Erica laughs.
And then she kisses me.
It’s a strong kiss, full of a passion and desire I had no idea was there.
I respond in kind, because let’s face it, I feel exactly the same way about her.
So . . .
Here it is, then.
A moment that has been coming down the tracks for a long time now, I think. A moment that anyone with a good handle on these things would have seen coming from at least two chapters of ‘Dumped Actually’ ago.
Erica is the right woman for me. And I’m pretty sure I’m the right man for her. I didn’t realise it until this kiss, but I know I’m right. She probably feels the same way too. This kiss is certainly telling me as much.
Our relationship has been founded on mutual trust, respect and a strong friendship. One that not even someone as forceful and powerful as Benedict Montifore could undermine.
Without Erica, I doubt I would have been able to grow as much as I have done. Without her, there would be no version of Ollie Sweet who could do what he just did.
Of course I should be with her. Of course we should be together.
It just feels right, doesn’t it?
It’s just meant to be.
I stop kissing Erica, and gently push her away.
She looks confused. ‘Ollie? I’m sorry. I thought . . . I thought you wanted this.’
I nod, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. ‘I do, Erica. I truly do.’ I take her hand. ‘You’re an amazing person. I would love to be with you . . . and for the first time in my life, I actually believe I deserve to be with someone like you.’
She’s crying a little too, now. Her eyes glimmer with a light that I could fall into for a thousand years. ‘So be with me, Ollie,’ she says, her hand tightening on mine. ‘Will you do that?’
I look into her eyes – a thousand possibilities, a thousand futures hanging in the balance of the words I say next.
‘No.’ I close my eyes. ‘I can’t, Erica. Not now.’
‘Why?’ The look of rejection in her eyes is unbearable.
‘Because I’m not ready, Erica. I’m not . . . I’m not there yet.’ I let go of her hand and step away. ‘So much has changed for me . . . but I know I’m not done changing yet. Do you understand?’
Erica nods slowly, tears coursing down her cheeks.
‘I would love to be with you more than anything – but if I do it now . . . if I do it too soon . . . it won’t be right. It won’t be right for you. And it won’t be right for me.’
Erica breathes a deep sigh. ‘I understand,’ she says.
Well, of course she does. This is Erica Hilton we’re talking about.
‘I just need more time,’ I explain. ‘I’m on the right path, but it’s one I have to be on alone. At least for now.’
I’m hating myself for saying all of this, but I equally know that what I’m saying is absolutely correct. If I can’t be happy on my own, there’s no way I can be happy with anyone else. I have to stand upright by myself, so I don’t need to lean on someone else.
I say as much to Erica.
‘Yeah. I get it,’ she tells me, regretfully.
‘I have to know I can be confident with myself, before I can be confident alongside someone like you,’ I say, wiping the tears from my eyes.
Erica shakes her head and touches my cheek with a gentle hand. ‘Such a shame. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man like you before.’
‘Likewise.’
Her eyebrows crease.
‘I mean . . . I mean I’ve never met a woman like you!’ I blurt out. ‘I don’t think you’re a man, or anything. You’re quite clearly a woman. I mean, look at you!’ I don’t quite point at Erica’s breasts by way of demonstration, but I’m not far away from it.
And with this ridiculously awkward exchange, the spell is broken, and Oliver Sweet is back to his usual self. Which, for the first time, I don’t think is such a bad thing.
Erica laughs. ‘You are something else, Ollie.’
I smile ruefully. ‘I know. There’s not much I can do about it.’
She takes my hand again and looks deep into my eyes. ‘I’m not going to wait for you, Ollie. I’m not that kind of woman.’
‘Oh, I know that, Erica!’ I reply, with a grin.
‘But when you feel ready, and if I’m still available . . .’
She leaves it hanging there – an unspoken promise.
‘Great. I’ll remember that,’ I tell her.
She lets go of my hand again, for the last time, and fishes out her car keys. ‘And now, I think you and I need to go back to the office and tell everyone that they still have a job.’
I laugh. ‘Sounds like a plan to me.’ I think for a moment. ‘And I have another story to write for “Dumped Actually” after we’ve done that. One about doorways.’
Erica gives me a puzzled look.
That’s okay, though. She’ll understand what I mean . . . once she reads all about it.
AFTERLUDE
‘Hello, Troy,’ I say to the elephant as he sniffs at my T-shirt.
‘His name is not Troy, sir,’ Manish says to me, with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘His name is Sundar.’
I give the conservation officer a small grin. ‘I know, Manish. He just reminds me of . . . another elephant called Troy that I once met.’
Manish looks perplexed by this. ‘Troy is not a good name for an elephant, sir.’
