‘So don’t keep it to yourself,’ I urge.
He rubs his thumb against his chin, troubled. ‘Well, it’s just this . . . ’ He finally looks in my eyes and swallows. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Imogen.’
I can feel my mouth dropping wider and wider without any ability to stop the process. Because, frankly, the idea that this man, this beautiful, kind, charismatic man, would even give me the time of day is revelation enough. My head begins spinning with the implications of it all, and I suddenly don’t know what to say, do, or where to even look.
It’s therefore entirely by chance that my eyes land on my silent mobile phone at the exact moment that a call rings off, followed by a list of the calls I’ve missed. There are nine. And most of them are not from my mum, but Dad.
‘Oh God,’ I mutter, all other thoughts gone in an instant as I begin flicking through my phone. I have a very bad feeling.
‘Is everything okay?’ Harry asks.
‘Can you excuse me a minute?’ I dial the number as the sickly sensation swirls through my insides. ‘Dad, what is it?’
He hesitates, before the sentence froths from his mouth in a cold panic. ‘It’s Florence, sweetheart. She’s been in an accident.’
Chapter 53
Five years ago I awoke in hospital and my dad was forced to tell me that Roberto had been killed.
The ominous nausea that engulfed me in the seconds before that now return to haunt me. Unlike then, when I knew immediately that the person I loved most in the world had been snatched away from me, Florence’s fate is terrifying in its lack of clarity.
The blood in my veins seems to freeze over as I listen to what Dad has to say, noting how he’s trying to sound calm and how badly he is failing.
His knowledge is patchy. He’s in his car on the way to hospital and only has a mishmash of hysterical messages from Mum, left on his phone, to go on. But he knows this much: they were at the zebra crossing near the park. Florence saw the swings and ran ahead. A car came out of nowhere and, seeing Mum at the side of the road, didn’t register a small child four feet away from her. The car braked. Mum dived to grab her out of the way.
It was too late.
‘Is she conscious?’ Nicola asks, as I frantically stuff clothes into my suitcase.
She and Meredith spent the morning relaxing in the spa. The air of tranquillity with which it left them disintegrated the second they heard my news.
‘I don’t know,’ I manage through trembling lips, zipping up the case. Nicola has had a look online and discovered that there isn’t a flight from Barcelona to the north-west of England for four and a half hours, but I want to get to the airport as soon as I can, even if it’ll mean hanging around. ‘Dad’s trying to play it down, but he knows little until he gets to the hospital. He said he nearly didn’t phone me at all until he knew more, but I’m glad he did.’ I pick up my passport and slump on the end of the bed, looking at the clock anxiously as the second hand moves inordinately slowly. ‘This is torture.’
Emotion prickles through me and, despite my attempts to hold it together, tears flood down my face.
‘I’m going to phone the airline and try and get you onto that flight,’ Nicola tells me.
‘In the meantime, let’s get you downstairs,’ says Meredith, putting her arm round me. ‘You should go and have a stiff drink – there’s no point going to the airport yet, the flight’s not for ages.’
I shake my head. ‘I just want to get there.’
I drag my bag out of the hotel room and Meredith and I take the lift to the lobby, while Nicola stays in the room on hold to the airline.
Harry is waiting downstairs for me. ‘There’s a taxi outside – I’ve spoken to the driver for you, and he’s all geared up to take you to the airport.’
I nod, still trying to hold it together but failing miserably. And, suddenly, Harry’s arms are around me, squeezing me into him. I close my eyes and for a brief, quiet moment, allow the tension gripping me to float away. Then I fill my lungs with air and pull away, rubbing my hand across the wet skin on my cheek.
‘Don’t you think you’d be better off waiting to see what the deal is?’ he asks. ‘You should speak to your dad, once he knows exactly what’s happened, before you do anything hasty. She might be okay . . . ’
He has a way of saying things that makes it impossible not to feel optimistic, despite evidence to the contrary. ‘She might, mightn’t she?’ I mutter. ‘I mean, I don’t know she’s badly injured. It might just be a scrape.’ But as soon as I’ve said it, I am overcome by the notion that I’m being complacent.
