‘I totally understand,’ Roxy replies quickly, her cheeks turning a deep crimson in return and her eyes dropping to the floor. ‘Please ignore the request – I’m so embarrassed.’
But it isn’t enough to give her an explanation of why I don’t want to accept it, because that damned alert will still be on Heather’s account. The request needs to be gone.
‘This will sound kind of rude, but can you delete the request?’
‘Sure,’ she says, with a sort of forced smile. I realize she’s hurt, but I have to suck it up and push forward and focus on the trouble at hand.
‘Now?’ I say.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,’ I say, smiling apologetically and trying to behave like this is a normal and not-at-all-rude request.
Her eyes are up and right on me, but she’s not angry or suspicious or any of the things that would make me more nervous. Rather she looks completely humiliated.
‘Okay, sorry,’ she says, walking over to her locker. I watch as she fumbles with the lock, spins the dial left and right, then pulls the lock down to open it. She finds her phone, looks briefly up at me and then clicks a few times.
‘I know this is a bit weird,’ I say, wanting to soften the blow.
‘It’s fine,’ she interjects, and then tosses her phone back in the locker and slams it shut, the only hint that her embarrassment is turning to anger. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’
‘It’s not a bother – I’m just trying to stay professional. That means no Friending, fighting or fucking,’ I say, forcing a grin.
‘Okay, Heather,’ Roxy says with a deflated smile. And then she goes to leave and I feel so bad. I want to grab her wrist and tell her I adore her, and that we will be friends for ever, but I can’t.
I still have to sort out bloody Tim.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket as Roxy lets the door shut behind her. Still nothing from Tim. I try to call, but it goes straight to voicemail. I also see the battery is at only 4 per cent. Shit!
I decide to head back down to the cottage, charge my phone, have a coffee, wait for Tim to turn his phone on and try to relax.
29.
Back in the quiet safety of my bedroom I boot up my computer. It’s started to sound like a helicopter trying to take off, so I’m pretty sure it’s on its last legs. I plug my phone quickly into the side and check it’s charging. I think about a shower, but I can’t bear to wash away the night before. In the mirror, I see a girl who needs sleep. I inspect the new lines around my eyes and vow to at least wash my face and put on some make-up later. I squeeze out the last of my moisturizer and rub it into my wind-blown skin, and run Heather’s bamboo paddle brush through my hair, feeling guilt with every stroke. I need to speak to her. I need to make sure she didn’t see that damned request. I send her a quick message.
Heather, are you there?
I am suddenly famished and realize I’ve not eaten and should have grabbed something from the hotel kitchen. I’ll have to make do with what’s in the cottage. I open the fridge, which has the rind of some cheese, some milk, an empty carton of eggs, the usual assortment of condiments – soy sauce, mayonnaise, tomato sauce and half a jar of capers. All those cooking lessons and there’s nothing I can utilize my fledgling skills on. Thinking of James makes me feel giddy and vaguely sick. I ignore it. Hunger is the next task.
Then I check the cupboard and find a tin of M&S chicken korma at the back.Bingo!I fish around for a saucepan and dump it into the pan.
Then I put my laptop up on the counter and open Facebook. I check Heather’s page and am relieved to see she’s not posted at all, and my anxiety eases somewhat. She probably hasn’t been on it in days. I pull out my phone, and there’s a message from her.
Yep, I can talk.
I call her while I’m stirring my chicken korma.
‘Hey, babe,’ she says lazily.
‘How’s Italy?’ I ask, speaking quietly, though I’m pretty sure James and Bill are both still asleep.
‘Well,’ she says, taking a breath, ‘it’s been okay. It was nice last night, but Cristian left this morning before I woke up. Probably work or something.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, biting my tongue. I hate this guy.
‘But things are okay, I guess, in other ways. I don’t know. What’s up with you?’ she asks. ‘Any luck with Mr Chef? Have you seen him again? And are you still staying with your cousin? Really, we’ve not caught up in ages!’
She doesn’t mention any Facebook request, and I’m pretty sure she would have, right off the bat. I relax. I want to tell her about James and the cooking lessons. And last night. I want to tell her everything about it.
