I go still. ‘You’re not staying with me?’
‘I’ll feel bad if one of us doesn’t go,’ he says, very reasonably. ‘And you probably should get some sleep.’
He’s right. I should sleep. The doctors have said it’s an important part of my healing process.So ten minutes later, I’m lying in bed, propped up on a couple of pillows. A single lamp is on on the other side of the room, but even that is verging on being too bright for my overstimulated optic nerves. Simon gives me a kiss on the cheek, then moves towards the door. I want to grab his hand, to pull him back, but I don’t.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says, even though we both know I’ll be out for the count by the time he returns. The bedroom door closes softly, and a few moments later I hear the front door close too.
I don’t know what time it is when he comes back in, although I rouse from sleep long enough to feel the mattress dip as he gets into bed.
Once upon a time, he would have snuggled up tight behind me, maybe even run a cheeky hand up my thigh or stroked my bottom, but tonight he keeps his distance. I know it’s probably because he’s being considerate, that he doesn’t want to wake me, but I can’t help being weighed down by this tiny rejection.
I feel completely unsexy. Broken. Who would want to marry this anyway?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Present Day
The following morning, Simon brings me breakfast in bed. Once the tray is on my lap and I’m tucking into yoghurt and berries, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, facing me. ‘I know how you can get away from this flat and still find some peace and quiet, you know, proper rest,’ he says.
‘Mm-hmm?’
I’m not sure how I feel about that. My body is screaming at me that he’s right, that it’s something I desperately need, but my stubborn will is digging its heels in. I want to be able to cope.
However, words like ‘relaxation’ and ‘peace’ bring to mind luxurious country house spas and fluffy white robes, so I have half an ear open to what he’s about to say.
‘I think the problem is that here, you’re always going to get sucked into doing too much, taking too much on. And I can understand why you’re frustrated just being in the flat all day, every day, with nothing of real purpose to do.’
I feel a rush of warmth in my chest. The fact Simon has not only listened to me but came up with a plan to help shows I really can count on him when it matters.
‘I know a place in the countryside where you won’t be disturbed, and you can stay there as long as you like.’
Okay, maybe not a spa, but a gorgeous little thatched cottage with views over rolling hills, maybe a trickling stream running through a cottage garden? I could handle some of that. ‘Thank you … This is really sweet of you.’ I take a spoonful of yoghurt, making sure I also catch a couple of blueberries, and ask, ‘So where is this perfect haven?’
Simon just smiles. ‘You’ll see.’
* * *
Exactly one week later, Simon and I leave our flat at the crack of dawn, get in his car, and head west. He won’t tell me where we’re going, wanting it to be a surprise. Since I rained on his parade about Edinburgh, I play along, even though it’s making me stressed not knowing our destination. By the time the sun is high in the sky, we’ve travelled through a handful of counties, passed Stonehenge and crossed the border into Devon. I recognize this route. We take it every time we visit Simon’s parents.
‘Are we going to Lower Hadwell?’
Simon keeps his eyes on the road and his lips firmly pressed together. It’s infuriating.
‘We’re not going to your parents’ house, are we?’
As much as I love Michael and Grace, I really don’t want to move in with them. That won’t be restful at all. Even if they tell me to relax, I’ll still feel as if I’ve got to be on my best behaviour, especially as I’m responsible for wasting a ton of money they generously put into the kitty for the wedding that never was.
Simon just flashes me a smile and gives a one-sided shrug.I give up, facing the front again as my stomach begins to churn gently.
We continue our journey through the Devon countryside. It’s the beginning of August and the fields are lush green or a warm glowing yellow. Now and then, we dip down into a valley and cross a bubbling river on an old stone bridge before cresting yet another hill. I recognize each landmark, and so I’m not surprised when we pass through Stoke Moreton, then turn off the at a sign that says ‘Lower Hadwell 3’.
Oh crap. We are going to his parents’ after all. So much for Simon understanding what I needed.
The centre of the village is up on the hill, with amazing views over the water and surrounding countryside, but buildings also spread down towards the riverbank, where there is a pub, some cafes, and a small quay. Grace and Michael live just beyond that, past the village green, the only true piece of flat land in the village.
We begin our descent down the hill, past ice-cream-coloured cottages, some with window boxes, some with thatched roofs. I get ready to put my game face on, my I-had-a-nasty-bumpon-the-head-but-now-I’m-doing-fine face, but just before we reach where the road swings left in front of the Ferryboat Inn, Simon takes a right, down a lane I’d never really noticed was there before.
I sit up taller and glance at Simon. He’s staring straight ahead, looking pretty pleased with himself. We travel for maybe half a mile, past a couple of other dwellings. We’re practically on top of our destination before I see it because the drive is almost level with the flat roof of a of a two-storey building that sits on the edge of the hill, almost on the very shoreline itself.
