It Never Rains in Colombia (23 page)

             
He leaned back in the chair, “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asked casually.

             
“She's my friend,” Harlow explained.

             
“So?” he asked angrily, “She's just a friend. She would never do this for you.”

             
“She would,” Harlow said coldly. “Why are you being like this? I thought you and Sophie were okay now.”

             
Christian looked away, he said hoarsely, “She left you to die.”

             
“That's not what happened,” Harlow insisted. “No, you weren't there. If she—” Harlow protested.

             
Christian leaned forward, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just, it's…” he sighed, “it makes me sad that good people, people who do all the right things, help others, people who care, people who empathise, are always the ones who get hurt. And,” he almost spat the words, “these criminals are just running free, going around lying, stealing, murdering, and no one, no one, does a damn thing about it. It doesn't matter if I'm in Colombia or England, it's the same everywhere.”

             
“They will catch Victor and all the others,” she said.

             
“Low lives,” Christian added helpfully.

             
“Yes, exactly,” she replied.

             
They were silent for a time. Harlow had turned toward the TV and he watched quietly with her.

             
“Harlow,” he began, “there's something I need to tell you.”

             
She didn't turn to look at him. When Christian leaned forward to see her face, he realised she was asleep. She slept like that for some time and he left her in peace.

Chapter 17 - Things I Should Have Said

              Later on, Roberto arrived at the hospital room unannounced, still tense from his encounter. Harlow's nurse left when he entered.

             
“What happened to you?” Harlow asked unabashed.

             
He chuckled, “I should say the same to you.” He sat down on the chair next to her bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked with genuine concern.

             
She shrugged, smiling weakly, “Better, I guess. I'm just glad it's over.”

             
He nodded slowly.

             
“Have you been crying?” she asked tentatively, looking at his red eyes and swollen lids.

             
“What? No,” he protested crossing his arms, “Why would I cry?”

             
“Sorry, it's just your eyes are all puffy and my mum’s eyes always get that way when—”

             
He cut her off, “No, it's just allergies. Oh, Sophia said to tell you she's sorry,” he said reluctantly, leaning back in the chair. 

             
“Sorry for what?” she asked. “Why doesn't she tell me herself?”

             
Roberto hesitated, “She's gone,” he muttered.

             
Harlow sat up, reaching for Roberto's hand. “I'm so sorry.” She paused. “I'm sure she'll be back.”

             
“No, she won't,” he said. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. Now things can get back to normal. I'm used to not having anyone around. It's quieter that way. I can concentrate on what I have to do, so...” He trailed off, then looked desperately around the room as if he couldn't bear to look at her.

             
“I don't understand why would she leave like this.” Harlow insisted. “It doesn't make sense. Something’s not right here.”

             
Roberto sighed, shifted uncomfortably, then he pulled a ball of paper from his jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. He watched as Harlow unfurled and read the letter. She didn't say anything after reading it. She just sat stock still, then suddenly Roberto leaned forward and kissed her.

             
The eloquence of youth. For the first time, Roberto smiled. “I'm sorry,” he said, looking at Harlow's shell-shocked face. He intertwined his fingers, looking at her wistfully, as if there were something he was burning to say.

             
She looked back at the door and seeing no one coming, turned to him, “I think you should go.”

             
Roberto jerked his head back in surprise, as if he had been slapped. “Was it that bad?” he asked morosely.

             
Harlow smiled despite her previous grim demeanour. “No, it was nice. It's just…” she trailed off.

             
“It's just what?” he asked. “Isn't this what you want?” Roberto asked, reaching for her hand. His was warm and hers so cold, as if all the blood had drained from it.

             
“You don't know how much. The thing is, you're upset. I don't want to feel that way about you again because when you change your mind, my whole world will come crashing down.” Harlow seemed frustrated by his indifference. “This means nothing to you,” she said. removing her hand from his.

             
Roberto retracted his hand from the bed covers. He sighed dejectedly then snorted derisively at his luck.
What a wonderful day,
he thought. Finally, he said, “Harlow, I like you. I like spending time with you,” he explained seriously. “I've wanted to kiss you for so long. I've been holding back, waiting for the right moment, but the right moment never came. Then you were in intensive care and I could see you slipping away from life. That's when I realised, you mean everything to me.” Roberto swallowed nervously. He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes lingered on hers.

             
She didn't say a word.

             
“Ok, I'll go,” Roberto said, visibly shaken by Harlow's silence. He got up to leave.

