Honeymoon For One

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Would you like to hear our specials?’ our waitress interrupts.

  ‘Can we have a few more minutes, please?’ Freddie asks her hurriedly.

  ‘Oh, okay, of course,’ she replies, clearly realising we’re in the middle of something.

  ‘You’ve read the book,’ I say when we’re alone again.

  It makes it easier, that he’s read it. It saves me having to own up to the fact that I was going to tell him that I was falling in love with him.

  ‘Can I ask what changed your mind?’

  ‘It was Daniel,’ I reply. ‘But not like that. I just got scared. I couldn’t see how we could work, living so far apart, you travelling a lot…’

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that this is the first time I’ve travelled since, and it’s pretty much to your doorstep?’

  ‘Yes, that is a strange coincidence.’

  ‘When you think about it, coincidence is all we know. It was a coincidence we both wound up alone at the same hotel – a hotel for couples – at the same time. It was a coincidence that I used to be a bartender and you asked me to make you a drink. Everything just seemed to bring us together and work out in our favour.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  It’s strange, we can only talk back and forth for a few sentences before the conversation falls flat.

  ‘So, how’s the sequel going?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Lila, I love you,’ he blurts out. ‘I love you and I’ve missed you and I haven’t stopped thinking about you. There. I said it.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I reply.

  There they are, those three little words that I was too scared to say five months ago. Today they come out so easily.

  ‘Phew,’ Freddie says. ‘We did it.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘Pizza?’

  ‘I’m serious.’ I laugh. ‘Is it really that easy?’

  ‘A very wise person once told me that relationships are as easy as you make them.’

  ‘Which The Lord of the Rings movie was that from?’ I joke.

  ‘God, that day was funny, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You know, they worked out their differences,’ I tell him. ‘I met them on the boat, on the day I left, and they were so loved-up. That’s when I knew for sure that I’d made a mistake.’

  ‘That’s great. If they can make it work, anyone can.’

  ‘Can we make it work?’

  ‘I know that you’re worried,’ he starts. ‘But I’m here for a few months – we can just hang out and see what happens.’

  ‘I’d really like that,’ I reply. ‘I have no idea what happens after that, but I feel like we could work it out.’

  ‘I think you’ve already worked it out,’ he points out. ‘In your book… she’s a writer, she can work from anywhere. They decide to travel the world together, shooting movies, writing books.’

  God, that sounds wonderful.

  ‘I feel like we just sat down and figured this out like adults,’ I say.

  ‘We did. I know it’s not very romantic. The grand gesture was me turning up unannounced. If we could have done it the other way round, I would have. I could’ve had Marty negotiate our contract.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have stood a chance against Ali,’ I reply.

  Freddie thinks for a moment, a smile creeping across his face. I’ve missed those dimples and that little glimmer in his eyes when he’s up to something.

  ‘I can salvage this,’ he says. ‘Give me five minutes and then join me at the bar, okay?’

  ‘Erm, okay,’ I reply.

  I watch as he dashes off. I wonder what he’s up to…

  Our waitress comes back.

  ‘Oh, no, has he gone?’ she asks. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything you said.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile.

  I head back into the bar, scanning the room for Freddie, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t think I’m far from assuming that he has done a runner when I spot him behind the bar.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.

  ‘Did you just ask me if the bar was open?’ he replies. ‘Yes, it is. It’s always open.’

  ‘What?’ I laugh. But then I realise – he’s recreating the night we met.

  ‘Can I have a porn star martini, please?’ I ask, playing along as best I can. ‘Are you allowed behind there?’

  ‘It’s great, being famous, people pretty much let you do whatever you want,’ he whispers. ‘Now stay in character.’

  ‘Okay, sorry.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Lila,’ I reply. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Freddie,’ he replies as he finishes making my drink. ‘I knew what you’d order so I got a head start making it. Here we are, one porn star martini.’

  Rather than place it down on the bar, he walks out from behind it, carrying it with him. Then he places it down next to me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’m doing what I should’ve done the night we met,’ he replies. ‘This.’

  Freddie hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me close before planting a kiss on my lips, all in one swift motion.

  ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he says as he releases me. ‘I just want to kiss you all night.’

  ‘You know, they do food to go here,’ I point out with faux innocence.

  ‘Oh, really?’ he murmurs, kissing me again. ‘Let’s do that, then. Just warn me if there’s going to be a sex toy on your coffee table.’

  My entire body goes rigid in Freddie’s arms.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘The sex toy… the one that Ali put in my suitcase, the one you saw on the coffee table. People kept seeing it and thinking it was mine so I threw it under the sofa in the villa. I never got it back out.’

  ‘Oh,’ he smiles. ‘Ah, well, we probably don’t need it tonight.’

  ‘No, I’m sure we don’t. We probably don’t need to eat either.’

  ‘My appetite has shifted,’ he says, kissing me again.

