He frowns. ‘Why would they think that?’
I shake my head, deciding not to go into it. Because Rupert wouldn’t understand that, when faced with such abundance – for no money! – people can go a little crazy if they’re not used to it. Like the child raised on the joyless breadstick/rice cake/carrot baton category of snack, suddenly unleashed on the neon-iced cupcakes at a party. Already, Zack has decreed that Poppy will ingest no sugar – ever. Not a single gram of it, like it’s heroin.
The journey passes pleasantly, and I’m relieved that Rupert hasn’t brought up the Dairylea incident again. Fine, I think. Being back at the bookshop has been surprisingly enjoyable and he has been more respectful and thoughtful since our ‘break.’ That, I think, is how we’re viewing it. We were on a break, we needed to figure stuff out and here we are, back together again.
We arrive at Whitby and check into our hotel. Not a twin room, obviously, but separate rooms. Compared to the Love Heart Boudoir, the decor is restrained: soft grey walls, cream curtains and a vast bed, not merely king- or queen-size but… what? Emperor-size? There is also a vase of fresh white lilies, a bowl of fruit, a box of speciality teas, various biscuit options, several crisp and salted nut varieties and – thrillingly – a well-stocked mini-bar.
From the vast sash window I take pictures of the view: the choppy sea, the tumbling clouds, the higgledy-piggledy streets and dramatic silhouette of the abbey. There’s so much history here – and I know who loves history. I want to turn and grab Shane’s hand and squeeze it tight. I want to say, ‘Isn’t this amazing?’ I want to share it all with him, or at least tell him that I’m back in Yorkshire, so soon after our trip. But what would I say? Instead, I unpack and iron my smart trousers and top for tomorrow, and my dress for tonight.
Rupert and I are meeting later for dinner in the hotel restaurant. His treat, he’s assured me – ‘but don’t be going for the lobster thermidor!’ I mean, as if. He plans to go through his speech with me in preparation for the all-day independent booksellers’ conference tomorrow. He’ll be one of several speakers and his talk will only last for forty minutes; I’m surprised by how nervous he seems. I am too – just a little – on his behalf. So, while he naps in his room, I pour myself a G&T from the mini-bar. And then, seated by the window with the glorious sea view, I dash off the message I’ve been desperate to write since we stepped off the train at Whitby station.
Josie
Hi, just wanted to let you know I’m up north again. Whitby this time – a work thing (I’m back at the shop!). Hope you’re good. I want to say I’m deeply sorry for how things ended and also thank you. Our trip was bonkers but also brilliant. I’ll never forget it – especially our last night. Love, Josie xxx
With no hesitation, and no fiddling about with the wording, I send it. I wait for a reply, but there is nothing. To stop myself from constantly checking, I hide my phone in a drawer and run a deep, deliciously scented bath, and luxuriate in the bubbles for almost an hour. Later, still with no message from Shane, I trot down the wide, curved staircase towards the opulent dining room.
It’s fine, I tell myself. At least I have my job back – and not even my job as it was. It’s better now, and I’m a lucky woman to be staying here in this gorgeous hotel. As for Shane – I’ve tried and now it’s time to forget him. There’s nothing else I can do.
41
Despite several drinks with Rupert after dinner, I wake early, surprisedly clear-headed. He beams, waving, as I spot him occupying a window table at breakfast. ‘Fabulous! Boarding-school eggs,’ he enthuses when his full English arrives.
‘Honestly, you like them like that?’ I ask. For a posh hotel, the scrambled egg looks particularly rubberised.
‘Oh, yes. Best part of the day.’ He chuckles and sips his coffee, taking a bite out of the sausage. ‘Texture of a horsehair mattress.’ He grins, and I imagine his childhood home, a grand pile out in Berkshire, lumpen beds sprawled on by golden retrievers. For a moment, he looks wistful. I wonder if he’s missing the big tin of Nescafé at the bookshop. ‘Only because my mother was a top class egg-rubberiser,’ he adds.
I laugh and spread honey from one of the miniature jars onto my toast. I decide not to mention how thrilling I find them – these tiny jars of honey and marmalade and jam. Our jovial conversation has petered out anyway, and having devoured the rest of his breakfast, Rupert has pushed his plate aside. ‘I think I’ll pop back to my room and have a little lie-down before this thing today,’ he announces.
I look at him in surprise. ‘D’you feel okay? About doing your talk, I mean? You look a bit stressed…’
‘Just a bit!’ He grimaces. ‘Public speaking? It’s my worst nightmare.’ He picks up his coffee and drains it, wiping his mouth on what I’d call a serviette and he would definitely call a napkin. ‘Don’t mind if I dash off, do you?’
‘Er, no. Of course not,’ I say, and off he goes. I’m grateful, actually, for a little time to dawdle over breakfast. Having been given a top-up of coffee, I’m planning on doing another circuit of the buffet, and remember how thrilled Cora was the one time I managed to take us abroad on holiday. The Spanish resort was a little down at heel but the breakfast buffet – ‘a choosing breakfast’, she called it – was magical. We’d heaped our plates, giggling over how much we’d taken, but still managing to guzzle it all.
However, when I go back up to the buffet my appetite has gone, and I think of Rupert in his room, revving himself up for the ordeal ahead. As I leave the restaurant I check my phone for the umpteenth time. Shane still hasn’t replied – although my message has been read – and I take this to mean there’ll be no more contact between us.
Charming, I think. But then my behaviour hasn’t been exemplary either.
In the hotel foyer, a little concerned now, I call Rupert. ‘Just thought I’d check everything’s okay and if I can help with anything?’
‘No, I’m fine, Josie. But thank you.’
I start to head up the thickly carpeted stairs. ‘So you have all your notes and everything?’
‘Virtually a thesis!’ he exclaims.
‘Can I pop up for a moment? Are you decent?’
He splutters. ‘Of course I’m decent.’
I find him pacing around his room and sweating visibly, his cheeks florid. He grabs a tiny bottle from the desk at the window and waves it at me. ‘Rescue Remedy,’ he announces.
‘Does that work?’ I ask.
‘Hope so. This is a little embarrassing, Josie, but I should explain that I’m prone to panic attacks?—’
‘Oh, I had one too,’ I cut in, ‘when I was driving.’
