I nod. I don’t think anyone has to worry about the Wi-Fi signal in a house that Gil owns. ‘Should be. What time shall I call? Will seven give you enough time to get settled after the journey?’
Simon jams his underwear in the front pocket on the bag. ‘I’m probably gonna be wiped out this evening,’ he says. ‘And you’re not yet your sharpest at that time of day, either.’
‘But they need to know quickly. Tomorrow?’
‘I’m due round at Rachel’s tomorrow for dinner. She’s decided to take care of me since I’m home alone a lot of the time.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘Tuesday?’
Simon thinks for a minute. ‘I can do Tuesday.’
My shoulders unclench a little. ‘Okay, good …’
‘If not, Wednesday is the only other day I can do. I’ve got that training course on Thursday and this weekend is Felipe’s stag thing. We’re leaving for Amsterdam at the crack of dawn on Saturday.’
‘Oh yes.’ One of his work colleagues. I don’t remember him telling me that, but he probably did. And I didn’t know he and Felipe were that close. ‘So you won’t be coming down next Saturday either?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’
I sigh, disappointed, but I can hardly stop him living his life, showing up for his friends, just because I’m feeling needy, can I? I let the subject drop and return to something more important. ‘We’ve got to let the hotel know by first thing Saturday, so as long as we chat before you go off with the boys, it should be fine.’
Simon pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. ‘Anything for you.’ We stay like that for a few moments, and then he pulls away. ‘Gotta grab a few last bits.’
I nod. ‘Of course …’ And before I know it, his bag is full, and he zips it up and heads across the hallway to say his farewell to our host.
‘Good to see you, mate,’ he says to Gil and gives him one of those laddish hugs with lots of backslapping, and then he turns to me, pulls me into his arms and kisses me properly for the first time all weekend before disappearing out the door.
Something occurs to me and I turn to Gil. ‘Have you been invited to Felipe’s stag weekend?’ As much as I want more independence, I feel suddenly panicked at spending time here at Heron’s Quay on my own.
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t really know him that well. Besides, from the handful of times I have met him, I got the impression he doesn’t like me very much.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I say, wincing. ‘Sorry.’
Gil shrugs and smiles at me. ‘No problem. I don’t like him much, either.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Present Day
After Simon leaves, I feel heavy and listless. I try to finish my painting of Lower Hadwell, but in my efforts at perfection, I add too many things and end up ruining it.
I steadfastly ignore my easel, but when Gil has to go into Exeter for a meeting on Tuesday, I get so bored I pull it out again. I stretch the paper ready for painting and draw a quick outline of the village with a pencil, intending to have another go at the scene I destroyed a few days earlier by too much tinkering. But when it’s time to add paint, I think of all the careful strokes I’m going to have to make for the painting to work and I just can’t bring myself to start. Instead, I dip my brush in a blob of bright crimson paint and swipe it across the canvas. And then I add emerald green, then fuchsia.
I’m not thinking about what I want to create; I’m thinking about how Simon’s visit gave me a strange vibe, as if he was here in my arms and in my bed, but not really here. He seemed distracted, eager to get back home. But is that just my paranoia talking?
I’ve been much more anxious since my accident, much more prone to getting an idea in my head and running with it,no matter how ridiculous it might be. Trying to work out what’s real and what isn’t is making my brain spin in three different directions at once.
I add this into my painting, picking up a narrow brush and loading it with an egg-yolk yellow. It feels good to stab my brush onto the paper, adding sharp lines and dots to the swirls of deep colour. But then I stop thinking about Simon and think about myself, how I feel so different from the person I was before the accident, but also feel essentially ‘me’ at the same time. It’s so confusing. I pick a deep, sad midnight blue and a wide brush and I cover huge swathes of the bright colour with its heaviness, hardly paying any attention to shape or design, just to the motion of the brush, what feels right in that moment.
I stop not when I feel I’m finished, but when I’m too mentally exhausted to go on. When I stand back and survey my work, I don’t see beauty. I don’t see skill. I just see a mess. I see myself.
I turn away, unable to look at it, and retreat from the living room to my bedroom, where I bury myself under the covers, then fall into a restless sleep.
* * *
I dream of white sandy beaches and brilliant blue skies, of palm trees and seashells, and a white-painted cottage with a veranda that leads out onto a deserted beach. The morning sun is golden, peeking through the slats in the shutters, highlighting the creases on the rumpled snowy-white sheets.
I feel the warmth of a body spooned tightly around me, and my mind doesn’t just wake from its dozy state but my body does too.His breathing is even, his muscles lax, and I enjoy the feel of him wrapped possessively around me, but after a few minutes I’m hungry for a different kind of touch.
