‘Right, right,’ he says, sounding unconvinced even to his own ears. ‘Of course.’
‘I can’t believe Nathan sent us to a film set.’
‘I mean, technically, I think people really do live here.’
‘Yes, but look at it.’ The streets are picture perfect. She isn’t wrong.
‘He’s sent us to the set of one of the most romantic films of all time, Alex.’
He tries not to dwell on the fact that it’s the first time she’s said his name. That he likes hearing it in her voice. He tries, instead, to concentrate on what she’s saying – or rather, what she’snotsaying. What she’s implying.
‘I think this is just genuinely where he happens to have an Airbnb?’
‘Oh yes, I know that. But, still. He could have booked us an all-day meeting room in the enormous building where he works. We could have had fancy mineral water and expensive biscuits all day and he could have checked up on us multiple times to make sure we were on track.’
‘I think I like your grandmother’s flapjacks better than mass-produced biscuits,’ he says, trying to diffuse whatever tension has mysteriously appeared.
‘Thank you,’ she says, more gently now. ‘I love it. I’m glad you do too. But don’t get me sidetracked.’
To be fair to Alex, he is confused about where she is going with this. What it is exactly that is making Jess angry, and whether he, too, should be angry at Nathan. They have slowed and then stopped outside a pub which looks promising for dinner, and now thathe’s started thinking about the possibility of fish and chips, he’s finding it hard to concentrate on much else. But Jess, still wound tight, is pacing now.
‘So, we’re mad at Nathan for sending us to a lovely cottage in a pretty town where one of your favourite movies was filmed?’
‘No. We’re mad at Nathan for setting us up to fall in love.’ Instantly, her face is flushed. He suspects his is too. He certainly feels warm all of a sudden. ‘I mean, not that that’s what’s happening here, obviously.’
‘Oh, obviously,’ he says. Should he feel hurt? He has whiplash. Screw it, he’s going to ask. He has no self-control when he’s hungry. ‘Would it be so terrible if thatiswhat he’s done?’
Jess stops pacing. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. There is no good answer to this question, and she seems to know it. ‘I just don’t like to be manipulated,’ she says at last, deflated.
‘Me neither,’ he says. He stretches out his arm for her to take his hand, and she doesn’t seem to hesitate to respond. Now that the wordsfalling in loveare out there, they might as well own it.
‘Come on,’ he says, drawing reassuring circles at the base of her thumb and gesturing to the pub with his free arm. ‘Let’s eat.’
Chapter Nineteen
Jess
It is possible she may have overreacted. Jess sees that now. But in her defence, she was starving, and not thinking straight. Now, with her stomach full of toad in the hole and her second glass of Merlot in her hand, she feels she should apologise. Although it’s difficult to know how to do that without admitting some things she isn’t ready to admit yet.
‘Alex …’ she says, at a suitable pause in the conversation. He has told her about his complicated family: four siblings whose parents divorced and each remarried partners who already had kids, then had two more of their own. He’s the eldest of a tribe of biblical proportions.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, seemingly guessing what she’s going to say before she’s even formulated her sentence. ‘You were hangry.’
‘I know, but—’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Okay,’ she says, mirroring him. She’ll leave it there for now, grateful that he’s being so gracious. She didn’t really want to have this conversation anyway. Not now,not with Alex. Maybe later, with Nathan. A part of her likes to imagine she’ll have the guts and gumption to march into his office and demand to know what he was playing at, sending them to the centre of a romantic fairytale. A part of her, though, wonders if before this weekend is over, she’ll be grateful; if she’ll instead be planning a sheepish, loaded thank you to Nathan. A Fortnum & Mason hamper, maybe, with a cryptic-but-not-that-cryptic note.
‘So tell me about your family,’ he says.
‘There’s not a lot to tell compared to yours,’ she replies. ‘It’s pretty much the opposite. I’m an only child.’
‘Wow.’ Alex looks impressed and vaguely surprised, as if confronted with a reality he’s only read about in psychology textbooks. ‘What’s that like?’
‘Mostly pretty lonely,’ she says. ‘I made my own fun, though. Wrote stories starring my friends and handed them out to them at break time. Played the saxophone. Set up a Monopoly board and had my imaginary friend play alternate turns. And I read a lot.’
Jess braces for the inevitable next question, the one whose answer tends to crease brows in sympathy.
