Chapter Twenty-Four
I have basically gone back in time. I am reliving my teenage years. While I’m in Bristol, I’ve been helping out at Festival of Carpets, sleeping in my childhood bedroom and eating nothing but microwaved lasagnes. It sucks.
For the first week of being home, I cried and cringed and barely exercised at all. I avoided the internet at all costs and apart from a couple of clients, including Jennifer, wondering if I was okay, no-one has tried to get in touch. After that first week my dad started getting annoyed with me and told me to ‘stop bloody well feeling sorry for myself. McKinley’s do not feel sorry for themselves!’
The truth is, apart from the humiliation, sadness and regret that I hurt him so much, I’ve barely thought about Henry. I know he will be fine. He’s the kind of person who will always land on his feet, no matter what and according to Janet next door but one, the whole tale of me tricking him has made his star rise considerably on the internet. The handsome heartbroken man is apparently a very appealing narrative, and by all accounts Henry is getting more attention than ever.
Instead, I’ve been thinking non-stop about Auguste and how much I miss seeing him around and about every day. How much I miss the way his eyes crinkle when I make him laugh. How much I miss the way he smelled. And I miss London. And my job – I miss it so much. But, after everything that’s happened I have to consider that maybe some people simply aren’t cut out for city living? Maybe my path was always to follow in my brother’s footsteps and be part of the family business? I mean, it’s certainly easier.
And quieter.
Oh who am I kidding, it’s boring as heck. I have to get out of here! But how? I have no money and no friends and everyone thinks I’m a sneaky con woman. No-one will hire me as long as they think I’m some mad trickster looking for handsome men to scam.
I wave off a happy Festival of Carpets customer and, closing my eyes, lean back against a sheepskin rug ‘I’m stuck here forever,’ I grumble to myself in frustration.
‘Maybe not,’ a familiar French voice says.
My eyes fly open. ‘Auguste? At Festival of Carpets? What are you doing here?’
Auguste pushes his glasses up his nose and looks me up and down. ‘I have news.’
