‘Really?’
Dad smiled, a mix of joy and sorrow. ‘Yes. And although there were times after she passed away that I thought I might never get through her loss, I wouldn’t have missed that time with her for anything. And I wouldn’t have two wonderful children, and two beautiful grandchildren and all the irreplaceable joy that all of those things have brought me. I nearly kept everything to myself. Terribly British and all that. And suddenly I realised that if I didn’t make my move, then someone else would. They’d see just how amazing she was and I’d have missed my chance. So, I put myself and my heart out there on display for her to see. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And the best thing I’ve ever done.’
‘But she loved you back.’
‘That’s true. I was lucky.’
‘Charlie doesn’t love me back. It’s not the same.’
‘But could you have gone through life wondering what if? At least this way you know.’
We were back to the what ifs. Yet another difference between me and Charlie. What had I even been thinking, falling for him? I hadn’t been thinking. That was just it. It had just happened. Either way, we were far too different. It was never going to work.
‘Can I stay here for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. You know you never need to ask. Stay as long as you like.’
‘I need to go out and get some bits.’
‘Why don’t you go with Gina? She’d love to go shopping with you.’
I smiled at him. ‘I think that would be lovely.’
His own smile broadened.
* * *
‘So, I’ll meet you at Selfridges at eight and let you know where I’ve booked. Sure you don’t have any preferences?’ Dad asked me.
I shook my head. To be honest, I still didn’t have much of an appetite but I wasn’t about to waste away over Charlie Richmond, so I would find something delicious on the menu and bloody well enjoy it.
I called Amy and told her the whole story, including where I was staying, but asked her not to tell anyone else, especially Marcus. She was just to say that I’d gone away for a few days. I checked on my blog and responded to questions and comments. There were a bunch of posts scheduled to go up over the next few weeks that Tilly and I had done before she went on honeymoon and I was enormously grateful now that we’d put in that time. It gave me a chance to relax and just think. Everything had been such a blur for the past year, and now this whole thing with Charlie. I was exhausted.
I spent the time at Dad’s dozing and reading. We took trips to the park with picnics, and visited exhibitions and museums. What we didn’t do was have anyone ‘just drop in for dinner’ for which I was unbelievably grateful. Although it had been a messy way to get the message across, Dad seemed to have finally realised that I had to make my own mistakes and find my own way when it came to love. As I was apparently on a roll with admissions, I finally told him that I’d always felt he was a little disappointed with me because I’d gone a different path from Matt.
The look of hurt on my dad’s face in that moment told me I couldn’t have been more wrong as he admitted that he wasn’t quite sure how things like blogs worked. His lack of questioning about my work was down to him feeling embarrassed that he didn’t understand more about his daughter’s career, not because of any lack of pride in me. I’d seen the tears shining in his eyes as he enveloped me in a huge, reassuring hug.
* * *
After nearly a fortnight at Dad’s, although my heart was in just as many pieces as it had shattered into when Charlie had turned his back on me and stalked off, I was beginning to feel a little more like myself again. Perhaps I had just needed a break after spending so much time working on the blog and trying to grow the business? Perhaps none of this was really to do with Charlie Richmond at all? My mind did its best to try and find a way out of the situation, but the moment Charlie popped into my brain, I felt the pieces of my heart squeeze and crack. I might well have been in need of a rest but the heartbreak was still real.
I sighed, took a deep breath and tried to push everything to the back of my mind. It had been a few days since I’d signed into the blog and I knew I ought to check for any messages or comments that I needed to vet or reply to. I had no desire to do much else online at the moment. Being unplugged for most of the time felt refreshing and I had made a mental note to take time to do this occasionally in the future. Hopefully with far less drama attached.
Switching on my phone, I tucked myself into the corner of the velvet Chesterfield that gave a view out of huge sash windows to the avenue and park below. The phone got signal and a barrage of pings and bleeps sounded as various apps downloaded the messages and emails sent via them. Scanning them quickly, I noticed there were several from Charlie. My voicemail counter was blinking nine and I hesitated before dialling to pick them up. I didn’t need to hear Charlie berate me any more right now. It wasn’t as if I’d planned to fall for him, and certainly not as hard as I had! Sometimes we had very little control over these things. Our emotions did what they wanted, overruling any sensible, logical instructions the brain valiantly tried to give. The voicemail started and at the first word Charlie spoke, I hit delete and moved to the next. I did the same with the next eight. As I got to the last, the band around my chest was almost suffocating and the screen had become blurry with my unshed tears. Every one was deleted without playing it.
Squishing the heel of my hand against my eyes to clear them, I scanned the message apps. Most were ones that could wait. Amy and Matt both knew where I was and had rung on Dad’s landline. Again, there were more here from Charlie but I knew I couldn’t deal with those feelings right now. Perhaps once there were thousands of miles and an ocean between us, I’d be able to look at them and deal with his no doubt logical, angry arguments as to why I’d had to upset the balance of our friendship. But until then, they would have to wait.
There was one message I did open. It was from Tilly, who still had another week of honeymoon left and should be doing a whole bunch of things far more interesting than emailing me. The message had come in late yesterday and didn’t have a proper title, just a string of exclamation marks. Frowning, I opened the mail.
Oh, Libby! My cousin just sent me a photo of this clipping. Apparently, it was in a couple of national newspapers, both in the paper and online. I assume they didn’t contact you as what they’re saying is so totally wrong! Sam has told me not to get upset and that the media always blow things out of proportion and it will soon be yesterday’s news. I know he’s right but it’s still upsetting and I hate what they’ve said, especially as you really are one of the very nicest people I know. I hope you are OK and am sending love. I’m sure Charlie will have a brilliant, logical view of it and hopefully will help you feel better.
Lots of love, Tilly xxxxx
I read the email again and then clicked on the link Tilly had included alongside the screenshot she’d been sent. My stomach churned and knotted as the page loaded and I saw the title.
How To Be Perfect And Live A Perfect Life – The Fraudster Bloggers That Damage Our Self-Esteem.
I forced myself to read the article. The byline read ‘Miss Anthrope’, which I guessed should have warned me as to the content. With a harshly sceptical tone, the writer blasted what she called aspirational blogs as damaging, false and another scourge from the Instagram Generation. Miss Anthrope had singled a few blogs out, including a couple extremely well known for generating their idea of a perfect life. The suggestion being that if followers just bought this dress, or that make-up, then they too could be like the blogger whose perfect life/house/body/teeth/hair was an achievable goal. She berated blogs for peddling this belief and then turned her attention to what she called up-and-coming blogs of the same ilk, including Brighton Belle. Absent-mindedly I pulled a cushion from the sofa and hugged it against me as though the soft stuffing would absorb the vitriol dripping from the pen – or keyboard – of this anonymous attack.
