“His name’s Jamie,” I tell him reluctantly, wondering what the message was about, and who he’s sending it to. “And, no, I haven’t seen him yet. I did go to his bar today, though,” I add, feeling ridiculously proud of this small step towards changing my life. “And I left my number for him. So, you know, that’s a start, I guess. One for the ‘something I wouldn’t do back home’ files. I don’t normally give men my phone number.”
(And by “I don’t normally” I mean “I have literally never done it in my life.” I always just wait for them to ask for it first. Come to think of it, that could be another reason I’m currently single.)
“Oh. Right. I see,” says Alex, looking surprised. “So you’re going through with it, then? This plan of yours?”
He didn’t think I’d do it. He didn’t think I had it in me.
And, okay, to be fair,Ididn’t think I had it in me, either. But Alex Fox doesn’t need to know that.
“Yeah, ‘course,” I say nonchalantly, popping the last strawberry into my mouth and almost choking on it. “That’s why I came here, after all. Isn’t it?”
Alex starts to say something in response, but before he can get the words out, Emilio is back at our table, with a bottle of expensive-looking champagne and a huge, cheesy grin.
“For the bee-yoo-tiful couple,” he says, popping the cork with a flourish, and pouring it into the glasses on the table. “Compliments of the hotel.”
“Wow,” I say, surprised. “Whatisit with us that keeps making people want to give us free champagne? First the plane, now this!”
Alex glowers at the champagne flutes as if they’ve personally offended him.
“I’m going back up for my main course,” he says, pushing his plate (Containing the remains of a very grown-up, sensible starter of smoked salmon) away from him and abruptly standing up. “You coming?”
“Sure.”
I take a quick gulp of fizz, then follow him back to the buffet, taking as much time as possible to wander around the various stations in the hope that he’ll be almost done with his food and ready to leave by the time I sit down.
When I finally return to the table, though, I find Alex sitting there waiting for me, his food ignored in favor of his ever-present phone. Because he hasn’t noticed I’m here yet, his expression is unguarded for once, and I can’t help but notice that same sadness I saw in it back on the plane. Then he looks up and sees me, and, just like that, the barriers go back down.
He gets to his feet as I approach; an old-fashioned gesture of politeness that seems more in keeping with Julian and Alice’s generation than ours.
“You could just have started,” I say, putting my plate down. “You didn’t have to wait for me. We’re not actually dining together, you know; we just happen to be sitting at the same table.”
“That doesn’t seem very civilized,” he replies, waiting for me to sit down before he picks up his fork. “It’s not supposed to be a feeding trough, you know, although obviously some people do treat it that way.”
He looks pointedly at my plate.
Ireallyhope that comment wasn’t directed atme.
“Nowyou’ve gone for a starter?” he says. “Do you doeverythingback-to-front, then?”
“Doyoudo everything by the book?” I retort, carefully tucking my napkin into the neckline of my dress, so I don’t spill food down it. “Or do you occasionally let yourself loosen up and actually enjoy yourself?”
This is pretty rich coming from me, given that this holiday is literally the first time I’ve loosened up in my life. But at least I’mtrying. This guy still seems determined to act like he’s here against his will.
“What makes you think I’m not enjoying myself?” he says testily, sawing viciously at his steak. “I’m having a great time.”
“Um, well, let’s see. You never smile,” I say, holding up a hand so I can tick each item off on my fingers. “You don’t seem to evenhavea sense of humor. You’re on a party island, but you only drink water. You’re sad … I meangrumpyall the time. And you have a huge bruise on your face, which… what’s that about, by the way? You didn’t say.”
“I didn’t say because, unlike you, I don’t go around sharing my private business with check-in attendants and everyone else in earshot,”he answers, not bothering to look up from his plate. “And I like water. Water’s good for you. You should have some.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, suddenly realizing that he might have a drinking problem, or some other reason to keep refusing the champagne that’s constantly being pressed upon us. “There’s nothing wrong with water, obviously. I don’t really drink that much either, normally. It’s just that people keep on bringing us free bottles of champagne, and, well, I’m on holiday, so—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says, as if he hasn’t spent the last few minutes expecting me to explain my dinner choices, so he can look down on me for them. “Like you said, we’re not dining together. We’re just sitting at the same table. And drinking the same champagne.”
He picks up his glass and holds it up in a sarcastic toast before taking a long sip.
Okay. So, not an alcoholic, then. Just a sarky bastard.
“You were telling me about your trip to see Whatshisface,” he reminds me, after another silence, which seems to stretch on forever. “Do you think he’ll call you?”
