God, this wasn’t going well. How did he explain? He thought the boat had sailed so he made do with second best. Telling her it was the practical option wasn’t particularly romantic.
‘Going out with Emily was a good excuse to keep seeing you and find out how serious it was with this other guy.’
‘Really?’ She stared thoughtfully out of the window, watching the woman in her hatchback next to them singing away to her music.
All the revelations of the last few hours had made him realise just how often he’d invented reasons to visit the flat. He was impressed by how devious his subconscious had been. He had been a very regular visitor.
Now it all seemed so obvious. OK, one kiss didn’t make a lifelong commitment, but he couldn’t imagine life without Olivia.
They didn’t talk for a little while.
‘You could move out...’ he suggested, breaking the silence.
‘Where to,’ she said gloomily. ‘It’s my bloody flat.’
Even before he said it, he wondered if it was a risk, if it was too soon to say it but hell, they’d wasted so much time over the last few years. ‘To my place.’
She looked at him, her mouth dropping open into a shocked ‘o’. Then she dropped her head and muttered, ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ Now he’d said it, it was so obviously the right thing to do.
‘Because . . .’ she stopped. ‘Besides, it’s too soon.’
‘Too soon for what? You can’t stay with Emily. It’s the obvious solution. Anyway, I want you there. Safe. With me.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her voice sounded choked and out of the corner of his eye he caught her blinking furiously, and then in a typical Olivia move, she lightened the moment by saying, ‘How do you know I’m not moving in just for that gorgeous kitchen? You know I’ve got oven envy.’
He smiled. ‘Sweetheart, if you know how to drive it, you’re welcome to it.’
As they came off the motorway into the heavy London traffic, both of them went quiet. The prospect of facing Emily weighed heavily on him and he couldn’t imagine how Olivia felt. The lies, that letter and the two of them having to pretend. No, he definitely wasn’t looking forward to that bit.
For about the tenth time Olivia tried to call Emily, but her phone still kept switching to voicemail. Where was she was? Why didn’t she answer? Maybe she couldn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Turning the key in the lock, I stopped reluctantly in the doorway, not wanting to go in, even though Daniel was right behind me. His hand was clasped over mine on the key in the door.
‘I’ll go first?’ he whispered.
Following him, I bent to pick up my bag, listening intently.
‘Hellooo,’ I called out, with only a tiny quaver in my voice. Having six foot plus of lean muscle and warm body with me was very reassuring.
‘Emily — are you home?’ Nothing. Just silence.
Daniel took the steps two at a time. ‘Emily, are you in?’ he called more forcefully.
Following closely, although my heart was bumping uncomfortably, at the same time it was expanding with pride. My hero. My very own Clark Kent. He got to the top step, which opened into the lounge. It was cold and unlit, as if no one had been here for a little while.
An empty mug was on the floor beside Friday’sEvening Standardalong with a plate of congealing beans, a pair of boots, and two different shoes. Assorted clothes, jewellery and magazines were scattered around the room while the coffee table was strewn with empty crisp packets, biscuit crumbs and two discarded yoghurt pots.
‘Has there been a struggle here?’ said Daniel, bending down and picking up one of the shoes.
‘No, Daniel. This is standard.’
‘Really?’ He seemed surprised.
Of course Emily had made sure she’d kept her inner slob hidden whenever he came round.
