“I don’t know why you’re so invested in this,” I tell him. “It’s none of your business. You don’t even know me. Or Jamie. You have no idea whether it’s going to work out.”
“Most relationships don’t,” he says calmly, continuing to cut into his steak as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having with a stranger over dinner. “What are the statistics again? Isn’t it something like 50% of all marriages that end in divorce?”
“So? I’m not here tomarrythe guy,” I exclaim. “You’re making this sound like way more than it is. It’s honestly not that serious.”
“Which makes it even more ridiculous,” he counters. “Now you’ve dropped everything and put your livelihood at risk for… what? A holiday fling? Whodoesthat?”
I glare across the table at him, and he scowls back, a lock of his still-damp hair falling over one eye — the one with the bruise — and somehow managing to make him look even sexier than he usually does.
He is, without a doubt, the most handsome man I’ve ever had dinner with.
It’s just a shame he has to be so utterly unbearable.
“Oh my God, you’re absolutely impossible,” I tell him, my voice rising in a way that will definitely make me cringe when I think about it later. “Yes, I made a rash decision, and I made it at a time when I was feeling low and vulnerable, and when everything seemed a bit pointless, really. But so what? At least I’m doingsomethingto try to change the things I don’t like about my life. Allyouseem to be doing is sitting around looking miserable and judging people. Well, it’s not going to be me, okay? I’ll make sure I sit somewhere else tomorrow night. I’ll… I’ll sit with Julian and Alice. Or … orsomeone.”
I stand up, ready to storm off dramatically (Which isn’t agreatway to prove him wrong on the whole ‘me being super-dramatic’ thing, but I was pretty much done with my food anyway…) only it turns out it wasn’t my napkin I tucked into my dress, but the tablecloth; and, when I turn to walk away, I drag the entire contents of the table with me, glasses and crockery cascading with an almighty crash to the paved surface of the terrace, and the remains of Alex’s half-eaten steak flying through the air to slap the bald-headed gentleman behind us on the back of the head.
There’s an audible gasp from the surrounding diners, who all immediately put down their cutlery, as if they’re getting ready to watch a show, and we’re the entertainment. From the other side of the terrace, a saxophonist suddenly starts playing, just to add to the ambiance.
I daren’t look in Alex’s direction, but, fortunately for me, Emilio comes to the rescue, flapping over to help untangle me from the tablecloth, while shrieking directions in Spanish to the rest of the waitstaff at the same time.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, addressing the terrace at large, and everyone on it as the tablecloth and I finally part ways. “I’msosorry; I’ll… I’ll pay for allthe food I’ve ruined,” I add, turning to Emilio. “And the plates. And the glasses. And—”
“It’s all-inclusive,” says Alex from behind me. “So you’ve already paid for it all. You’ve just chosen to throw it over everyone rather than eating it. Which seems very…you.”
“I didn’tchooseto do it,” I tell him, feeling dangerously close to tears as I crouch down and start trying to gather up some of the broken pieces of crockery that are now decorating the terrace. “Obviously not.”
“No? This isn’t another one for your ‘things you wouldn’t do at home’ list, then?”
Is it me, or does he actually soundamusedby this?
And, if so, trust Alexander Fox — The Man Who Laughs at Nothing — to only be amused by someone else’s misfortune.
“You’re not funny, you know,” I say furiously, straightening up, painfully aware of the fact that I still have an audience. “Especially considering that this is all your fault. But, hey, you found something else you can make fun of me for, so I guess your work here’s done, isn’t it?”
Alex’s forehead creases in something that might be concern, although you never really know with him.
“Hey,” he says, taking a step towards me. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean—”
“Save it,” I tell him, plucking my bag from the back of my chair and throwing it over my shoulder. “I think you’ve said enough for one day, don’t you?”
Before he can answer, I turn around with as much dignity as I can muster, and stalk off in what I hope is the direction of my room.
So much for menotbeing ‘dramatic’ then…
Eight
Back in my room — which I find at last, after a long walk down several identical corridors — I find I don’t have much of an appetite after all, so I scrape together a sad little snack consisting of the single chocolate the housekeeper has left on my pillow, plus a bag of salted peanuts left over from the plane, and take them out to the balcony, along with my battered old blue diary.
Day one of my trip is going really well, then.
The temperature has been boiling all day, but now the sun’s started to sink towards the ocean, there’s a slight chill in the air, so I grab a sweater from the wardrobe, and settle in to watch the sunset whilenotthinking about how annoying Alex Fox is. Which might be easier said than done.
“Hey. Mind if I join you?”
I give an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek of fright, almost knocking over the patio furniture as a familiar head of floppy dark hair pops over the wall separating my balcony from the one next to it.
“You havegotto be kidding me,” I splutter in disbelief. “Please tell me this is your idea of a joke, and you’re notactuallystaying in the room next to me?”
