do this, Sean. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t consult me and who always plays things by the book—his book.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I know you meant well, but...this isn’t what I want.’ She took a deep breath. There was no going back now. ‘It’s over.’
‘Claire—’
She took a backward step, avoiding his outstretched hand. ‘No. Goodbye, Sean.’
She walked away with her head held high. And all the time she was thinking, just how could today have turned from so spectacularly wonderful to so spectacularly terrible? How could it all have gone so wrong?
Even though her heart was breaking, she smiled and smiled at everyone who came to her exhibition stand. She talked about dresses and took notes. She refused help from everyone to pack things away at the end of the show and did it all herself; by then, her anger had burned out to leave nothing but sadness. Sean had taken her at her word and left, which was probably for the best; but her stupid heart still wished that he were there with her.
Well, too late. It was over—and they were too different for it to have worked out long term. So this summer had just been a fling. One day she’d be able to look back on it and remember the good times, but all she could think of now was the bitterness of her disappointment and how she wished he’d been the man she thought he was.
* * *
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sean hated himself for the way the light had gone from Claire’s eyes. Because he’d been the one to cause it. He’d burst her bubble big-time—ruined the exuberance she’d felt at her well-deserved success. He’d meant well—he’d talked to Pia Verdi and the others with the best possible intentions—but now he could see that he’d done completely the wrong thing. He’d taken it all away from Claire, and he’d made her feel as if the bottom had dropped out of her world.
It felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his world, too. He’d lost something so precious. He knew it was all his own fault; and he really wasn’t sure he was ever going to be able to fix this.
He definitely couldn’t fix it today; he knew he needed to give her time to cool down. But tomorrow he’d call her. Apologise. Really lay his heart on the line—and hope that she’d forgive him and give him a second chance.
IT SHOULD HAVE been a night of celebration.
Not wanting to jinx things before the wedding show, Claire hadn’t booked a table at a restaurant in advance; though she’d planned to take her family, Sean, Ashleigh and Luke out to dinner that evening, to thank them for all the support they’d given her in the run-up to the show.
But now the food would just taste like ashes; and she didn’t want her misery to infect anyone else. So she smiled and smiled and lied her face off to her family and her best friend, pretending that her heart wasn’t breaking at all. ‘I’m fine. Anyway, I need to get the van back to the hire company, and start sorting out all these enquiries...’
Finally she persuaded them all to stop worrying about her, and left in the van on her own. But, by the time she’d dropped all the outfits back at her shop, delivered the van back to the hirer and caught the tube back to her flat, she felt drained and empty. Dinner was a glass of milk—which was just about all she could face—and she lay alone in her bed, dry-eyed and too miserable to sleep and wishing that things were different.
Had she been unfair to Sean?
Or were her fears—that he’d be overprotective and stifling in the future, and they’d be utterly miserable together—justified?
* * *
Claire still hadn’t worked it out by the time she got up at six, the next morning. It was ridiculously early for a Sunday, but there was no point in just lying there and brooding. Though she felt like death warmed up after yet another night of not sleeping properly, and it took three cups of coffee with extra sugar before she could function enough to take a shower and wash her hair.
Work seemed to be about the best answer. If she concentrated on sketching a new design, she wouldn’t have room in the front of her head to think about what had happened with Sean. And maybe the back of her head would come up with some answers.
She hoped.
She was sketching in her living room when her doorbell rang.
Odd. She wasn’t expecting anyone to call. And she hadn’t replied to any of the messages on her phone yet, so as far as everyone else was concerned she was probably still asleep, exhausted after the wedding show.
And who would ring her doorbell before half past eight on a Sunday morning, anyway?
She walked downstairs and blinked in surprise when she opened the door.
Sean was standing there—dressed in jeans and a white shirt rather than his normal formal attire—and he was carrying literally an armful of flowers. She could barely see him behind all the blooms and the foliage of delphiniums, stocks, gerberas and roses.
She blinked at him. ‘Sean?’
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘I...’ Help. What did she say now?
‘I’ll say what I’ve got to say on your doorstep, if I have to,’ he said. ‘But I’d rather talk to you in private.’
She wasn’t too sure that she wanted an audience, either. ‘Come up,’ she said, and stood aside so he could go past and she could close the door behind them.
‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘I wanted to say sorry. And these are just...’ He stopped, glanced down at the flowers and then at her. ‘I’ve gone over the top, haven’t I?’
‘They’re gorgeous—though I’m not sure if I have enough vases, glasses and mugs to fit them all in,’ she said.
‘I just wanted to say sorry. And I kind of thought I needed to make a big gesture, because the words aren’t quite enough. And I know you love flowers. And...’ His voice trailed off.
‘You’re carrying an entire English cottage garden there.’ She was still hurt that he didn’t truly believe in her, but she could see how hard he was trying to start making things right. And as he stood there in the middle of all the flowers, looking completely like a fish out of water...how could she stay angry with him?
‘Let’s get these gorgeous flowers in water before they start wilting.’ She went into the kitchen and found every receptacle she had, and started filling them with water. ‘They’re lovely. Thank you. Where did you get them?’ she asked. ‘Covent Garden flower market isn’t open on Sundays.’
‘Columbia Road market,’ he said. ‘I looked up where I could get really good fresh flowers first thing on a Sunday morning.’
She thought about it. ‘So you carried all these on the tube?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I had to get someone to help me at the ticket barrier.’
He’d gone
