But back to Nicki’s diary... Her dad is working a lot of the time, so he books his daughter onto a rock-climbing course to keep her occupied. This is where Timo – a.k.a. Isak – comes in.
Isak, the course leader, is from Sweden – not Finland, as inThe Secret Life of Us– but it hardly takes Sherlock to put two and two together.
He’s twenty-one and absolutely gorgeous, with grey eyes and short, dark hair, and seventeen-year-old Nicki is smitten from the get-go. Even I’m captivated as I, along with her, read between the lines and try to work out if he likes her too.
She goes into excruciating detail about their every touch, their every exchanged look, their every conversation. When the course is finished, she states that she’s going to continue to go rock climbing, and then I turn the page to see an entry written at two o’clock in the morning, and I know that something big has happened.
Her excitement spills right out of her pen onto the page as she recounts the events of the night before. After her rock-climbing session she got chatting to Isak and he casually invited her for dinner with him. He took her to the rundown village where he lives – on the same island, a fifteen-minute walk away. Nicki was scared about leaving the resort without so much as telling her dad, but her irritation over his lack of time for her made her rebel.
Isak showed her a side of Thailand that was very different from the five-star luxury of the resort – and, despite her initial fear, she found the excursion thrilling. Later, when he walked her barefoot along the sandy beach under the stars, he pulled her to a stop and gave her the most swoonworthy kiss she’d ever had.
We’re seeing him again tonight. I can’t wait.
Between one of my songs finishing and another beginning, I hear the door slamming downstairs. I lift my head up and look out of the window. No Charlie. What’s the time? Three o’clock! I’ve read straight through lunch! I wonder if he’s gone to get April.
I go downstairs and make myself a piece of toast before returning to the office to continue reading.
I have to tear myself away from the pages at five o’clock and, by then, Nicki has filled up another diary and is onto her third. She’s still in Thailand – as I said, she goes into detail – and she and Isak are having a secret affair. She’s in agony over the thought of leaving him in two days’ time.
There’s no one in the kitchen, but there’s a saucepan on the hob, its contents merrily bubbling away beneath the lid. I put my empty mug in the dishwasher and then jump with fright when I realise April is standing in her playpen, staring dolefully up at me. She bounces on her feet a bit, steadying herself with her chubby little hands on the side of the pen.
‘Hello,’ I say, wondering where Charlie is.
She holds her arms open to me. A split second later, she falls backwards onto her bum and starts to cry.
‘Hold on, hold on.’ I look around for Charlie, then, against my better judgement, reach into the pen and lift his daughter out.
Her cries stop instantly, her face breaking into a full-beam smile.
‘All right?’ I ask, grinning back at her.
She reaches up and pulls my hair.
‘Ow!’
She giggles, so I let her do it again.
My squawk this time prompts her to laugh like crazy. Huh. I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, but I think she likes me.
‘Okay, that’s enough now, you cheeky monkey,’ I say, trying to untangle her fingers from my locks before she bruises my scalp. She grins at me, her chubby cheeks widening to chipmunk-like proportions. Maybe it’s her blue dress, but her eyes seem bluer today.
The lid on the pan begins to vibrate violently and both April and I turn our heads at the same time to stare at it. With one arm holding her to my hip, I go over to the stove and carefully take off the lid, grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring the red sauce within. The toilet flushes inside the hallway cloakroom and Charlie emerges.
‘Thanks,’ he says, coming into the kitchen. I jut my hip towards him, expecting him to take April, but he goes to a cupboard and begins rooting around.
‘What are you making?’ I ask.
‘Spaghetti Bolognese.’
‘For you or April?’
‘Both,’ he replies, unscrewing a jar of dried herbs and shaking some into the pan, flecking the red sauce with green. ‘Just have to blitz hers in the food processor first.’
‘Ew.’ I pull a face.
He smirks at me as he screws the herb lid back on.
‘How’s your work coming along?’ I walk over to the French doors and look out.
