‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,’ Callum says, a smile playing on his lips, eyes piercing deep into my soul.
I ball my hands into fists. Why must he tease me like this? I cast an appraising glance at him as he stands there, watching me. The epitome of a Bond villain. Just give the man a cat and a lot of gold rings and he’d beperfect. That thought alone is enough to tip my frazzled brain right over the edge. For a while, I’d been hoping that today was different enough to mean this loop had somehow broken. For a while, I thought I might be finally out of this intense eternal Monday. But as we approach the scene of our imminent demise I realize with a wobble that nothing has really changed.
Time seems to slow right down as the luggage buggy chugs towards us.
It’s happening again.
But why?
Because I keep getting today wrong. Why have I spent all day arguing with Callum when I should have been grasping the obvious get-out hand I’ve been dealt. It’s Hamish, it has to be. I’vespent the past decade dreaming of us getting back together. And when my first love is finally presented to me, I choose to ignore it for the sake of nice-smelling toiletries and some silver service?
Tyres screech somewhere in the distance, but I’m too wrapped up in how blind I’ve been to take much notice.
Of course it’s Hamish!
I just need to make sure that the one that got away comes back next time.
Callum’s still looking at me like a cat eyeing a ball of string.
The buggy is inching closer.
And I’ve had it with his smug Bond villain face and the endless teasing and the fact that I never ever feel still around him. I snap so hard that I positively push him into the oncoming vehicle this time.
I’d burn in hell if I weren’t already in it.
It’s Callum’s fault. He deserved it, for distracting me from my escape route, right? (Don’t answer that.) The look on his face, one of pure shock, is enough to make me instantly regret my decision, but the good news is I don’t have too long to dwell on it.
His body crashes into mine and the light goes out.
TEN
‘Oh, Arsey Alan, don’t be a tool all your life,’ I sigh dramatically as I find myself face to face with the check in person from hell, currently tutting over the weight of my suitcase. Once more. Needless to say, I’m not in the best mood today. Could it be down to the fact that this is now my fourth Monday in a row?
Yes, I’d say it could.
‘What did you just call me?’ Alan gasps.
‘Arsey Alan,’ I repeat, a new devil-may-care attitude running through my veins. Because really, what does it matter? ‘It’s what your colleague calls you. And by the way, eating someone else’s yoghurt and then putting the empty pot back in the fridge is not okay.’
Alan eyes me suspiciously.
‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘No one.’
‘Are you psychic?’
I suppose thatisthe best explanation.
‘Yes, I am.’ I bow my head. ‘And the spirits have told me all about your yoghurt-stealing habits. They aren’t happy, Arsey Alan. You must make amends.’
Alan looks surprisingly convinced by this.
‘Right. Okay, that makes sense,’ he says.
It does?
‘It’s my Great Aunt Gertrude, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Great Aunt Gertrude, rest her soul, was always so good with advice when it came to romance. I’m lost without her. I mean, not lost, I’m obviously still hugely successful at getting laid. Just look at me.’
