Page 100 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

But last night they really did party. Starting with dinner in a great little tapas bar – washing down delicious plates of gambas al ajillo, patatas bravas and tortilla Española with carafes of dry white wine – where Flick felt herself slowly starting to relax. Despite her initial reservations, the awkward atmosphere between them both melted away and the good humour returned. Rory was his funny old self. Cracking jokes and making her laugh. Reminding her of why she’d fallen for him all those years ago, age sixteen on the back of the school bus, and making her forget about their differences.

Dinner was followed by several bars and a cheesy nightclub; it was gone 3 a.m. by the time they’d rolled back to the hotel, where Rory had immediately fallen asleep and she’d lain next to him in bed, alarmed by a sudden and unexpected relief that they weren’t going to have sex. What was wrong with her? She’d stared at the familiar contours of his back, the broad shoulders with his teenage dolphin tattoo, the soft fuzz on the nape of his neck, and felt both comforted and confused.

Before telling herself she was overthinking things and reaching for her phone to see if Theo Stratin or any of his alias accounts had posted or been tagged in anything. Checking was now a habit. But no, there’d been nothing new for days now.

She must have fallen asleep with the phone still in her hand, because the next thing she knew she was being woken by the light streaming in through a gap in the curtains and Rory’s hard-on pressed against her thigh. That was another difference between them. Rory liked to do it in the morning, whereas she was the opposite. She preferred nighttime, preferably after she’d cleaned her teeth and had a shower. When she was feeling relaxed and in the mood, not first thing in the morning with a to-do list running through her head and morning breath.

But they weren’t at home with jobs to get to, they were in Mallorca, in a fancy hotel room, and they hadn’t seen each other all week. Plus, Rory was being so sweet and attentive and she did love him. Of course she did. She was just going through some stuff. Since her mum died, she’d been all over the place, confused about everything; but, Rory, he was always there for her. ‘What would you do without me?’ he would say, wrapping his arms around her.

So they had sex and afterwards, lying with her head on his chest, she firmly brushed away any doubts. It’s not you, it’s me, she told herself, over and over. It’s not you, it’s me.

They entered a pretty hilltop village and Flick felt a wave of relief as Rory pulled over and cut the engine in the tiny square. Being completely off the beaten track, it appeared to be devoid of tourists. In the middle was a stone fountain and in the corner a tiny bar spilled tables and chairs onto the cobbles, which were filled with local workmen drinking beers.

‘I thought we could stop here for lunch.’

‘Great.’ Clambering off the scooter, she undid her helmet. Her ears were still ringing.

‘Do they serve food?’

‘Yeah, it’s a tiny bar menu, but the food’s supposed to be the best on the island.’

‘You knew about this place?’

‘Well, don’t look so surprised.’

Flick felt a stab of guilt and immediately tried to rearrange her features into an expression of unsurprise.

‘Why do you think we came all the way up here?’

‘Um, I dunno . . . sightseeing?’

She felt distinctly wary. Something weird was going on.

‘Babe, you always underestimate me,’ smiled Rory, stroking her hair and tucking a rogue piece behind her ear. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself. ‘C’mon, let’s go sit down.’

Taking her hand, he led them over to the only empty table.

‘It says it’s reserved,’ hissed Flick, pointing to the reserved sign.

‘It is. For us,’ beamed Rory, pulling out her chair.

Pulling out her chair? Reserving a table? Flick felt a jolt of surprise. What on earth was going on with him? In all the years she had been with Rory, he’d never made a restaurant reservation, preferring instead to leave everything to the last minute. Loosen up, you need to be more spontaneous, he would tell her.

Which is why they ended up having the most almighty row last year on her birthday when he was supposed to be taking her out for a nice meal and a movie and they ended up at the local chippie as everywhere was busy.

‘But they do the best fish and chips, you’ve said it yourself,’ Rory had said, as they sat in his car, vinegar soaking through the chip paper and onto her new jeans. Which was true, they were delicious, but she probably wouldn’t have minded so much if she hadn’t just spent two hours with a painful cricked neck, as the only seats left available in the cinema were on the front row.

‘Buenos días.’ A smiling waitress arrived with menus and water for the table.

‘Buenos días.’ Rory smiled, settling himself down opposite her. ‘I’ll have a small beer, please, and what about you, Flick – one of those negronis you like?’

Flick looked at him suspiciously. Something was definitely up.

‘No, just water, thanks. I’ve still got a bit of a hangover from last night.’

‘Oh, come on, have a drink. What about a glass of prosecco?’

‘Rory, when have you ever seen me drinking prosecco?