A Hopeless Romantic Part 18

"So...why are you here?"

"What do you mean?" Laura looked at him over her Pimm's.

"I mean, here on holiday. I still don't quite understand it. Yesterday you said something about how your job was weird at the moment. And you keep darkly mentioning how you've apparently fallen out with various people, which I don't get either-you don't seem like someone who's constantly making enemies."

"I..." Laura began, but she didn't know what to say.

Nick said lightly, "So-what happened?"

"Ah." Laura looked at him, not sure how to answer. She said tentatively, "Well...it's complicated."

"Complicated. I see," said Nick. He paused. "Don't tell me if you don't want to. I don't mean to stick my nose in."

"No, no," said Laura, relieved that his curiosity was only that, nothing more. "Well-it was...well, it was just this bloke-this bloke I was seeing. That's all."

"Right," said Nick. He drained his drink. "It is none of my business, don't worry."

There was silence.

"He had a girlfriend," Laura said in a rush, unable to bear it. "We had an affair, he was-Dan-he was still with his girlfriend. I got it wrong, I got a bit-er, ah-I f.u.c.ked it up, basically. Big-time. Kind of got everything out of proportion." She cleared her throat and said in a small voice, "I thought he loved me. It's stupid. Anyway, that's it. It's over."

"And where's Dan now?" said Nick in a neutral tone.

Laura chewed a fingernail, looked up, and said, "With his girlfriend. Pregnant girlfriend. On holiday in Miami. We were...supposed to go away together. But I found out about her...being pregnant."

"When?"

"Two weeks ago," Laura said, smiling ruefully. "Lost the money on the holiday. Been suspended from my job, too. Oh, yes," she said, meeting his eye, almost enjoying the surprise on his face, "I've really screwed it up. For the moment, anyway."

"So you came here to get away from it all," Nick said.

"And so I came here." She looked up and said definitely, "It's over. That's it, end of story. I'm getting over him."

She smiled at him over her gla.s.s. And suddenly, something clicked inside her. She was getting over Dan. She wasn't there yet, but it didn't really hurt so much-the whole thing didn't, suddenly. She hadn't thought about it, couldn't bear to, and now that she said it, she realized she was. It seemed...a million years away.

"Good for you," said Nick, and he smiled at her, the hard lines of his face softening as he patted her arm. "Sounds pretty rough."

"It was-a bit." Laura looked at him gratefully, surprised at how much the gesture meant; he knew she didn't want sympathy, just a bit of human understanding. "But you're right. I'm here to get over it. This is the turn-over-a-new-leaf approach, this week. So far, not too bad. Well, now I've met you, that is. So, thanks."

"Well," Nick said, raising his gla.s.s, "thank you, too. Here's to the new-leaf approach. Or the Norfolk Outreach Program for Mental People. After you leave, I'm going to start hanging around the station waiting for the London train, to pal up with the next unstable person on holiday and in need of a friend."

"Well, that's really kind of you," said Laura.

They were silent; both took sips of their drinks. Laura looked at her companion under her eyelashes until his eyes flicked up toward her, and she looked elsewhere, at the old photos, the dried flowers in baskets on the windowsill, the clock on the wall. It was getting on for nine-thirty. But she could still see his face in her mind's eye, like she had taken a snapshot. The close-cropped, curling black hair; the bony face with its rather harsh expression, tanned by the summer sun. The expression in the eyes that gave away so little, and occasionally so much. It was strangely familiar, that face, and he reminded her of something, someone; but for the life of her, she couldn't remember what.

"When do you go?" he said suddenly.

"What?" said Laura, still lost in a dream. "Oh."

"When do you go?"

"Sat.u.r.day evening," she said. "But I have the birthday lunch all day on Sat.u.r.day, so-"

"So...what are you doing tomorrow?" he said, s.h.i.+fting in his seat on the wooden bench.

"Evening?"

He nodded, his expression inscrutable.

"Nothing," said Laura. "Well..." She felt a bit guilty suddenly. Shouldn't she be spending more time with her parents? With Mary? But she saw them all the time, a voice inside her said. And there was the lunch on Sat.u.r.day, after all-she'd see them then. Surely that was- Laura jumped and glanced down. Nick had put his hand on hers. He said quietly, "I know you have to go. But tomorrow-do you fancy a picnic at the beach? Since it's your last night?"

Suddenly Laura didn't know what to say, which was weird because, up till now, she'd felt she could say almost anything to him. She looked anxiously up at him, into his eyes. They were narrowed, watching her almost fiercely, the old expression of kindness, humor, arrogance, and sarcasm mixed with...something else, something undefinable. His grip tightened slightly; then he released her hand and sat back.

