I got your message last night, but I might have been a little too squiffy to understand.
Where are you, exactly?
Why isn’t your phone switched on?
Darling, this stranger in your holiday rental, it doesn’t matter if he’s buff or if his package feels heavenly, you must take care.
I promise, I didn’t send him there.
Sweetie, call me. You’re worrying me.
Izzy, if the man is wearing a kimono and nothing else, stay away from him. And if he has a little dog and a bottle of lotion, don’t sniff any strange scented handkerchiefs. And for God’s sake, don’t put any lotion on your skin.
There are also a one hundred and fifty-seven missed calls ranging over the past few days.
‘He must be so worried,’ I mutter as I call him.
The call rings, then connects, then cuts out. I try again. In fact, I go through this process a whole heap of times before a busy signal finally kicks in.
‘There are probably still issues with the towers and stuff,’ Greg supplies.
‘Yeah, I’ll text him now. Hopefully, he’ll get it at some point, and I’ll call again when I get to the airport.’
The airport.Urgh.
I’m alive and healthy, I type out.Re the kimono and lotion references, rest assured, I haven’t been shacked up with Buffalo Bill. I did meet a very nice man called Greg who I may or may not have accused of being a male escort. And blamed you. It’s all good now. Lots to tell you. Talk soon.
P.S. Sorry for worrying you. Blame Storm Uma or Erma or whatever the thing is called.
I look up from my phone to find Greg holding a plastic bag, loading it with the contents of the fridge.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Chucking the perishables away. I won’t be back ’till Boxing Day, and I don’t fancy returning to a house that stinks of rotten food.’
‘Fair enough. Oh, I’ll have that,’ I say, taking the container with remains of the roast beef from his hand. He straightens and smiles as I rip off the lid, pulling it out to tear into it, caveman style.
I question his smile silently with a lift of a brow, but his just fades away. As he turns back to the fridge, I notice the muscles in his jaw have clenched tight.
I’ll bring you around to my way of thinking, Greg Hamley. Just you wait and see.
The countertops are wiped and dishes washed and left to drip-dry. The Scrabble board put away. There is literally nothing else to do but carry our bags outside. Which Greg does. His first, ducking out the backdoor with both a garment carrier and a sports bag. He stamps slushy snow from his boots as he comes back in, locking the door behind him and slipping the key in the front pocket of his jeans. He glances at my weekend bag sitting at the base of the stairs. Anything rather than look at me, it seems.
‘Right. Well. I’ll put your stuff in your car.’
I hand him the keys, though follow him outside, watching as he opens the rear passenger door to lift my bag onto the back seat. Neither of us have our coats on, and the weather is still freezing cold, but in a couple of steps, I find myself behind him with my arms wrapped around his waist.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to let me slip through your fingers.’ The words come out wavery with a sad sounding laugh. A laugh that makes my eyes sting. ‘Just look at me—I’m allthatand a box of biscuits.’ Greg doesn’t answer, though my body moves with his deep exhale, his hands tightening on mine. ‘God,’ I whisper, pressing my cheek to his back. ‘I am so going to miss your annoyingly large self.’