‘You should wait here and try to stay calm until you’ve got news. That plane’s not taking off any earlier, whether you’re here or sitting in some crap café in the terminal.’
‘He’s right,’ insists Meredith.
Knowing full well that I’m not thinking straight at the moment, I defer to the judgment of those around me and follow Harry to a sofa by the bar, while Meredith goes to the loo.
‘Have you got a picture of Florence?’ he asks, clearly trying to distract me from my own hysteria.
I nod and pull up my favourite of dozens of choices stored on my phone. She’s wearing a pink Hello Kitty bobble hat, the apple of her cheek pressed hard against mine as we grin like lunatics. ‘That was at Christmas when we went ice-skating at the Tower of London. Have you ever been?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’d break my neck.’
I manage a smile. ‘She was surprisingly good at it, considering her age. They have these special little skates with two blades. I could’ve done with them myself, to be honest.’
‘So she’s a natural?’
‘Definitely, although she’s got this terribly independent streak – which is good, obviously, and I’m glad she has – but when it comes to things like that she absolutely refuses to do something as babyish as hold someone’s hand. It resulted in quite a few falls. It’s the same when she’s crossing the road . . .’
My voice trails off as a horrifying thought occurs to me that I may never be able to take her ice-skating again.
‘’Arry Pfeiffer!’ All of a sudden, Delfina is marching towards us, fury imprinted on her face. ‘This is ’ow you say . . . beyond a joke. No wonder I am getting the sack with you not turning up on our excursions!’
‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault,’ I tell her. She looks me up and down, before turning back to Harry.
‘It’s not her fault,’ he insists. ‘It’s nobody’s fault. Let me explain . . .’ He takes her to one side and I suddenly feel very alone.
I stand up and walk towards the big glass doors, where I gaze across to the beach with a hideous, numb feeling of time slowing down. I need to know what’s going on. Now.
As if answering my prayers, my phone rings. I nearly break my arm trying to answer it.
‘Dad!’
‘It’s Mum. I’m on your father’s phone as mine’s run out of battery.’
‘Mum, is she alive?’
Mum starts to cough. ‘Florence? Of course she’s alive!’
My body goes limp with relief and it takes a moment for me to gather my thoughts. ‘Dad said she was hit by a car.’
‘Not Florence. Me.’ Her voice is trembling. ‘I’m afraid your dad got his wires crossed when I left him a message. I was in a bit of a state so I mightn’t have been as clear as I could’ve.’
‘Mum . . . what happened? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, just about. My nerves are in tatters and I’ve got a leg full of cuts and bruises, but apart from that it’s nothing serious. I’m walking out of the hospital now, or at least limping.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ I breathe, holding my hand over my mouth.
‘Imogen, it was my fault. I dread to think what might have happened.’ Her next sentences are delivered in a frenzied stream. ‘I couldn’t get Florence to hold my hand. She slipped away and the car appeared out of nowhere. I managed to push her out of the way, but tumbled to the ground myse
lf. It was a miracle nobody was really hurt . . . if Florence had been a foot closer . . . oh God!’
‘Mum.’ I’ve never heard her so upset.
‘I’m so sorry, Imogen. I nearly . . . she nearly . . .’
I sit down on the nearest sofa, my knees are shaking so hard. ‘Mum, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I know more than anyone else that four-year-olds are not like robots. Trying to keep them under control can be a nightmare. Sometimes, accidents happen. All I care about is that both of you are okay.’
‘We are,’ she whimpers.
‘I think I should still come home now,’ I say. ‘There’s a flight in four hours.’
Nicola taps me on the shoulder and I look up. ‘Sorry, Imogen, but it’s full,’ she mouths.