Laura said slowly, "Yes, of course."

He nodded, and they looked at each other again, rather blankly, until he said, "Meet me there at seven. I'll bring the picnic."

"Really?" said Laura. "No, I'll bring something, too."

"No, it's my pleasure. Someone in the kitchens owes me a favor."

"Right," said Laura.

"How are you getting home tonight?" said Nick as he took another sip of his drink, watching her over the gla.s.s.

"I'm getting the bus." She laughed at his bemused expression. "Seriously. There's a timetable at home. I checked it before I left. The bus goes from just outside here, every half hour. So I won't have to force you out of your bedroom again. I've planned ahead."

"Great," said Nick. "Well-that's great."

There was silence between them, and this time it was awkward. Something had s.h.i.+fted imperceptibly. Nick said nothing. He looked down at the table. Laura wanted to say something, but she couldn't.

In the end, she said, "So, I'd better go soon...."

"You don't have to," he said abruptly. "You could-"

"No," said Laura softly. She drummed her fingers on the table. "I..."

They were alone in their tiny alcove; the murmur of the other drinkers in the pub was faint. Nick slid his thumb under her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers, stopping the tattoo she was beating on the table. They stayed like that for a few seconds, her hand in his. Laura looked up at him, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it. He was watching her with that strange, familiar expression. His face was pale under his tan. She noticed how plump his bottom lip was, how biteable it was, compared to the sharp lines of the rest of his face. And then he put his other hand behind her neck and gently pulled her toward him, and kissed her.

His lips were soft, his arm was wrapped around her, and she could taste fine, salty sweat on his skin as she kissed him back. They pulled apart. She looked at him, drinking in the sight of him, and they said nothing again, but smiled at each other in understanding. Nick was still holding her hand; he squeezed it, and then put his other hand up to her mouth. He touched her lips gently with his fingers, and his hand dropped to his side again.

"Well," he said, his tone noncommittal, but he was smiling at her.

Laura smiled. A feeling of happiness was was.h.i.+ng through her, like suns.h.i.+ne after a cloudy day. She looked into his eyes. "Well," she said, and tightened her grasp on his hand, as they stared at one another.

"What's your surname?" she said suddenly.

He laughed, and stroked her cheek with his index finger. "How very Victorian of you, Laura. I didn't know you were so old-fas.h.i.+oned."

She blushed. "I just meant..."

"It's Needham," said Nick. He paused, his eyes on hers. "Better now? Any more questions?"

"No," said Laura dreamily. "Not at the moment."

So he kissed her again.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," said Nick, as they walked along Chartley High Street. It was a warm evening, the sky a deep royal blue, not quite night yet. "Are you sure you-"

"I'm sure," said Laura firmly. Mrs. Danvers had told her in no uncertain terms she had to get on that bus, much as she wanted to stay in the Needham Arms and carry on making out with Nick for the rest of the night. She looked at her watch. It was nearly ten. She was suddenly tired, and moreover, she'd promised her mother she'd help with the shopping bright and early the next morning (it was one of Angela's great obsessions, going to the supermarket at the crack of dawn, to avoid any possible danger of having to queue). And she couldn't hang around two nights in a row and invade this poor man's house, which wasn't even his. No, with regret, she knew she ought to leave him, and whatever this unexpected, lovely thing was between them.

"So." Nick took her hands in his so she was facing him, still clutching her rather bedraggled posy of flowers. The air was still, the horse chestnuts lining the road heavy and scented, stirring faintly.

She took a deep breath. "Thanks," she said. "A lot."

"No," said Nick. "Thank you. You have no idea." He held her hands tightly, but his face was in shadow under the tree and she couldn't see his expression.

"You neither," she said.

"Well, let's just agree we're both total screwups, and we won't fight about it," he said.

"What are you a screwup about?" Laura said, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Trust me, Laura, we don't have time for that now," said Nick. "I won't bore you with the many ways in which I've screwed up. You wouldn't want to see me again."

He didn't sound self-pitying, merely detached, amused. It was impossible to gauge his real meaning, so Laura said cautiously, "Nick, about what I said earlier."

"About what?"

"About that guy-the one I-"

He kissed her. "Forget about it." His hands tightened on hers again; there was hardly any gap between them as they stood facing each other, her hips pressing into his. "That was then. This is now." He stopped. "This is what this is, isn't it?" He threw the question out snappily, as if it didn't really mean anything.

Laura said hesitantly, "Nick-"

"I know," he said, his voice full of laughter. "Let's worry about that tomorrow. Or whenever."

"Absolutely," said Laura, as the sound of a heavy engine grew louder, coming toward them. She turned her head-there was the bus, its incongruous primary colors out of place in that lovely old street, this perfect, perfect evening.

