She pulls out her phone. ‘I still have you on WhatsApp, so I’ll message you and we can go out.’ A huge grin spreads across her face. ‘Speak soon, Nelly.’
After she’s gone, I head into the flat feeling lightheaded and buzzing. Eva and I are going to be friends again.
‘I’m off out,’ says Oliver, striding down the hallway and putting on his jacket.
Everything Eva told me comes rushing back. If he’s going out, that means I can do some internet sleuthing on Oliver Shadwell.
* * *
Someone is calling me. My phone is vibrating on my bedside table. Opening a bleary eye, I groan. My clock tells me it’s three in the morning. Who is calling me at this hour?
Panic takes hold of me.
It could be Aunt Polly.
Oh, God.
Grabbing my phone, I stare at the screen. It’s Oliver. Irritation courses through my veins. This is it – he will have to leave. I can’t carry on like this.
I haven’t had a good night’s sleep as my ceiling started leaking at midnight due to the heavy rain outside. Once I’d pushed a bowl under it to catch the drops, it took me ages to fall back asleep. Now this.
‘Nelly,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve lost my flat keys. Could you let me in?’
After I open the door and perform a merry dance to stop Lenny from escaping, Oliver enters. He’s drenched. His jacket is soaked and hair is plastered across his forehead. Flicking his gaze to the floor, he bows his head. ‘Nelly,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I am so annoyed that I don’t say anything. I open the door wide, so I don’t have any physical contact, and let him in. His trainers squelch as he passes me. ‘Did you lose your umbrella as well?’
He looks at me and there is a ghost of a smile. But then it fades. ‘I’ve been walking and thinking.’
‘In the pouring rain?’
He gives me a sad nod and squelches up the hallway.
I think back to the press articles I read before going to bed. The ones from a few years ago, which showed Oliver’s pain and suffering after photos and videos of Molly having sex on TV circulated the country.
The photos of Molly depicted a glamorous blonde young woman with long, voluminous, curly hair, dressed in a tiny bikini. In the articles I read, she chose to appear on the TV show to chase a dream of fame – and to see if she could stay loyal to her boyfriend. Some of the photos from her early days in the luxury villa showed her lying on a sun lounger while a French male model applied suntan lotion to her thighs. They must have been excruciating for Oliver to see. The French model was the man Molly fell for and she ended up in his bed on day five. One article claimed the TV crew had to turn off the cameras as things between the model and Molly became too raunchy.
In the days after the scandal, the only images Oliver was pictured in were of him going to his local shop and talking to a friend in a café. His face was chalky white, and there was a haunting look about him. He was going through hell.
What is clear is that he’s still suffering. She must still be in his life, although I can’t think why she would be after what she did to him.
This is a personal reminder to me that heartbreak can happen to anyone, and it manifests in various forms for years afterwards.
I do feel sorry for him, but I’m worried he needs a therapist and not a flatmate.
I can’t get back to sleep, which is annoying, so I go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. To my horror, he’s slumped over the kitchen table and asleep. There are a series of little puddles around his chair from his wet clothes.
For a few moments, I stand at the doorway and try to stifle my agitation. Why can’t he go to sleep in his bedroom?
He wakes up with a fright, and this makes me yelp.
‘Nelly…’ he gasps. ‘Oh, God, have I been asleep?’
I nod. ‘I’m awake and wanted a cuppa.’
He rubs his face. ‘This is my fault. Oh, God, I will need to move out.’
‘Let’s talk in the morning, Oliver.’