I groan and go back to the phone. ‘I can’t get on that flight, but I’m going to see if there’s another one today.’
‘Imogen, don’t,’ argues Mum. ‘You’re flying back tomorrow and that’s soon enough. We’re all fine. I’m so sorry we scared you. You must’ve been out of your mind. Would you like to speak to Florence?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll put her on. And . . . Imogen?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t say it often enough, but you’re the best daughter anyone could hope for.’
The phone crackles as she hands the phone to Florence. As usual, she dispenses with any pleasantries and starts talking as if the conversation has been going on already for several minutes.
‘I’ve been helping out the doctors, Mummy,’ she tells me. ‘I stuck a plaster on Grandma’s leg. They said I can do an operation next.’
‘Wow.’ I laugh. ‘You must be a natural.’
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’
I pause, wondering where on earth this has come from. Then I glance at Harry, who is watching me make the call. He smiles, totally unaware of the question. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘I heard Grandma saying last night she wished you’d get one.’
I’m suddenly lost for words, and I can hear my mum trying to wrestle the phone off Florence. She loses.
‘Um . . . well, what would you think if I had one?’ I feel compelled to ask.
‘Good,’ Florence says simply. ‘I’ve got to go now.’
‘Okay, sweetheart. I love you.’
But she’s already gone. My living, breathing, well and truly okay daughter.
Chapter 54
A hot, early evening breeze dances across the beach as I emerge from the hotel under a vivid pink sky. This stretch of sand has been largely deserted for the day, except for a group of teenagers playing volleyball and three game, elderly men – mercifully all wearing trunks – bracing themselves for a swim.
The waves are stronger than usual, fizzing against the shore like spilled champagne and splashing against the boardwalk, where rollerbladers whiz past kissing couples and ladies walk overgroomed dogs.
I bypass the hotel sun loungers and remove my flip-flops, my toes sinking into hot sand as I head for the beach side of the boardwalk. There, I perch on the edge, dangling my feet as I take my notepad and pen from my bag.
Despite there being no future with Harry, there’s one thing that this week – and today – has taught me. And that’s that being on my own for the rest of my life probably isn’t a good idea. That I’m missing out on a whole bundle of stuff: support, companionship, fun and, although my feelings for Harry won’t have the opportunity to blossom into anything so grand . . . love. Something that even my four-year-old daughter recognises.
Tomorrow, I go home and Harry flies to Aberdeen. We are destined never to see each other again: a thought that makes my stomach turn inside out when I dwell on it too long.
But there is tonight. And there is the rest of my life. And there are some things I need to say to the man I loved more than any other.
Amore mio,
This is the last letter I will be writing to you. Not because I don’t love you, and I won’t always love you. But because I think I’m finally starting to came round to the idea that my friends probably have a point. That it’s time.
That little piece of you that meant so much to me, your necklace, is back where it belongs. I will wear it every day of my life, and think of you, and of the wonderful thing that we had together that nothing will ever change, even death.
I’ve spent the last few years fundamentally unable to accept that you’re gone and that I’m facing a future without you. But, as impossible as it is to stomach, I have no choice.
And, if there’s one thing of which I’ve reluctantly become convinced, it’s that you wouldn’t have wanted me to be like this. You wouldn’t have wanted me not to live the rest of my life. You were too kind for that, too generous, too good; and you loved me too much to want to see me as anything other than happy.
So, as difficult as it is, I’m going to let go, Roberto, just enough to live again .
Goodnight, my darling. I love you. Sleep tight.
Imogen
xxxxxxxxx
I pause to look up at the clouds, which are tumbling across the sky in a kaleidoscope of light. Then I tear out the page from my notepad and carefully fold up the letter, before getting up and continuing my way along the boardwalk.