  Suddenly I feel very aware of the fact we’re in the middle of a bar, and Freddie is a celebrity.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say, leading him towards the door.

  It’s a strange feeling, not knowing where we’re going. I mean, we know where we’re going now, we’re going back to my flat and we’re not leaving again until one of us absolutely has to, but, in a more general sense, I have no idea what’s on the horizon.

  I planned my wedding down to the last little detail and look how that turned out. No amount of planning could’ve saved it.

  If the best-laid plans always go awry then perhaps it’s time I start winging it. We can write our happy ever after a day at a time.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Nia, Amanda and everyone behind the scenes at Boldwood Books for all of their hard work on this book.

  * * *

  A massive thank you to Joey, James, Kim and Aud for all that they do for me.

  * * *

  Thank you so, so much to Joe, for absolutely everything.

  * * *

  Finally, thank you to everyone who reads and reviews this book. I really hope you enjoy it.

  More from Portia MacIntosh

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  Chapter 1

  * * *

  ‘How would you like £50,000?’

  I never expected to hear those words this evening. Who am I kidding? I never expected to hear those words ever.

  I
always try to look on the bright side of life, searching high and low for the positive in every negative situation. My mum calls this The Rosie Outlook – an obvious pun combining my name, Rosie, and my ability to always try and find the good, even when it seems impossible.

  For example, not beating around the bush, I hate my job. I realise that hate is a strong word and not the kind of chat you would usually expect to hear from someone who prides herself on being positive, but I do, I absolutely hate my job.

  When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be a detective. Not a police detective though, a private detective, the kind you see in film noir. You know the sort, the cigarette-toting, low-key sexist, wisecracking type in the long, plain coat with a fedora on top of their head – the only kind I saw on TV growing up. As I matured into my teens and this no longer seemed like a viable job (if it even seemed like a real job at all), I realised that a job did exist that involved exposing the truth. I wanted to be an investigative journalist, and this actually seemed like a goal I could achieve.

  Flash-forward to me, here today, thirty-one years old, and I am a journalist… just not the kind I wanted to be. I work for the Salford News, just outside central Manchester. It’s only a small, local paper though, so not only is there not much room for an investigative journalist, but every page of the weekly paper is pretty much an advert. I spend most of my days writing paid advertorials – which is basically an advert hiding inside a news article – and given that the clients are paying for exactly what they want these pieces to say, it’s not exactly a challenge.

  I don’t just hate my job, I resent it. I’m kind of trapped in it, until I can find something better – well, trapped by my finances at least, I’m technically a freelancer, so I’m not exactly bound by a contract. Unless I just want to stop paying my bills – but I’ve heard that doesn’t go down very well.

  I did say there was a plus side though, and that plus side is Sam, my boss. I hate my job, but I love my boss. Sam is my editor and I can tell that she tries her best to give me the good jobs and, of the very few perks you get being a local faux journalist, she’ll often toss a few my way. She’s great when I need time off, she lets me off the hook when I arrive late – she even buys the office pizza on Fridays. Sam really is a wonderful boss.

  Money isn’t great… I know, it’s not really great for anyone right now, is it? But I live within my means. My apartment is small (which means my rent is too), but at least it’s close enough to work for me to walk. I just keep doing what I’m doing and hoping things will get better.

  I was a little down in the dumps today because David, my boyfriend of four months, cancelled our plans this evening because he needs to work late. He’s a lecturer at the university, teaching Palaeobiology (I didn’t know what it was either). I wrote my dissertation on yellow journalism and the paparazzi. David gets more excited about things like mass extinction. We might not have much in common, but we still get on really well. Sometimes opposites just attract, don’t they?

  So David was going to be teaching young adults studying for their master’s degree all about macroevolution (I don’t know what it is either, I just remember seeing his lesson plan over his shoulder and feeling like a bit of a dummy) tonight and I was going home to my tiny apartment to watch Hollyoaks… or so I thought.

  I was just about to leave work, after a particularly gruelling day writing an ‘article’ about a local window cleaning company, when Sam called me into her office. She had two tickets for the live filming on a new TV quiz show, but it was her husband’s birthday, so she wasn’t going to go. She offered them to me and Gemma, the other girl who does the same job as I do, so with nothing better planned I made the short trip to MediaCityUK – the development in Salford where all the big TV studios are based.

  I didn’t think anything of it when they told us we had to download an app so we could play along, nor did I expect anything eventful to happen to me when I found out contestants would be plucked from the studio audience. But then I sat down and, as the filming started, I couldn’t believe it when my phone started ringing. Mine. I had been selected at random to play the game. Gemma was fuming, she’s not happy unless she’s the centre of attention. I was just a combination of embarrassed and terrified. I’ve never been on TV before – well, how many people have? – but I’m not really the kind of person who likes to be the centre of attention and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many eyes would be on me – and not just here in the studio.