Chapter 18 – Hyde Park

             
Two weeks later, Harlow had settled in at home. She woke up that morning and returned to her normal routine. She ate her sandwich whilst checking her e-mails and Facebook, the pain dulled by her medication. There were messages from students at Rutherfords: “get well soon,” “I'm praying for you.” She looked through them, then came across an e-mail from Christian. It was a couple of weeks old.              

             
He must have sent it when I was at the hospital
, she thought. It was odd, because he hadn't been around at all when she was there.

             
She clicked on the e-mail and read:

“Harlow,

By now, you know that someone read your diary. I'm sorry for that. I will understand if you don't want to see me again. I wanted to tell you in person but my courage always failed me at the crucial moment.

Hopefully this will help you understand how it all happened.

It was a Sunday in June when I first saw you passing under a cherry tree. Pink blossoms were floating to the ground swirling behind you, fragile petals caught in the wind like a snow storm. It was hot that day. The sky was clear blue when I saw you across the street. I realised you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I wanted to freeze that moment so you would always be near me. But you were going in the opposite direction. I ran across the road during a red light, heard car horns blaring at me, but I had to talk to you. When I got to the other side, you were gone. I lost you in the crowd. I walked for a while looking for you, but it was hopeless. In the end, I went back the way I came and saw you standing by the reception desk, through the sliding doors of the Contessa Hotel. By the time I got to the front desk, you were gone. When the receptionist asked me how she could help, I realised how stupid I would seem. I didn't even know your name. So I asked if they were hiring, and when I got the job, I was going to tell you straight away, but I didn't think you'd feel the same. When I saw you at Rutherfords, I knew it was my second chance. I guess you think I'm a stalker by now. I realise how this seems, so I've decided to stop coming to the hospital. I'm so sorry.”

              Harlow could only stare at the screen.
Oh my God.
She left the computer on and went downstairs to wash her plate. While she was gone, Alice, her thirteen-year-old sister came in, taking the laptop away, she called downstairs, “Harlow, can I borrow your Mac?”

             
“No!” Harlow called up.

             
“Let her use it, what's the harm?” her mother said.

             
“She breaks everything,” Harlow moaned.

             
“No, I don't,” Alice called from her room.

              A few days later, Alice watched from the upstairs window as Christian walked up the concrete pathway to their front door. He rang the bell, waiting patiently each time for the door to open. After the third go, he looked around in confusion and turned to leave. There was silence. Alice raced across to her sister's room. “What are you doing?” She asked. “Why didn't you open?”

             
“Who is it?” Harlow asked turning down the music. Harlow's phone began ringing loudly. She picked up. Alice smiled when she saw her sister's face. 

             
“Harlow, are you okay?” Christian asked. 

             
“What do you want?”

             
“Alice called me and said you wanted to talk.” 

             
Harlow hung up, then ran downstairs, angrily yanking the door open.

             
“Come in,” she said, closing the door behind him.

             
In the sitting room, she rested a hand on the small table near the door as he sat down.

             
“Nice flowers,” he commented. The room was full of them.

             
“They're from the people at school,” she explained, looking around the room. It was crammed with vases of daffodils, roses, violets, and, strangely, lilies. “These have had it,” she said, going over to the wilting magnolias in a vase at the foot of the old oak bookcase. “Look, I don’t think we should be friends anymore,” Harlow said, abruptly lifting the vase.

             
“You read my e-mail?” he said knowingly. “I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have,” he confessed. “I feel awful about it, it's been bothering me. That's why I came over.”

             
“So what happened then?”

             
Christian froze, looking uncomfortable. “I made a mistake. It was my fault. Patrick said he saw a notebook fall out of your bag. He found it on the study room floor, then gave it to me. He thought it was just a notebook, then he, well, I, realised that it was more than that. I should have put it back.”

             
“Then why didn't you?” She asked.

             
He was quiet. “Harlow, do you know what it's like to be invisible? To know that you're alive but not really being seen?”

             
“What?” She asked.

             
“I've liked you for so long, and no matter what I do you never seem to see me. I worked at the Contessa for the whole of last summer. I used to see you and your grandparents come and go, take your order every Sunday.”

             
“What does that have to do with?”

             
“When you came to Rutherfords, you could hardly recall my face. I tried so hard to get you to notice me. I wanted to be charming. I pulled every string I could to get you a VIP pass to the Golden Monkey.”

             
“The club?” She asked.