It takes about five minutes before I reach the end. I stand with the wind billowing through my hair as I gaze over the sea. As the breeze dies down, I clutch the letter tightly, feeling Roberto in my heart stronger than ever. I kiss the page softly and slowly, before withdrawing it from my lips. Then I let go. And watch with stinging eyes as it drifts out to sea.
Chapter 55
As this is our last night, we’re booked in for a luxurious dinner at the hotel’s opulent Michelin-starred restaurant, before flying home in the early hours of the morning. With Harry leaving tomorrow too, tonight is his final, must-attend-on-pain-of-death media dinner with the boss of the hotel.
We’ve arranged to have an aperitif together before dinner in the only free half-hour either of us have. And, despite the fact that nothing can happen between us now – we’ve effectively run out of time – there’s a firestorm behind my ribcage as I walk into the bar.
I’m in my one little black dress, a slinky number with chiffon sleeves that I brought from home and which has the unique quality of affording Meredith’s approval. She even declared I looked like Audrey Hepburn in it, though I suspect Breakfast at Tiffany’s might not have been quite so iconic had Audrey Hepburn sported a black eye and plaster cast.
Harry is sitting on a stool at the vast, gleaming bar with his back to me. I can see from the reflection in the mirror behind that he’s texting. I’m steps away, contemplating how to announce my presence when, almost instinctively, he turns and lowers his phone to the bar. For that small moment as I stand, our eyes locked, I’m not trembling with nerves, or terror, or anything other than an indefinable quality that brings a smile of pure joy to my lips.
He responds with a shimmering smile that confirms to me that he’s thinking the same thing as me: that, if circumstances had been different, we could’ve been good together, him and me. Really good.
‘You look beautiful,’ he whispers, as I sit next to him.
‘You’re exaggerating,’ I whisper back.
‘I’m absolutely not. You’re making this whole thing very hard to swallow for me.’
‘What – your olives?’
He smiles, then lowers his eyes. ‘Saying goodbye.’ Although it’s exactly what’s on my mind, the words make my stomach twist. ‘If it means anything, it’s hard for me to swallow, too.’
He looks up. ‘Well, it does mean something. Because I know you had regrets about the other night. I understand them, even if my ego is struggling to come to terms with the fact that you didn’t come back begging for more.’
‘It wasn’t due to a shortage of enjoyment, I assure you.’
He laughs. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I was about to
go home and order a self-help book.’
I become aware of someone approaching us. It’s Darren, the junior reporter from the Daily Mirror. ‘Apologies for interrupting.’ He turns to Harry. ‘Here’s the thirty euros I owe you. Sorry it’s taken a couple of days – you can’t have been flush after forking out for that necklace.’
Harry shifts uncomfortably. ‘Oh. It’s fine. No problem.’
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. See you at the dinner, Harry. And have a nice night.’ He nods to me politely.
‘I will, thanks,’ I mutter.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Harry. ‘What did he mean about the necklace? Did he mean my necklace?’
‘Um . . . no,’ Harry says, entirely unconvincingly. I glare at him and he crumples. ‘I’ve always been a crap liar.’
‘You’re a journalist!’ I point out.
‘How did you get such a low opinion of us all?’ he says, in an obvious attempt to deflect attention from the real issue.
‘Harry, what did he mean about the necklace?’
He sighs. ‘I shouldn’t have even mentioned it to Darren – it was only because he was quizzing me about getting a load of money out of the cash machine when all our expenses were paid.’
‘I’m lost.’
‘Okay.’ He hesitates. ‘It wasn’t just my magnificent powers of persuasion that got the necklace back. I had to . . . to buy it back. It was a rash decision, I know, but I’d never have got it otherwise.’
I open my mouth to say something but am suddenly speechless. ‘But that’s so unfair,’ I eventually manage.
‘I’m sorry. I’d have loved to be able to tell you justice had been done and he was firmly locked up behind bars or something, but my main priority was getting it back. I could see how much it meant to you. And that was the only way.’
The Time of Our Lives Page 27
