Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Felicity didn’t get out of bed for two days straight. She told Andrea she was sick, but she knew the excuse would only last for so long and Andrea would need help with the cats at some point. So, on the third morning, she hauled herself out of her pit, opened a window to let in some fresh air and picked up her phone for the first time in forty-eight hours.
Six unread messages.
Adam: I can explain. Please let me try.
I’m sorry. I really am. I thought you knew.
Please, please, Felicity Brooks, please can we talk? Please? Is that enough apologies yet? Please let me explain.
Ugh , she thought.
Delete, delete, delete with a jabbing finger.
Sophie: Just checking in. How are things with James after your date? Fancy a coffee? X
Delete, with a sob.
Bex: Darling, I absolutely insist you let me take you for lunch, I’ve got something super important to tell you.
Save, to deal with later.
Andrea: The cats are missing you.
I miss them too. So sorry. I’ll be in shortly.
Nothing, of course, from a certain Penguin Man.
With a sigh, Felicity hauled herself into the shower. She had come to a decision.
‘I’m taking a week off,’ she announced somewhat brusquely when she arrived at work. Andrea-style, if you will.
The real Andrea looked rather stricken, but Felicity was ready for this eventuality.
‘Don’t panic, I’ve asked my friend Sophie to cover for me. It’ll all be fine.’
(She hadn’t but she had made a mental note to do it later, which was almost the same thing.)
Still Andrea didn’t speak, so it was time to administer the final blow.
‘Besides, I haven’t had a proper holiday since I started working here. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that’s actually illegal or something. Probably.’
There was a pause, and then Andrea threw back her head and laughed heartily, her plait bobbing.
‘Fine,’ she said, when she’d recovered. ‘Fine. Bloody employees and their bloody tricksy ways. Your “friend” better be halfway sensible.’
‘Oh, she is,’ said Felicity.
Sort of. Not really.
The next thing to do was get on a plane. Only a very small plane and only for a very short distance but for Felicity this was a mammoth step forward.
‘You’re doing what?’ said Sophie, when she called her that night to explain. ‘How exciting. Can I come? I’m dying to get away.’
‘Um, no, not really,’ said Felicity. Deep breath. ‘I need you to look after some cats and dogs and such with Andrea. Can you do it for me? Please? I’ll love you for absolutely ever and ever.’
Another pause.
‘You want me to do what?’
‘I want you to, well, I need you to “be me” and do my job for a week. Sophie, I can’t tell you how much I need this. I absolutely have to get away. I’ve got some… stuff to sort out. And I desperately need someone to cover my shifts because I can’t leave Andrea in the lurch. I know it’s such a lot to ask but please, pretty please, I’ll love you for ever and ever and ever. Please?’
Sophie chuckled. It was a deep, throaty chuckle that didn’t quite fit with the rest of her, that was what made it especially attractive.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, all right. What else have I got to do?’
She was being genuine, too. Sophie had no job and a live-in nanny for the children and a very rich father and even richer husband. Felicity didn’t have a clue how she filled her days to be honest, but she knew it must involve a lot of ‘wafting about’. How the other half live .
Deep breath. Here was the crunch.
‘Great! Thank you! Er… and can you start tomorrow?’
‘So, I mean, that’s quite sudden, isn’t it really?’
There was a pause. Felicity waited anxiously, picking at the scab on her arm and making it bleed again.
Then: ‘But I can confirm I have checked my diary and I have nothing to do at all except for my spin class on Thursday night.’
Felicity let out a squeal. ‘You cherub. I love you. I mean it. Thank you so much.’
They discussed the details quickly and Felicity came off the phone feeling suddenly excited. She hastily threw some things in a bag. If she didn’t go now, she might never do it.
At East Midlands airport the next morning, the queues were pleasingly small.
‘One return to Guernsey, please,’ she said timidly, putting her driving licence down on the counter when it was her turn at the desk.
A tall, red-headed border control officer inspected her licence rather closely and Felicity felt a stab of panic.
‘It’s domestic. I don’t think I need a passport, do I?’
The officer looked up at her with a severe look on her face, and then spotted Felicity’s ginger locks and seemed to soften in the way VW campervan drivers always wave at each other, like they have a special club for vehicles that look cool but are impossible to drive.
She even smiled. Sort of.
‘No, you don’t need a passport. This is fine.’
‘Oh, that’s a relief, thank you,’ said Felicity, scooping up her ticket and licence with trembling hands. That’s a relief because I don’t have one.
‘Enjoy your flight,’ said the lady with another appreciative nod at her hair (if that was possible, was that possible? Maybe it was just her anxiety talking, but it definitely, definitely felt as though the scary and slightly creepy officer lady had been staring at her hair).
‘Thanks!’ said Felicity and hastened through the barrier before the officer could start up a conversation.
It was only when she got on the plane and sat back in her seat that it became clear she had managed to get toothpaste in her hair during her super quick bathroom visit that morning. Quite a lot of it, in fact. It was massed in a clump behind her right ear. So much of it was stuck in her hair that it was almost as if she had squeezed an entire tube of toothpaste behind her ear. When and how had that even happened? And why today of all days had her body decided to forget the subconscious and relatively simple action of squeezing the correct amount out of a tube of toothpaste?
