He loves dogs. Loves all animals in fact. That’s definitely genuine.
He really looks after himself. In fact all he does is look after number one. He carb loads, he skives work to exercise or to shower, and he takes what he wants, and he conceals things.
All the time heseemslike he’s sharing aspects of himself, but he isn’t. He’s just tricking people. Making them feel important and interesting and valued, and beautiful. And because of all that I gave him what he wanted. I didn’t put up an ounce of resistance.
Girls go wild for him. Me. Anjali. Mrs Crocombe. Me. Especially me.
Jowan and Minty were unsure of him from the start. I should have taken this as a big fat warning sign. When people who’ve been around the block a bit have a gut reaction to someone like that, instantly mistrusting them, well, there’s something in that.
The scar. There’s a freshly healed scar across his brow. Close up it looks like threads of silver silk, and he closes his eyes when it’s kissed, and I won’t ever be able to forget the sound of his breathing when I… No.That’s enough of that.
Anyway, that’s what I’ve learned about Elliot, and here’s what I’ve learned about myself: I’m still just as gullible and easy to distract from my ambitions as I ever was. In spite of everything Mack did to me. In spite of all my resolutions.
I’m demolishing the brownie without even tasting it now, and I’m angry, with myself mainly.
So much for my holiday romance, and the little flutterings of hope that this could actually be something more.Live your life, I’d told myself. Spoil yourself for a change. Indulge your whims. Chase your dreams. But all I’ve done is let myself get side-tracked, again. I’ve spoiled my bookselling dream. Jude the bloody obscure. A lost cause if ever there was one.
By the time the chocolate and the caffeine hit my bloodstream, I’ve messaged Daniel and Gran on my phone. Daniel’s got a day off today after his interview for the senior staff nurse position yesterday. I texted him last night to ask how it went but he didn’t reply. He’s probably knackered and sleeping off the stress, so I don’t bombard him with too muchwoe is memoaning, only a quick update, but I do let Gran in on more of the gory details. I know she’ll read it straight away; she’s an early bird.
I met this guy at the bookshop. And I liked him. But it turns out he’s married or something, and he’s just here to lie low for a while. I overheard him phoning someone, telling them he wanted to go back home to them. He was begging forgiveness for humiliating them, saying he was drunk when ‘it’ happened. What am I supposed to do now, Gran?
Sure enough, a message pings straight back, all the way from her New Start in the Borders to sleepy Clove Lore.
You keep your head held high and you carry on.
Six more days is a long time to be stuck with him though. I don’t leave here until Saturday.
Maybe there are other surprises in store for you that will take your mind off him.
She’s added some emojis, which is adorable, but I’m not really sure she knows how to use them. There’s a sunshine and a love heart, an aubergine, two peaches (I really hope she doesn’t know what they mean) and a beach umbrella on a desert island. It makes me smile anyway.
How could I not see it, Gran? I’m such a good reader, why can’t I read people better? I’ve read all the books on infidelity and bad men and over-trusting women umpteen times.
I run through them in my head now while Gran types her reply. Elena Ferrante’sThe Days of Abandonment; Mr Rochester with his poor wife locked up in the attic while he gets it on with Jane Eyre, and just about every romantic comedy I ever picked up.Ugh, a parade of literary cheaters and the women they destroyed crowds my head. Why didn’t I see it when it was happening to me, yet again? My phone pings.
