‘We’re going?’ Will asks, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
‘I’m going,’ I say, knowing my tone is harsh. ‘I should go help Mum.’
‘But you said?—’
‘I know. But I think you should get ready for your date tonight.’
Will looks at his phone mumbling, ‘Not a date.’
Am I being harsh? Potentially. But he’s excited for his evening, and I can’t sit here right now and listen to it.
I want to get as far away from here as possible. ‘Right.’
Will looks at me, hesitant. ‘Want me to update you on what he says?’
‘Yeah. Do that.’ I get to my feet, seeing Will stiffen. Yeah, I’m being a dick. It’s not Will’s fault. ‘Catch up tomorrow?’
He relaxes, finally smiling. ‘Yes, please.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
WILL
Day Two
My hands shake as I button up my linen shirt and then as I pull on my trousers. Sitting on the bed, I keep picking up my phone, hoping to see a text.
I take three deep breaths, trying to recall my yoga practice in an attempt to do anything to stop my brain from reaching for the worst-case scenarios.
I try to sort out my ruffled brown hair, which doesn’t tame no matter how many times I pull the comb through. There’s a small pang inside of me whenever I study other guys, their hair perfectly cropped, perfectly faded, exquisitely styled. A reminder of my own unfortunate thin hair.
Which is receding.
That’s a conversation I’m not ready for.
But despite my ruffled hair, I look fine. Adequate. Good enough. I think. I leave my room with affirmations in my head.
At the rooftop bar, waiting at a table dressed with candles, the lit-up, golden-yellow Parthenon visible in the distance, I realise that this is more like a date setting.
Thankfully, the hotel has insisted that the evening meals outdoors are to be clothed. I’m not sure why. Maybe the mosquitoes. People in evening attire surround me, desperate to get their kit off again at the next opportunity.
It eases my anxiety to know that Ollie won’t need to face naked people. Not yet, anyway. Because as I sip my white wine, I’m ready to make this night as perfect as can be. This is my chance to show Ollie the new me. The one who is trying his damned hardest to think about ethics, and not about taking him back. The one who is trying to convince himself that it’s finally time to move on.
My breath is snatched away when he arrives in a brown shirt, unbuttoned enough to allow me a glimpse of chest hair. His hair is slicked back, effortlessly cool. He’s got one hand in his cream trouser pockets, and the other holds his phone, sleeves rolled up, revealing a brown leather-strapped watch on his wrist.
He walks over in his loafers, spotlessly clean, and all I can focus on is how tanned his arms are. It must be fake. There’s no way he’s tanned like that already.
‘Hey, Will.’ He sits opposite me, and before either of us can say anything, a waitress appears. ‘I’ll have a Moshofilero.’
‘Sounds posh,’ I say, as the waitress walks away.
‘A gorgeous white wine,’ Ollie replies. ‘Peach and apricot.’
‘You always liked your peaches.’
‘I still do.’
At that moment, I’m back in Cardiff, in Bute Park, Ollie by my side. Cardiff Castle in front of us, a hot summer’s day. Sitting on a picnic blanket, a wicker basket next to us. We shared peaches, tasting the sweet juice.