As they were about to take off, she wasn’t allowed to go to the tiny aeroplane toilet, so Felicity did her best to clean it up with the only thing to hand, the sick bag in the seat pocket in front of her. It wasn’t pretty. When the flight attendant came round, there was toothpaste absolutely everywhere. The whole row stank of Sensodyne, original mint flavour, and she could see the attendant’s nose wrinkle as the smell wafted towards her. Felicity sheepishly handed her the crumpled bag and ordered a gin and tonic only to be told the flight was so short there would be no drinks trolley coming through. Tea, coffee or water was all that was on offer. Felicity gave a deep sigh and put her head back on the hard and rather scratchy headrest, trying to ignore the overpowering wafts of minty freshness.
Not a great start to the day, was it? She tried to relax and channel her inner cat. What would Bobby Charlton do? she thought. He definitely wouldn’t get toothpaste in his fur. Other things, maybe, but not toothpaste. He also wouldn’t feel guilty about this trip. But then, he’s a cat. Do cats ever feel guilty about anything?
Felicity was just about to fall into a shame and guilt cycle for the umpteenth time when her stomach gave a lurch. The plane had jerked into life and her head was pinned to her seat as the pilot put his foot down – metaphorically or actually, she had no clue how this all worked . Do planes have accelerators? All she knew in that moment was she was suddenly having even more regrets about her rather rash decision.
The air hostess smiled reassuringly at her from the little fold-down seat three rows in front. In fact, there were only twenty rows in the whole plane and only about ten people on the flight, so it felt rather like a set-up for an unfunny sitcom. Or maybe a disaster movie, she thought, feeling a bit sick as the plane lifted into the air and gave a shudder.
Please God, don’t let me die. And also, if I do die, please don’t let there be any more toothpaste in my hair when they find me. Although, I suppose I’ll smell minty fresh for the rescue team.
When Felicity first made the decision to do this, all of – what was it? – two or three days ago, it was on condition that she did not allow herself to feel guilty. This was her time. Something she needed to do. She had resolved to throw caution to the wind. Live recklessly. Spoil herself. All that jazz. Except that she did. Feel guilty, that is. It seemed to be a permanent state of mind these days. Shortly after her arrival on the island, a shockingly beautiful and apparently very tiny pile of stones in the middle of an expansive blue sea, the guilt set in in earnest.
For starters, amidst all the extremely last-minute.com preparations, Felicity had blown more than ￡1,000 on a luxury hotel room for the week, an act of extremely un-Felicity-like behaviour. But then again, what on earth was she saving for anyway? She had everything she needed for the life of spinsterhood that was once again beckoning and a lifetime supply of rescue cats at her disposal, after all. What was a rainy-day fund for if not to blow a grand at the gorgeous Bella Dame Hotel in Guernsey?
Perhaps she was having some kind of breakdown. Who knew?
Anyway, when she walked into her beautiful room and saw the four-poster bed and roll-top bath and chocolates on the pillows, the guilt left her alone for a bit, presumably struck dumb in awe and wonder or something.
Felicity had chosen this hotel deliberately. It was far enough from the places that made her heart stop but close enough to the places she loved, and yet not somewhere that triggered any memories itself. In fact, she thought, as she put the tiny kettle on, she could happily spend a week here and not do any of the things she knew she really had to. She ran a bath and ate the tiny chocolates and wondered how long it was until dinner, and tried to pretend she didn’t know full well that she would need to get on with things tomorrow. For now, she decided, it was only fair to enjoy herself. It had been an eventful few weeks, after all.
She checked her phone. Still no message from Penguin Man. Her heart clenched at the thought of him. His blond hair. His twinkly blue eyes . A blond titan.
He might forget me while I’m away , she thought, suddenly. And then immediately cursed herself for being such a sap. Get up, Felicity! Go and do what you have come here to do.
First stop was the gin bar downstairs, where a rather attractive Irish waiter served her a delicate bowl-shaped glass full of the special gin brewed on site, mixed of course with the finest tonic water and all the trimmings. Not that the in-house gin distillery was the real reason she had chosen this hotel, of course.
She was just contemplating a second drink when a waitress – who looked about twelve years old – arrived and led her through to the dining room, politely egging her on while she stuffed her face with the most divine lemon linguine and sticky toffee pudding and tried to look like she belonged in a place like that. No one seemed to think it odd that she was alone. In fact, dotted amongst the elderly couples and one or two families in the room there were a couple of other ladies who looked to be staying there on their own. Although they were wearing rather more pearls than Felicity.
‘What brings you to Guernsey?’ asked a very smiley elderly man later, when they were all being served coffee in the lounge, satiated, and glowing from the gin and the roaring fire.
Felicity hesitated.
Oh, what the hell.
‘I was born here,’ she said, simply.
‘Is that so?’ said the man, raising his glass in salute. ‘How long since you’ve been back?’
Felicity took a gulp of her third G&T of the night.
‘Twenty-five years. It’s good to be back.’
And as she said it, she meant it. Sort of.