The Time of Our Lives (35 page)

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.

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.

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.’

‘How much did you pay for it?’

‘Not much,’ he says unconvincingly. I narrow my eyes.

‘You’re scary when you do that.’

‘Good. Because you’ve got to tell me. I insist on paying you back.’

He throws the warning look back at me. ‘And I insist you drink that drink and let me enjoy the limited time I have left with you. The clock’s ticking.’

I’m about to argue but those last three words stop me in my tracks. ‘Harry, I know we’re going our separate ways. And I know that things never quite worked out as they were
meant to. We didn’t even manage a proper holiday fling.’

He laughs. ‘No. Half a fling, maybe. A bloody good half, I might add.’

I hesitate. ‘I want you to know this. I think you’re one of the most fantastic men I’ve ever met. And if things had been different . . . well, who knows what would’ve
happened if things had been different? It hardly matters in some ways. But I need you to know that . . . saying goodbye suddenly feels horrible.’

He leans in and puts his arm around me, kissing me on the head. ‘I know.’

I pull back and look at him. ‘I still find it impossible to stomach the fact that things ended before they began. That I’m never going to see you again.’

He squirms in his seat and is about to say something, but takes a sip of his drink instead.

‘What were you going to say?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, say it.’

He turns and his jaw clenches. ‘It was nothing . . . just . . .’

‘Harry?’

‘Why do I want to kiss you every time I see you?’

There’s suddenly only one thing to say to that. ‘So kiss me.’

He hesitates, looking at me through those big, inky eyes as he takes me by the hand.

As his mouth touches mine, I’m lost in the soundtrack of my dancing heartbeat, and all I can think of is how desperate I am to be alone with him.

I pull away and decide that for the first time in a while
I
need to be the one to suggest something reckless. ‘How bad would it be if you missed your media night?’ I
whisper.

He looks at me and ponders the question. ‘Well, Delfina’s lost her job already so I don’t suppose I’d be getting her in trouble. However, I can’t imagine the hotel
owners will be impressed.’ He looks up at me. ‘So I’d have to say: It’d be bad.’

I nod.

‘How bad would it be if you missed your competition prize dinner?’ he asks me.

I bite the side of my mouth. ‘That’s be bad too.’

We utter one sentence in perfect unison.

‘I’m sure they’ll understand . . .’

There are no distractions. The phone isn’t ringing. My daughter is safe. If I stopped to think about my work worries – or any worries – I’d no doubt
whip myself up into another cyclone of anxiety. But I’m not stopping to think any more.

I’d almost forgotten how vast and resplendently cool Harry’s suite was. Yet it’s not the champagne bar or plunge pool that I can’t keep my eyes off. It’s him.

I gaze at him with a single thought dominating my head. A wish. That this could be more than a holiday romance. If we knew each other better, then the fact that he’s moving somewhere a
ten-hour drive away wouldn’t be insurmountable. But it’s not like we’ve been lovers for a year. I can’t start a long-distance romance with a man who I hardly know –
when I think about the implications of that, it makes my head spin and not just from my vertigo. He doesn’t know that I grind my teeth in my sleep. He’s never met my daughter . . . or,
God help us, my mother. He doesn’t know that most of my underwear isn’t fit to wash the dishes with. He doesn’t know that I weep every time I watch
Top Gun
or that the one
and only time I tried marijuana I fell asleep in the corner of a party and snored like someone was using my nostrils as bagpipes.

But, considering it’s only been seven days, he knows some of the big stuff. He knows about me and Roberto, me and my job, me and Florence. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable and
hopeless (because there’s no other word for someone who buys denture cream for their feet), and it still hasn’t put him off.

I wish, to an indescribable extent that, after I fly into Heathrow tomorrow, Harry and I could continue what we started this week with a relaxed drink after work one night, or lunch on a
Saturday afternoon. Then just see what happens. That’s all.

As soon as this thought filters through my head, another one crashes in behind it. This isn’t simply about me feeling ready for a romance on a general level, because the only romance I
feel ready for is with him. I want us to go on our first, proper date in London. I want to invite him to dinner and to meet Florence. I want to stroll along the Thames and let this thing between us
unfold at a nice, leisurely pace.

But, given that we’re never going to get the chance, I push the thought away, determined not to dwell on something that isn’t a possibility and, instead, live for the moment.
Tonight, for one night, I won’t plan and I won’t worry. I won’t think about anything beyond what’s happening in this room, right now.

I push away my trepidation about heights and take a small, cautious step onto the balcony, gazing at the vast, twinkling sky. There I slip into Harry’s arms, submitting to his kiss,
melting as his fingers sweep around my neck. As music drifts across the room I feel drunk on the moment, pressing my nose into his neck and kissing him gently as I breathe in the scent of his
skin.

I take a step back into the room and, without a shred of embarrassment, reach round to the zip on my dress. Lust rushes through me as I prepare to slip out of my clothes, unashamed for the first
time in a long time of my body; a body I know that, for some odd and unfathomable reason, this man seems to appreciate every inch of.

My zip is a quarter of the way down when it refuses to budge. I tug at it gently, imagining that seductive scene in
Nine ½ Weeks
, where Kim Basinger coolly strips and never stops
pouting.

I try not to stop pouting. But, unfortunately, decisive action is required and, as I yank at the zip, it’s stuck fast.

‘Okay, I’ll never get a job at Spearmint Rhino,’ I mutter.

Harry struggles to contain his laughter. ‘Do you need some help?’

‘Would you mind awfully?’ I turn round and lift up my hair.

He starts out gently, before realising that
gently
isn’t going to move this zip. ‘I don’t want to damage your dress,’ he says.

But as I feel his hands against my skin, something takes over and I spin around, grab the zip and thrust it downwards, causing an almighty rip. ‘Shit! Oh well.’ I shrug.

‘I’m
so
glad I didn’t do that.’

‘I wouldn’t care,’ I declare, flinging the dress to the floor as I slide my half-naked body into his arms.

I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to feel, against my stomach, exactly how much he wants me. In a burst of brazenness, I rub my hand against his crotch as he sighs with pleasure.

I feel empowered, I feel wonderful; I feel like a goddess, ready to have the sex that, until this week, I haven’t had for five years. And, given the circumstances, may well not have for
another five.

This thought seems to spur me on as I unzip his trousers and he . . . freezes.

I look up, trying to work out what’s gone wrong. I step back and study at his face. He’s clearly unnerved by something.

‘What is it?’ A moment of panic sweeps through me. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ I grab my dress and pull it around my chest.

‘Don’t be silly. I just thought I heard—’

His sentence is stunted by an insistent
rat-a-tat-tat
on the door.

‘Did anyone order room service?’ he jokes.

‘Not me,’ I reply.

He shakes his head. ‘Maybe they’ll go away.’ He falls into my arms once more, pushing away the dress and brushing his hands over my breasts as my body floods with desire.