Читать книгу Just As You Are - Kate Mathieson - Страница 8

‘Good morning, sleepy,’ Nick said, standing there, his perfect body in perfect boxers, smiling, an orange juice in his hand. ‘Do you want coffee?’

I nodded limply, because everything seemed to hurt my head.

‘Hangovers,’ he’d said, ‘are the version of adult nightmares that you can’t wake up from.’

We laughed and delicately tried to eat toast and sip water. Then we spent an hour laying next to each other, our arms and legs touching, intertwined, chatting about places we wanted to visit, and places we’d loved, and our favourite books, and music – all the things that you loved discovering about another person. And there was no doubt about it, Nick was a nerd, a poetry nerd at that. He liked Yeats, but mostly E.E. Cummings. I knew that he liked his coffee extra black, extra shot. That he visited him mum every second Saturday. That he would move to Canada if he could, to the west coast.

Finally, I knew I had to get up and go back to my hotel, to shower, and sleep, and feel human again. I mused about how to say goodbye without making it uncomfortable or strange. Of course, I wanted to see him again, but I had no idea if he felt the same way. For a moment I stood awkwardly in my black dress, my shoes in my hand, looking around his room. Did we swap numbers, or email addresses, or something? Or maybe we just kissed … and said goodbye like mature adults and went on with our lives.

‘How about a seafood lunch later?’ Nick said casually, pulling on a T-shirt after a quick shower. ‘I’m flying back tonight, but I could see you before three o’clock.’ He paused. ‘Only if you want?’

Sure,’ I replied excitedly. He wants to see me again.

‘My number is 04—’

‘Wait. My phone is out of battery and there’s no way I’ll remember that.’ I laughed but then it hurt my head a little, so I stopped. ‘Ouch.’

‘Poor you. OK here’s my number.’ He said quickly scribbling it on a piece of paper and handing it to me. ‘Text me where and when, and I’ll be there.’

‘Great,’ I said and pocketed it, giving him a long hug before slipping out the front door.

Outside, I walked quickly back across the sandy beach where just hours ago I’d been naked. The sun was up and blinding already at this early hour, there was no breeze, and the humidity sat heavy in the air. I was sweating in seconds as I trudged through the sand, step by step. I wandered down a road and then left along a small beach cove. Where was my hotel? And, where was I? Feeling confused and disorientated, I’d turned down a few streets and walked for a while, before realising they were dead ends. Was I even going the right way?

After the longest, hottest walk I’d found I’d taken a wrong turn, and had to backtrack twenty long, hot minutes before I arrived at the hotel, feeling like a limp dishrag.

Slipping into my deliciously cool room, I showered and took a quick power nap. When I got up, I’d looked at the crumpled piece of paper on my bed with Nick’s phone number. I read the numbers aloud 0402 773 944. Before I could second guess myself, I texted him Hey you, hope your head is feeling better. My hotel apparently does a great seafood lunch. Freshwaters, at 1pm? And then I’d put his number in my purse, and called down to reception to book a table near the pool for two.

Excited, I jumped in the shower again and spent an hour getting ready. I put on my sea-green maxi dress and sandals and I styled my hair straight and then spent a lot of extra time giving it beach waves. By the time I was finished it was just past 1 p.m., so I grabbed my phone and purse and took the lift to Freshwaters. The waiter seated me at one of the best tables right next to the pool, and the sun was shining so brightly, I had to wear sunglasses. I ordered two glasses of sauvignon blanc, because I knew he liked really crisp, dry white wines. I laughed, then, because I already knew what he liked and didn’t like. I picked up the menu and planned what we’d eat for lunch. We’d start with the calamari rings – fried to perfection – then grilled Yasawa lobster to share. I’d have the panko fried mussels, because for some reason he doesn’t like mussels, and he could have the Fiji crab, as long as he promised to save me a bite, or two. Or maybe we’d just splurge and order two of them to be sure.

I grinned. It felt strangely like I was waiting for a boyfriend. Not a boyfriend, my boyfriend. And I liked it.

I checked my phone, but he hadn’t responded. He’s coming though, I reassured myself, he seemed excited to see me again. I ate a bit of the complimentary sourdough bread, my teeth sinking into the warm crust, and invented a list of reasons he was ten minutes late. He’s trying to find the place. He decided to walk and took a wrong turn. He’s not sure what shirt to wear.

The poor waiter kept on trying to take my order, as the restaurant filled up, and I kept on saying could you wait a bit longer please. I swallowed a sip of wine and watched all the other happy couples ordering platters of seafood. I quickly sent him a text. Hey there, are we still on for lunch? I checked my phone – yes it had signal, yes international roaming was switched on.

I tried texting Tansy – I’m in Fiji! Tell me if you get this, possible issues with phone. And I’d sent a quick photo of the sun, the pool, the palm trees. And she’d written straight back – AMAZING! Can’t wait to see you xxx.

After another five minutes, I looked at the second glass of wine I’d ordered, and I realized it was possible he wasn’t late. A strange, queasy feeling churned in my stomach. Had he stood me up?

But there had to be a reason. He had fallen asleep, yes that was it. We’d been up most of the night. Or maybe he was packing and the time had gotten away from him. Because he had been so lovely last night, he was a good guy, wasn’t he? As the waiter closed in on me, his notepad ready for my entrée order, I picked up my phone, closed my eyes and thought, just do it. I found his number, saved under ‘Naked Nick’, and pressed ‘call’. I put the phone to my ear and felt like I was going to faint. What if he answered and didn’t want to talk to me? What if it was someone else’s number?

I waited for the ring tone, but there was nothing. All I could hear was a beep beep beep and a robotic voice saying ‘this number is not connected. Please check the number and dial again’.

I checked the number, and then looked at the piece of paper he’d written it on. Had I got the number wrong? I tried it again, this time punching in the numbers, one by one. But it was the same robotic voiced response.

Oh God. I felt a flame of embarrassment wash over me. He’d given me a wrong number, and I was sat here, at bloody Freshwaters, dressed up like a ham at Christmas, and completely by myself like an absolute idiot. I turned around, suddenly paranoid, as if I was about to catch him hiding in the bushes laughing at me. But the only people in the bushes were kids jumping into the pool, and all around me people looking at each other in a lovey-dovey couple way.

He wasn’t coming.

I felt like I was going to cry, but I couldn’t cry by myself at a table in a frou-frou restaurant. I tried to keep a shred of dignity, but I could feel the tears brimming and the lump in my throat, as I called the waiter over, apologized, told him my friend wasn’t coming and asked him to charge the wine to my room.

Thank God for large sunglasses. On the way back to my room, I could feel the hot tears at my eyes. He’d given me a fake number. He’d lied. What else had he lied about? Everything? If he wasn’t into me, he was a great actor, and that had been as Oscar-worthy performance.

Suddenly I wasn’t the bright, self-confident girl I had convinced myself I was after all these years away. I was me, seven years ago, standing in a white dress at the end of the aisle and someone was whispering to me those three haunting words.

He’s not coming.