“It’s all right. You’re allowed. I’m sure I’d cry in your place.”
“The thing is…” She drags in a breath. “I need to disappear, otherwise the British press…” She makes a helpless gesture. “Just ruthless. They love nothing more than to demonise someone. Bad stories increase subscriptions, don’t you know? And I…” Her lip wobbles, and she makes a visible effort to get it under control. “They would have followed me around for years:Alice Trapper the Slapper chats to café waiter.Disgraced Alice sits alone in the park hoping someone will talk to her.”
“Sacked parliamentarian forced to accept hospitality from man with burnt fingers.” I smile, hoping to cheer her up. “And is reduced to eating biscuits for dinner.”
She chuckles, sort of, but her eyes are still glassy. “I keep getting emotional, I don’t know why. Must be hormonal or–" Her brows knit into a frown, and she stops talking.
I should say something. But what? My search for sympathetic words comes up empty. No helpful comments, not even a funny anecdote about hormones. It’s starting to dawn on me that I know very little about women. Me, who is never without a girlfriend.
Not for the first time, Liam’s frequent joke comes back to me.You have far too much sex to have time for a relationship.
Pushing the memories away, I focus on the woman in front of me. “Are the lavender and honey biscuits any good?”
She takes an experimental nibble, then another. “Actually, they are lovely.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t tried them. I always think of lavender as old lady soap. I was going to take the box up to the bathroom.”
Good, the distraction seems to work. She’s smiling. And she does finish the biscuit and reach for another. Already, her face has regained its colour. She pushes her hair out of the way which reveals a pretty, graceful neck. I let her drink her tea and eat biscuits while I keep my eyes on my plate and finish my food like a good boy. She’s in all kinds of trouble. The last thing she needs is a man ogling her.
Earlier when she came downstairs looking sensational, I wondered if she’d dressed up for me.
Of course, she didn’t. Her heart belongs to Clive Smith, Junior Minister for Transport, or something like that.
Although, she’s far too pretty for the man.
Don’t be an animal. Stop gawping at her.
Hopefully, she hasn’t noticed.
“Can I ask you something?”
Or maybe she has.
“Of course.”
“Am I recognisable? Is everyone here going to know who I am?”
I let my eyes settle on her face for a little – well, she did ask – then shake my head. “I doubt it. I only guessed because of how you reacted…” I point to the old newspaper. “Otherwise, it’s a very good disguise with the hair colour and everything.”
Her hand goes to her hair and tugs at a soft curl. “It’s actually my natural colour.”
“Were you planning to stay here?” I change the subject.
“I thought so, but I’m having second thoughts. It’ll be a big change from my life in London.”
“You’re telling me. I spend my life going from one city to another.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks wistfully.
“I don’t know. I’m still a bit in shock. My life was all travel, concerts, going out, and well…” I think about the other fun pastime that shouldn’t be mentioned here in the kitchen to this woman. “I’m not used to staying at home night after night. In fact, I’m not used tohaving a home. But here all I have is a home. I don’t even have a working phone.”
“Do you need one? Can’t you just shout out loud and be heard at the other end of the island?”
She’s funny. Despite the tears and all the trouble, she’s the one that makes me laugh.
“Exactly. All this peace and quiet is wasted on a man like me. I was never one of those people who complain about noisy cities. I liked crowds.”
“Me, too.” Her eyes shine with excitement. “Walking through Green Park, crowded at lunch time. St Christopher’s Place before Christmas.”
