‘I’m not a criminal,’ he says, standing now, dragging the mattress from the bed, his eyes dark like I’ve never seen them before. It’s worse than alarming. It shocks me. I’m hurt. Wounded, even.
‘Elliot!’ I don’t want to call after him, but I do it anyway, and I hear myself in the quiet of the bedroom. I sound pathetic.
He leaves me alone for the night, and I don’t know what to do to make him come back and talk, not if he’s refusing to let me in. It’s utterly frustrating. I call him every name I can think of under my breath, and I scold myself too for convincing myself I was falling for him so easily, but I don’t lock the bedroom door. It stays open. I sit upright at the head of my bed for hours, motionless, trying to work out what’s gone wrong.
Seven days ago we were total strangers, a few days later and we’re kissing and telling each other stories about our childhoods and we’re flirting – at least, I thought we were, maybe it was all unrequited?
Was I so overwhelmed that someone like that, someone so stunning, someone who really looks after themselves, could also want to look after me? Is my self-esteem really that low? And then,bam, I’m locked out of what felt like the best thing that ever happened to me?
I just don’t understand what went wrong, at least, not until I overhear Elliot’s voice carrying up the stairs hours later, just before midnight.
He’s down in the shop having a one-sided conversation. I tiptoe to the door and strain my ears to listen in. He must think I’m asleep. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be doing this. He couldn’t be that callous. Unless, of course, this is the real him talking, and he’s already forgotten about the silly woman he seduced on holiday.
He’s saying, ‘For the hundredth time, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. If you’d been there that night, you’d understand. I never meant to get involved, then suddenly I was in too deep and admittedly I’d had a few beers – and I know that doesn’t excuse anything…’
There’s silence for a moment. My chest aches from recognising how earnest his voice is. He means this. It’s hurting him.
He speaks again. ‘I know. I know how humiliating it must be for you, but if you could try to see it from my side. I just want to come home. I miss you… Hello? Hello?’
Silence again. They’ve obviously hung up. I hear Elliot crumble. He’s sobbing.
So now I know. He’s just another cheater. I don’t even have the energy – or the pride – to confront him.
Now I do flip the little hook on my door and I lock myself away once more.
Chapter Twenty
Sunday morning brings the inevitable silence. I’m up just after dawn and in the café’s kitchen before Elliot and Aldous (who I was surprised to see curled up on the mattress at Elliot’s feet) are awake. I crept past them on my way into the café and they didn’t stir. Maybe Elliot had difficulty getting to sleep last night. A guilty conscience will do that to a person. If he’s capable of such a thing.
It’s cool this morning even though summer’s still here. The ovens warm the little cooking cubby hole as I mix chocolate brownies (page thirty-two of Grandad’s book) and my usual scone recipe, enough for twenty-four of each.
I boil the café kettle in anticipation of the brownies coming out of the oven and take a steaming, milky tea and a gooey, oven-hot slice of brownie out onto the café doorstep to eat.
I’m going to have my breakfast surrounded by the summer morning dew and watch the early bees buzzing drowsily on the drooping pink flower spikes spilling over the wall of the cottage garden opposite.
The chocolate is gooey and stretches like cheesy pizza on a TV advert, and even though it scalds my tongue a little, it’s good, maybe even the best thing I’ve baked here in Clove Lore.
The sun’s already making its way lazily up over the buildings and I can feel its warmth spreading over the village, chasing away the chill.
I haven’t paid enough attention to this kind of thing on this holiday, I tell myself. I was supposed to be observing life, working out where I fit in with the grand scheme of things. I was supposed to be escaping, communing with the world, working out who I am, and who I might become. Tall order, I know, but I’d hoped to at least get started.
Instead, I’ve spent a week looking at Elliot Desvaux, if that’s his real name, with love-heart eyes. I’ve squandered a whole week of what might be the only opportunity life ever throws at me for independent escape.
Have I explored Clove Lore? No.Have I made the most of my beautiful,beautifulshop and my café? I really haven’t. Where are all the friends I was going to make? And at what point during all this was I working on myself? I just… wasn’t. I was too busy projecting all my hopes and wishes onto a man I don’t know.
Here’s what he’s told me so far, the grand total of my combined knowledge about this person:
He’s a child of neglectful, posh parents. That I can believe.
He was surrounded by books and au pairs from a young age and was sent off to pre-prep school and boarding school like the Little Lord Fauntleroy I fantasised him as being.