             
“Yes,” he said.

             
She just stared at him. “You want to know how to be charming? Be honest, don't lie to me, don't follow me, don't pull strings, don't be sneaky. Be true and kind. All you had to do was be my friend. It's not hard.”

             
“I know. I'm sorry. I never followed you, I swear.” Christian sat down. “I don't know what I was thinking.” He rested his head in his hands, miserably.

             
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” she said.

             
He looked up, “That's why I stopped coming. I was just making everything worse.”

             
She grimaced.

             
“How are you feeling now?” Christian asked studying her face. 

             
“Better,” she said distractedly. It still hurts, but not as much as before.

             
He was quiet, thoughtful.

             
“What about Sophia?” Harlow asked.

             
Christian looked confused, “What about her?”

             
“You like her,” she said finally.

             
“Yes, well, no. Not in that way. No, what gave you that idea?” he asked.

             
“I can see it,” she said.

             
“I used to like her a long time ago. I did like her, but it was just a silly crush.”

             
“It seemed like more than that,” Harlow insisted.

             
“Does it bother you?” Christian asked.

             
“No, why would it? I just want to know.” Harlow was lost in the brown abyss of his eyes. He seemed so sad, so defeated.

             
“I wanted to apologise in person,” Christian said, leaving.

             
Christian opened the sitting room door, letting in a gust of wind. Harlow's hair was blown back, giving her an ethereal look. She stopped Christian, laying a hand on his elbow. He didn't move. She gripped the stems of the magnolias in her other hand. Her top lip twitched, struggling to maintain the opaque mask of serenity, trying to contain all that was within. But then he looked directly at her and her eyes betrayed her heart. Dead magnolias fluttered to the ground, ghosts of beauty, crinkling gently against the plush Persian carpet.

             
“I shouldn't have come,” Christian said.

             
Harlow heard the pouring rain pound the glass behind him. He crouched down, helping her to scrape the magnolias from the carpet, their wrinkled leaves still embedded on the spot where she had lost grip. Her mouth set in a grim, resolute line, as if in that second she had decided what to do. Set on her course as formidable as any general leading his men at a run to face thousands of harsh-faced enemy soldiers, lined flank after flank. Angry hateful bodies rushing forwards at once. A swarm of war moving past mountains, trampling over fields of green grass and red flowers.

             
“It's pretty weird, you know.”

             
He looked up at her embarrassed.

             
“But then, I guess people would think it's weird that I was predicted an A for Maths, French, and History A-level but I still bribed your friend with Krispy Kremes so I could be in your team for the group work,” she admitted. “Then asked you to help me with Maths when really I should have been helping you.”

             
Christian rose facing her, looking surprised. Harlow's cheeks were flushed.

             
“Really?” Christian asked with a smile.

             
Harlow pulled him into a hug.

             
“Let’s go,” Christian led her toward the door.

             
“Where are we going?”

             
“On a little trip,” he said grabbing his umbrella.

             
Harlow grabbed her coat. She laughed. “It's raining.”

             
“It's beautiful,” he said, looking back at her as she closed the front door.

             
They walked underneath the umbrella and Christian pulled her closer.

              On the underground train, a mechanical voice announced, “The next station is Lancaster Gate.”

             
The train was crowded, Harlow could feel the heat of all the cramped bodies on her face, drying up her mouth. They'd managed to grab two seats at Notting Hill Gate station. She could feel Christian's eyes on her. She turned to look at him.

             
He was the quiet son of a diplomat. His curious brown eyes were often hidden behind thick, black-rimmed, rectangular glasses, framed by a mop of wavy brown hair. “How long have you?” Christian asked.

             
“What?” Harlow replied giving him a bemused look. “Liked you?” She bit her lip softly. She sighed smiling. “Long enough.”

             
Christian looked away through the forest of Tube passengers and into the murky black windows of the train, smiling. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Christian looked at her with a genuine innocent interest that made her feel exposed.

             
Harlow felt rather annoyed. “I was angry.”

             
Christian raised an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for more. “The guilt was eating me up,” Christian confessed apologetically.

             
The train stopped. The polite sing-song voice said, “This is Marble Arch.” Harlow escaped from her seat and followed Christian onto the barren grey platform, joining the crush of people marching up the escalators.

             
“I was annoyed,” Harlow said, “because you betrayed my trust.” They were halfway up the stairs.

             
Christian avoided her glance.

             
She said, “But I want to trust you.”