and nervous about their meeting, she’d already obsessed over Google Maps, working out the route to the bar, seeing how long it would take, zooming in on street view, so she was able to cycle there without getting lost.
Still, that didn’t help her appearance. Already, she could feel her curls pinging out everywhere in the humidity.
So not the professional-blow-dry look she’d been aiming for.
As for her outfit, she was wearing jeans and an embroidered peasant top, which she could already tell was a mistake.
It had looked so pretty and bohemian in the hotel gift shop in Taormina, but she had slightly larger breasts than the mannequin and she now feared it made her look less bohemian, and more like one of those actual, rosy-cheeked buxom peasants you see in nineteenth-century paintings, milking cows.
But it was too late to change now. She was almost there.
White-knuckling the handlebars, she careered around the corner.
There it was! Up ahead! With the bar in her sights, she slowed down.
It was on the opposite side of the street, with large windows and one side almost open, through which you could see the bar and the tables beyond.
Braking, she jumped off her bike, locking it against a lamppost, then turned, her heart racing.
He was inside. She could see him, but he couldn’t see her.
Couldn’t see her standing on the other side of the street.
Frozen. All those feelings coming rushing back as she gazed at his familiar profile, at the way he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the cleft in his chin, glanced at his phone, drained the last drops of red wine from his glass.
Merlot, probably. Or was he still raving about Rioja?
A flashback to them at her flat, unboxing the latest delivery from The Sunday Times wine club, doing research for the wines they were going to have at their wedding, laughing as he told her some funny story about his friend who was a sommelier at a fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. Was any of it true? Was all of it lies?
Finally, this was her chance to confront him, to ask him why he did it, to find out if anything he said was real.
To try to get her money back. To try to get her life back.
Her breath held tight inside her chest, she stared at him.
At the man she thought she was going to share the rest of her life with.
And she suddenly realized she couldn’t move.
5.30 p.m.
‘Let’s go for walk along the beach.’
‘Another five minutes . . . I’m a bit sleepy . . .’
‘C’mon, babe.’ Rory tugged at her hand and Flick opened her eyes to see him standing over her, doing his best puppy-dog impression.
‘Have you secretly entered a Mr Romantic competition?’ she smiled.
‘Oi! I’m always romantic.’
‘Is that why you always refuse to send me a Valentine’s Day card?’
‘That’s different.’
Standing up, they held hands and walked down to the waterfront. It was a bit cooler now and the warm water lapped over their feet as they held their flip-flops and walked along the shoreline, their feet making pairs of footprints in the damp sand.
‘We can post one of those photos of us holding hands and walking on the beach,’ she laughed. ‘The ones you always take the piss out of.’
He mumbled something but she didn’t hear.
‘Next you’ll be drawing a love heart in the sand with our initials—’
She broke off as ahead she noticed a love heart freshly drawn in the sand.
‘Oh look, how funny . . . and oh, wow, what a coincidence, they’ve got the same initials as us!’
Silence.
She turned to Rory, except he was no longer standing beside her; he’d dropped to one knee in the sand and out of the pocket of his shorts was pulling a small black velvet . . .
Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no.
5.31 p.m.
It was like she’d turned into one of those sculptures she’d seen that afternoon at the gallery.
Move, Maggie implored herself desperately. Walk over there now. Before it’s too late.
But she couldn’t move a limb. Her courage and confidence deserted her and she couldn’t face him. Paralysed, she remained rooted to the spot while the world rushed around her and her chance slipped away.
Then he did something. He looked at his watch.
It was the smallest of movements; lifting his wrist, turning its face towards him, the light catching on the brass face.
But she’d recognize that watch anywhere.
It was her dad’s watch. The one He took to fix.
The one He never brought back. The watch her dad wore every single day of his life, the one she would play with as she sat on his knee, tracing her small fingers along the leather strap that he used to say was made of crocodile, the one passed down from her grandad that was supposed to be left to Charlie, but was left to her instead when he died.
And, like a lightning bolt, she felt a sudden hot flash of anger.
It struck her with such force, bursting through her, white-hot and searing, obliterating all the fears and doubts, replacing them with fury.
You fucking bastard. It was that watch that was going to give her the courage to walk into that bar.
Snapping back, she took a deep breath. This was it.
This was her one chance. She took a step forward.
Only, she didn’t hear the moped speeding towards her.
Her heart was hammering too loudly in her chest. She didn’t see the driver reaching out to grab her handbag.
Her mind was too focused on the conversation she’d rehearsed a million times in her head.
And when it was pulled from her shoulder, and she was knocked to the ground, her head hit the pavement and she thought, Oh shit. And then it all went black.
5.31 p.m.
At the exact moment Maggie was knocked unconscious, Flick looked at Rory on bended knee.
She felt like one of those heroines in the old silent black-and-white movies, tied to the tracks as a train thundered towards them.
The selfies, the search for the perfect location, the freshly drawn love heart .
. . so this was why he was being so weird all day.
‘Flick.’
And now the train was about to crash right into her and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Will you marry me?’