"See you tomorrow."

"Seven o'clock," said Laura. "Tell Charles thanks for letting you out another evening."

"I'll tell him," he said. "The Marquis of Ranelagh says thank you."

"I'm honored," said Laura, as the doors shuddered open.

He leaned down and kissed her, hard and swift, again. "Bye, gorgeous," he said casually, stepping back onto the pavement.

The bus driver gave him a salute, doffing an imaginary hat. Laura sat down by the window and smiled at this piece of faux courtesy. She waved at Nick as the bus rolled gently down the road, out of the village, toward home.

She put her head against the gla.s.s and found she was smiling insanely, grinning ear to ear. She pulled her book out of her bag and tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. Nick. Nick! Nick. She couldn't stop smiling, and she told herself she had to calm down, that Mrs. Danvers would not be pleased at her schoolgirlish behavior. She pinched herself on the arm. Good grief, she was almost having a relapse. No. No more old Laura. She carried on looking out the window, thinking how sudden, how strange the whole thing was. She mustn't start being her old self again, the person who had taken up running to impress a boy at university and sprained her ankle. The person who had convinced herself that the man who'd painted the office, Julian, was her future husband, because they both had grandmothers called Mary.

The book fell from her lap as the bus swung around the corner. Laura put her hand over her mouth and yawned. She ran her hand down over her lips, her neck, to her breastbone, wanting to remember how it felt to kiss him, touch him. She bent down to pick up the book, and saw that the postcard her dad had given her had fallen out and skidded across the scuffed lino floor. Smiling with recognition, glad Nick hadn't seen it, she picked it up, and turned it over, and her mouth fell open with shock.

The seventh marquis smiled up at her from the card, his dark, intelligent eyes boring into hers. She gasped.

It was Nick. It was the spitting image of him. How could she not have seen it before? The hair, his eyes, the bony, rather arrogant face. Just a hundred fifty years earlier. She turned it over again, as if to check that she hadn't picked up another postcard that happened to be lying on the floor of the Coastal Hopper. She read the caption on the back: "Dominic, Seventh Marquis of Ranelagh, Earl of Albany Cross, 18671928. In 1895, the Ill.u.s.trated London News called him 'England's Most Eligible Bachelor.'"

Dominic. Nick.

chapter twenty-two.

I s it okay if I stay with Naomi tonight?" Laura asked casually the next day, as she was pus.h.i.+ng the trolley around the supermarket with her mother.

Angela was humming with nerves, rapidly repeating ingredients under her breath. She turned her attention momentarily away from the bag of onions she was holding, and squeaked slightly as someone pushed past them. It was lunchtime, it was Friday-the supermarket was packed full of locals and holidaymakers alike, stocking up for what promised to be a boiling-hot weekend-perfect barbecuing weather. Laura waited behind her. She was tired and hadn't slept well. Her head ached.

"Lulu doesn't eat meat, does she?" Angela said, not listening.

"Lulu doesn't eat anything, Mum," said Laura, prying the onions from her mother's frenzied grip and picking up a smaller bag. "Here, Mum, you wanted red onions. I asked you a question, do you know what it was?"

"Er..." Angela had wandered down the aisle and was looking at crisps. "Annabel's always so snooty about these," she said, brandis.h.i.+ng a huge packet of semi-posh crisps. "Says they're full of additives. But I rather like them, what do you think?"

"I think they're great, and Gran likes them, too, remember? She asked you to get that exact flavor," said Laura patiently.

"Oh, my goodness," said Angela. "My memory."

"Mum!" said Laura. "It doesn't matter what Annabel thinks. Or what she wants. Gran's your mum, isn't she? And this is her birthday! Isn't it!"

"Yes!" said Angela, slamming her fist down into the crisps section. There was a loud crunching sound as several packets burst. "Oh, dear," she said, looking amazed at her own strength. "Good grief."

"She winds you up," said Laura. "Don't worry about her. Simon's coming back tomorrow, it's Granny's birthday, the sun's s.h.i.+ning, and everything's fine." She pushed the trolley on, blocking her mother's way. "Now, is it okay if I stay with Naomi tonight? I'll be back early tomorrow to help you before the others come, I promise."

"Yes!" said Angela. "Bless you, darling. You're quite right. Yes!"

"Yes to Naomi?" said Laura, hopping from foot to foot with frustration.

"Naomi?" said her mother, as if hearing the name for the first, not the third, time. "Oh. Again, dear?"

"Yes, I know," said Laura. Her head was throbbing. "I'm sorry, but tonight is my last night, and it's been so lovely to meet up with her again."

"You've really enjoyed it, haven't you?" said Angela, stopping to look at her daughter.