people lingered in the cold to listen to carol singers.
‘This is gorgeous,’ she sighed.
‘Even for someone who doesn’t do Christmas?’
‘You can talk,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost touch with the English Christmas. Not that it probably isn’t lovely to lie on a sandy beach somewhere and sip cocktails. But you’re hardly invested in all the magic stuff, are you?’
‘And you are?’ he countered.
She grinned. He had a point.
‘Maybe I am,’ she said. ‘A little bit. From the outside looking in, that is. I’m not going to be scoffing Christmas turkey and mince pies, and I don’t even have a Christmas tree where I rent, but that doesn’t mean hot sunshine and a bikini would ever float my boat. That’s just wrong. Christmas is meant to be freezing cold and you’re meant to live in UGG boots.’
As she watched the carol singers, he slipped arms around her from behind and breathed in the sweet scent of her hair, liking the way she leaned back against him.
‘It’s snowing,’ she said, and he looked up.
It was. Tiny, fine flakes of snow fell in the glow from the tree lights. And what had invoked teeth-gritting anger and frustration yesterday morning as it thwarted his travel plans, had no such effect now. She turned in the circle of his arms to face him, her arms sliding around his waist, her face upturned to his, nose pink from the cold air. Specks of snow clung softly to her hair.
‘Question is, is it the wrong sort of snow?’ she said, pressing an emphatic finger to his chest.
He realised with a spark of uneasy surprise that he hoped it was exactly that. Let the whole of the UK be buried in feet of the stuff. He didn’t care if his flight never made it off the ground and it had nothing to do with boredom at the much repeated family Christmas traditions.
He wanted to be with her.
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
A day out around the London sights and now dinner for two in his suite. Like a proper couple. It was as if this was a mini-break and they had a real life somewhere to go back to. She let her mind follow that fantasy for a while as they shared a bottle of wine and talked. She had thought limiting this to a fling would somehow automatically pitch them at that level and make it entirely about sex. She hadn’t expected talking and getting to know him. This time around she found herself liking him way beyond those parameters, and dangerous though she knew it was, she couldn’t help finding signs in his own behaviour that he felt the same. The way he’d spoiled her by ordering half the restaurant for breakfast, the way he’d listened to her plans for her jewellery business as if they hadn’t already been to bed and he still had to jump through those hoops.
And now he refilled their glasses and she stood up to follow him over to the velvet sofa and the crackling fire in the grate, anticipation knotting in her stomach at the thought of being intimate with him again.
And then his mobile rang. She watched as he checked the screen, literally saw the change in his face, and when she ran it through her mind later on she recognised it as the instant when the real world kicked back in.
He took the call, phone pressed to his ear, subconsciously or not, his shoulder was now tilted in her direction as he turned away and took a few paces away. She could pick up the gist of the call just from picking up the odd word from his side, she could hear him discussing departure times, transfers, social plans. It didn’t take a genius to know what the call was about.
‘My mother,’ he said, when he’d hung up. His expression was thoughtful and his focus was not there in the room.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asked, although any fool could see it wasn’t.
He shook his head lightly as if to clear it.
‘She’s just stressing because I’ve been delayed. My father’s had a couple of bad days apparently.’
She gave him a questioning look.
‘It’s not been easy for her,’ he said. ‘He’s needed a lot of extra support. Especially at first when he first had the stroke, but the rehab has been slow and he gets so frustrated at the time it takes to make progress.’
Sympathy twisted in her chest.
‘It must be very tough. I can remember when my Gran was ill. It was awful.’
Tom’s mind spiralled back eighteen months. He toyed with the phone absently, thinking that he should check in with reception for any messages, call the airline. She was watching him, leaning against the back of the velvet sofa, her glass of wine in her hand and giving him her full attention.
‘It was a tough time. At first there was just this awful shock, and the worry that he might not pull through it. I had to be strong for my mother, she was beside herself. Then once we knew he was going to be OK there was this time where you hope things will get back to normal. I knew the reality of it of course because of my work, I knew it could take time, months of physio, that kind of thing. And he’s done really well. He’s been able to get back to work, on and off, reduced hours of course.’
‘That must be a relief.’
He nodded.
‘It is. But it did bring it home to me that he’s not getting any younger. He looks his age now, which he never did before. And he gets tired very quickly.’
The constant undertone of worry for his parents, resurrected by the phone call, now gnawed at him. He felt guilty because he hadn’t made it to Barbados, and this guilt which he’d managed to crush whilst he’d been in Ella’s company, resurfaced at full strength. He hadn’t even called the airport yet today to check, he’d had to fob his mother off with yesterday’s weather report. His sense of responsibility kicked back in at full force. What was he playing at here, indulging himself in a no-strings fling when his family needed him?
‘My mother wanted to know if there was any news on my flight.’ He made a move towards the door. ‘I need to call the airline and maybe reception will have an up to date weather report. I’ll be right back.’
How easy it had been to just let himself exist in this bubble the past few days. All the time, reality had been waiting just outside, ready to yank him back into its realm. He had family responsibilities, people relying on him. If he was fast enough he could still make Barbados in time for Christmas.
As he left the room Ella felt a surge of stupid disappointment, anger at herself for feeling insignificant. She might be an attractive distraction for a short while but that phone call represented the real world for Tom. Something she wasn’t a part of either back then or now.
Her heart flipped into hideous lurching freefall. And the worst of it was the humiliation because she was expecting this, had thought herself prepared for it. Of course he was going to be rebooking his flight the moment he was able to. For Pete’s sake, she was supposed to be pulling off realist here. What the hell was the disappointment about? Had she actually thought for one second he might have considered delaying his departure somehow,
