Читать книгу Perfume Of Provence - Kate Fitzroy - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

The hotel lobby was a relief after the hot, hectic drive from the airport. A cool, marble hall, uncrowded and quietly elegant with the glimpse of a jungly garden around a small pool. Rosie followed the porter to the lift and up to her room, which was a further pleasant surprise. She tipped the boy generously for carrying her bag and, as soon as he had left, she threw open the shutters and went out onto the small balcony.

She sat on one of a pair of wrought-iron chairs and regarded the empty one beside her. Suddenly a deep loneliness engulfed her. The peaceful solitude she had been yearning for dissolved into the silence, replaced by some vague fear of the future. Suddenly, she realised it wasn’t that she missed her current — no, ex — boyfriend, Luke. He would have splintered the sunny space, photographing her and everything that came into view. He was one of life’s huge enthusiasts. Rosie had only recently realised how exhausting it was to follow in his eager footsteps.

Her own leisure life had been totally submerged in his interests. At first, this had seemed so exciting. She had jumped into the relationship with two feet. Her wardrobe showed the evidence: new snow shoes, ski boots, flippers, roller-blades, tennis shoes, golf shoes and far too many impossible stilettos. Now, as she quickly unpacked her small bag she smiled fondly at her familiar old Gucci loafers. So here she was— escaping from the fallout. Once again the unanswered question throbbed in her head. How could he?

Only recently they had talked around the idea of marriage. It was true that Rosie’s work had been more demanding than ever in the last few months. Her career had catapulted from talented copywriter to most-wanted PR woman in the fashion world. The more successful she became, the more was asked of her. Big-name clients with even bigger egos demanded her personal attention. There were always deadlines to beat, glamorous venues to locate, presentations to organise, photo shoots, prestigious functions, press interviews…all of vital importance for a moment in time.

She loved the work and thrived on the pressure but it just didn’t fit a private life with Luke. He wanted all her attention too. So obviously he had found consolation in that elegant blonde. Once again Rosie felt the shock rush through her. The answer to the repeated question in her head was quite simply that he could and had. Rosie closed her eyes but the scene in the café played on. Should she have rushed into the café and confronted Luke? Maybe. In fact, she had just quickly turned away and run back to her office. She had made phone calls, batted emails and finished her work. Finally, she had made her way back to her flat, carrying the special dress she had bought for their anniversary dinner date. A slow cold determination had taken over her. She decided to keep their dinner date.

Wearing the new little black dress from Joseph, she taxied to the Chelsea Harbour restaurant. She was carefully ten minutes late. He was waiting for her at the table, their table, looking moody. He stood up as she entered but didn’t seem to notice that she turned her head away from him as he gave her a brief kiss. He held the back of her chair for her, waiting impatiently for her to sit down. Then she looked him in the eye and told him it was over. Quietly and simply, the words fell from her lips easily. He looked startled and then confused. For a very brief moment she felt slightly sorry for him as he stood there, like an overgrown schoolboy, wondering what he had done wrong. So she told him she had seen him at lunch. His face changed from baffled to dark with guilt. Before he could reply she turned quickly on her heel and left the restaurant.

Breathing in the cool air on the riverside, she began to tremble. She quickly hailed a taxi waiting in a rank outside the harbour. She climbed in and sank back with relief as the driver made a tight turning circle. Just as he was drawing away she saw Luke emerge from the glass doors. He searched the area quickly and then spotted Rosie in the taxi and began to run after her. She shrank back from the window but not before she had seen he was waving a small, beautifully wrapped box. A box that looked very likely to hold a ring. The taxi gained speed but Rosie did not look back. She began to cry, long, dry sobs that felt as though they would never cease.

Now, sitting in the late-afternoon Niçois sun, she cried again. She cried for what might have been. But her tears ended quickly and left her feeling tired, sad and strangely relieved.