  The show is called One Big Question. I’m guessing it’s aiming itself at millennials because the app seems to be at the heart of it. It can be used by people to play along at home, but here, in the studio, it’s what I can use to ask the public or the audience for help with answers.

  I can’t actually believe my luck, but I’m on the final question – the titular one big question – and if I answer it correctly, I’ll win the money I’ve banked so far. A whopping £50,000.

  ‘I said, how would you like £50,000?’ Mike King, the host, asks again.

  ‘I’d love £50,000,’ I admit, my voice wobbling almost as much as I am on this tall chair.

  If I’d known I was going to be chosen to take part today, I probably would have turned the opportunity down, even with the knowledge that I could win some serious money. I don’t think I would’ve thought I had it in me to get this far…

  I’m somehow too hot and too cold. I want to say the studio lights are hot, but there’s cool air con to offset the warmth. I am sitting opposite the host in the centre of a brightly lit circle, in an otherwise dimly lit room. I can’t see the audience – I can’t even see the camera, not really. I only know they’re there now because of the little red LED lights I keep spotting. Even without them, I don’t think I’d be able to forget I was on TV. On live TV, no less.

  ‘This is your final question,’ Mike explains. ‘Who said blondes were dumb, huh?’

  I smile politely. I have had to contend with the dumb blonde thing my entire life. First, when I was younger, when I had naturally blonde hair, and then more recently from all the highlights, because for some reason my hair gets darker as I get older.

  ‘Your only remaining lifeline is to make a call from your speed dial numbers,’ Mike reminds me.

  When we started, I was allowed to select three numbers from my phone in the event of choosing the ‘make a call’ option. Without many friends or people who I even believed would answer, I chose my dad, Tim, Sam, and David. I don’t suppose any of them would know all that much about anything based in pop culture, but I think I have that covered myself. Anything on the life and works of Alan Titchmarsh, unscrupulous news practices, or bones, and one of them might be some use to me. I doubt my boss would appreciate me calling her on her husband’s birthday, so here’s hoping for the Chelsea Flower Show or cavemen. At least if it’s the latter, David’s lecture will be over and he’ll be able to take the call. My dad probably won’t even hear his phone ring.

  ‘Ready for it?’ Mike asks.

  I nod unconvincingly.

  ‘OK, here we go… Which dinosaur had fifteen horns?’

  An impossibly big grin stretches all the way across my face. This has to be a joke. I might be optimistic, but I am under no illusions – I am not a lucky person. I don’t get picked for TV shows, I don’t have many people to call for help, and I definitely don’t get questions that are going to be easy… and yet here we are.

  ‘You know this one?’ the host asks in disbelief.

  I know I might be blonde, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about dinosaurs. I mean, I don’t know anything about dinosaurs, but what gives him the right, huh?

  ‘I know a man who does,’ I say as my grin inches even wider. ‘I’d like to call my boyfriend please.’

  ‘Your boyfriend knows a lot about dinosaurs?’

  I nod, only semi-smugly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the host jokes. ‘What’s your boyfriend’s name? What does he do?’

  ‘His nam
e is David and he’s a lecturer.’

  ‘What does he teach, dinosaurs?’

  ‘Palaeobiology,’ I reply.

  ‘Is that dinosaurs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The audience laugh wildly. Mike is a sort of cheeky-chappy host. A thirty-something former musician who has somehow made it as a TV presenter. I suppose it’s his charm – the audience clearly love him.

  ‘OK, let’s get Dinosaur Dave on the phone,’ Mike says.

  I wince as he says ‘Dave’ – David hates being called Dave.

  ‘So all you have to do is, when Dinosaur Dave answers, just tell him you have one big question to ask him. If he gets it right, you’ll be £50k richer!’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say.

  It doesn’t just sound good, it sounds great. David knows everything there is to know about dinosaurs, there’s no way he’s getting this one wrong. I just hope he answers – can you imagine if he didn’t?

  ‘Quiet in the studio,’ Mike says, hushing the audience as the phone rings.

  ‘Hello,’ David says when he answers the phone.

  ‘Hey David, it’s Rosie,’ I say, in a suspiciously formal manner. ‘I… erm… I have One Big Question I need to ask you…’ I try to hide the nerves in my voice, but it’s impossible. I’m on TV – calling up my boyfriend on live TV – to ask him a question about dinosaurs so that I can win £50,000! I cannot stress enough that this is not a typical day for me.

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ he says. ‘Because I think I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘David...’

  ‘No, let me speak,’ he insists, as though he’s talking to one of his students. ‘For a while now I have suspected you’re far more serious about this relationship than I am, and I was happy to let it slide because no one was getting hurt, but now I suspect you’re calling me to ask me to move in with you perhaps – maybe even marry you, you can be quite full-on… Anyway, I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself so, the time has come – we need to break up. I didn’t want to do this on the phone but… it’s not you, it’s absolutely not you. It’s me. I’m just not that into you and you’re getting way too serious too quickly…’