‘No. I know it’s not,’ I reply, looking out over the lush rainforest of Uttar Pradesh in northern India, where this elephant sanctuary is based.
I’ve been in the country for three days now.
It’s been a whirlwind of interesting smells, loud noises and friendly locals. All of which I could spend six years writing about, and never truly capture the sheer cacophonous beauty of it all.
It’s been a month since I kissed Erica Hilton and helped to save Actual Life. A month that has gone by in a flash of productivity and continued personal growth.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that things might have been a bit awkward between Erica and me, given what had happened in that car park, but you’d be wrong – thankfully.
Erica and I have more or less slipped back into the relationship we had before that climactic day. She’s the boss, and I do what she says – most of the time, anyway.
But there is something else there, now.
An understanding, if you will. An unspoken agreement between us that there could be something more than just friendship, if things turn out well.
And, in a funny way, that tacit promise has actually brought us closer as friends. Given us a further bond to add to the strong ones that were already there.
Whether our friendship will have a chance to blossom into anything else is not for me to know right now. But it’s not something I intend to dwell on. I’ve done far too much dwelling in my lifetime. The time for dwelling has most definitely ceased.
Mum and Dad drove me to the airport last week. Mum cried a little as I said goodbye to her at the gate, and Dad gave me a big hug. I almost couldn’t bring myself to leave them.
I went to mindfulness class again with Wimsy. It’s something I intend to keep doing for as long as I need to. He’s still in the fledgling stages of his relationship with Lizzy, so I’m more than happy to provide a little moral support, while he works the whole thing out for himself. They look very nice together, though. In fact, they look like they were made for each other.
But they’re taking it very slowly – and who can blame them? They’re two people who have known the pain of a lost love – and finding a new one can be a difficult and slow process. I think they’ll make it, though. I’ve seen the way they look at each other.
It’s the same way I look at Erica these days.
But!
All of that is in the future . . .
One possible future, anyway.
Who knows what will happen?
Not me, certainly.
I’ve giv
en up trying to predict what lies ahead for me.
I’ve also given up trying to understand the past.
What’s done is done, and what will be . . . just will be. It’ll happen, whether I spend time worrying about it or not.
I don’t know if I will end up with Erica – or if I’ll end up with anyone else for that matter.
But right now, I really don’t care.
Does that sound strange to you? Does it sound a little cold?
It’s not meant to. I can assure you my feelings for Erica are real, as I’m sure hers are for me.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since that day at Thorn Manor – other than the fact you can’t force a happy ending – it’s that I can’t spend my time caring so much about what other people feel. Or what other people think.
Not for the minute, anyway.
Not at this stage in my life.
Because right now, I have to think of myself. I have to think of Ollie Sweet, first and foremost. It’s still hard to do, but I’m getting more and more used to it.
Because that’s the only way I can make myself happy. That’s the only way I can love myself.
(Not like that, don’t be so disgusting.)
And then maybe, just maybe, when I’ve learned to love and accept who I am . . . I’ll be ready to love someone else. Properly, for the first time.
And, hopefully, she’ll have deep green eyes and red hair that seems to have a life of its own.
But we will see.
We will just have to wait and see.
Right at this moment, though, Sundar the elephant is kneeling down to allow me to climb on to his back. He looks relatively happy about this, I think. I am pretty light and inoffensive, when you get right down to it.
I clamber up on to Sundar’s back and gaze out once again at the lush rainforest in front of me. Then I reach into my pocket and pull out my iPhone. When I pop the earbuds into my ears, the gentle sound of a sitar fills them.
Yes.
This is perfect.
This is just what I dreamed about.
And sometimes – at the right time – dreams need to be lived out on your own.
I pat Sundar’s big grey head and smile.
‘Off we go, my friend,’ I say. ‘Let’s see what the future holds.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, writing a book requires a lot of support from the people around you. They might not actually be there when you’re tapping away feverishly on the keyboard, but without them, I can honestly say none of the stories I’ve written would ever see the light of day.
So, thanks – as ever – to my wife, Gemma. Every time I’ve been dumped in my life, it was entirely worth it, because it eventually led to her.
Thanks to my mother, Judy, and my sister, Sharon, for their support. And to all of my close friends as well . . . you know who you are.
More thanks go to everyone at Amazon Publishing, and to my agent, Jon, for continuing to have faith in these silly little stories that I insist on writing.
And finally, as ever, there’s you . . . the person good enough to buy and read this novel. Without you, there really is no point in doing any of this. If you ever dumped me, I don’t know what I’d do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Chloe Waters
Nick Spalding is the bestselling author of twelve novels, two novellas and two memoirs. Nick worked in media and marketing for most of his life before turning his energy to his genre-spanning humorous writing. He lives in the south of England with his wife.
Dumped, Actually Page 28
