The Last Kiss: A Standalone Romance Novel (The Notting Hill Sisterhood Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

Die. Twelve months.

  Kaput.

  Finito.

  Morte.

  I turn at the door, waiting for him to tell me it’s all been a sick joke.

  “Next week,” he adds with a nod. “We’ve a lot to discuss.”

  Do we though? Seems to me that all discussion is up.

  “Next week,” I repeat automatically and then I slip out of the door. I keep my head down past his secretary who I can sense has her sympathetic blinkers pointed in my direction. I bet she knows. Bet they discussed it over tea while they dunked their biscuits.

  My feet run down the hallways of the hospital, flying me around beds being pushed by porters, nurses in maroon, old people with sticks.

  I run.

  I run.

  Until my lungs are pulling in icy air, dragging in the clouded sky.

  Grey hangs above. Grey exists inside while cars zoom past, taxi’s weaving, lights on, lights off. People rushing, late for lunch, late for the office, late for life.

  I stand in the middle of it all.

  An island of solitude.

  Normally after a visit I treat myself to lunch at the wine bar next to the hospital. It’s been somewhat amusing to have a posh bar with gastro food next to a building where people fight for their lives.

  Joke’s not funny anymore.

  Instead of the wine bar, I push down the side streets to the ominous Thames running at high tide, pulsing against drab banks, the colour of the water merged with the heavy sky.

  On unsteady legs, I stumble to a bench, not even checking for pigeon shit, my shins bashing against the wooden slats as I fall backwards with a bang. And they all fell down.

  Then I sit.

  Stare.

  Brain stuck on words I’ll never be able to unhear.

  Final stage heart failure.

  Twelve months at the most.

  My fingers wind into the wool of my coat, pulling it tight around my chest, holding all my broken bits together. It doesn’t work, the indigo wool doesn’t even keep out the January chill.

  I should have bought a better coat.

  Should have spent more money.

  I gaze down the river watching the tide.

  My coat will be the first of a long list of things that I know I’ll come to regret.

  The swell and ebb of the river is like my life, but I can’t look too deep beneath the surface of that thought because then I’d know my swell hadn’t been high enough, and my ebb had lasted too long.

  I can only wonder if my last few months will be full of random thoughts where I consider if anything I’ve ever bought has served any purpose.

  It takes a moment for me to realise the ringing I can hear isn’t internal but coming from my bag. Unzipping and peering inside, I pull my phone out and glance at the screen; a small, icy bloom of exhalation frosting in front of my face.

  Olivia.

  I tighten my grip, thumb ready to swipe to answer, but I can’t. Won’t. So I shove it back in my bag, hoping the ringing will be drowned out with the zip of the fastening.

  It rings again. And then again.

  All the while I watch the river flow. I could pitch the phone in the swelling tide, but I’d only have to organise a new one which seems rather a waste of precious minutes remaining.

  “Miss, you okay?”

  I blink up in surprise. There’s a man in a dark-green uniform. Parked behind him on the path is a dustcart, a broom poking from the top.

  “Oh. Sure.”

  I swipe at my face, my cheeks stinging from the cold, sticky tracks having now dried to almost icy rivets.

  “You’ve been sat here for hours, Miss. I’ve been circling around not sure whether to say anything.” He pulls on the edge of his beanie. “You know. It’s not my business and all that, but I’d hate to clock off for the night and leave you just sat here still.”

  “But you haven’t?”

  He casts a quick gaze over me, and I tug at my coat. Small particles of icy droplets have formed on the surface, turning the purple wool into a layer of mush. Should have bought a better coat, fact.

  “You’ll catch a death out here.”

  I nod. God, is that what I’m doing? Waiting for the Grim Reaper to find me on a pigeon poop splattered park bench? That’s an unimpressive way to go. I could imagine the newspaper headlines: Woman freezes to death in pigeon shit. A story like that would make the papers; a trashy one, with red title fonts. It would be my fifteen minutes of fame. But I’d be dead.

  “If you need somewhere to stay, I know there’s a shelter down the road. I think they’re still open for the night. I can give you directions if you want?”

  He thinks I’m homeless.

  Lifeless yes.

  I have a home.

  With plants in pots. Ferns in the bathroom. A cat that farts.

  Oh, no! Barney. Who will look after Barney?

  “Miss, are you okay?” He’s fingering his walkie talkie like he’s about to call for back-up support.

  “Sure. Thanks for getting me moving. I could have sat here all night lost in my thoughts.” I smile and get up on stiff legs.

  My phone rings again. Olivia is almost shouting through the ringtone that I should answer. And I so should. So, so, so should.

  But she’s going to want me to say things I don’t want to say.

  It’s a conversation I can wait for.

  I turn back to the looming shape of the hospital, a morbid backdrop to the twist my life has taken.

  Right. Where is that wine bar? If ever a woman hit the day when she needed wine, I’d just straddled the gap.

  There it is. I eye it across the road, slipping my gaze from the hospital of unfinished dreams to the place where wine is kept. I know which one I prefer, and it serves chilled perfection and peanuts in bowls. I reckon it’s twenty-five steps. That’s not that far. I can do that. Taking a deep breath, I step off the kerb, one eye focused on any free-wheeling double deckers that might be coming my way.

  One, two, three. I count the steps, keeping myself on track.

  It’s twenty-eight. I lost that game.

  My phone rings again as I push open the door, blasted from inside by steamy-hot air and the bubble of chatter, the clatter of cutlery. What is it about a pub, even a posh one like this, high end with fancy seating and modern edges, that makes you just breathe out a long gust of air? You know what you’re getting, it’s that familiarity, the known facts of what you face. You smile, order, pay. A drink is put into your hand. You sit, absorb the ambience: the lights, the sounds, the taste of your poison of choice on your tongue. It’s always the same sounds. Women laughing, men talking sport. You could be anywhere in the world and the same thing would be happening around you.

  I think I’ll miss pubs.

  Stopping at the door, I analyse the distance to the bar is fifteen steps, I bet.

  I can get that far too. Same as I could keep breathing after Dr Francis gave me my prognosis, same as I didn’t turn into an ice cube down by the river, same as I crossed the road without getting hit by the Number 14 bus.

  Ah! Thirteen steps.

  The black leather squidgy seat of the stool is cool as I slide onto it and peel off my limp bedraggled coat. It drops to the floor like a dead animal, all twisted and deformed like it should be by the side of the road, guts splattered.

  The man behind the bar, tight-fitted white shirt, slim hips in black trousers, abs to lick visible through the stretch of cotton across his chest, throws a dish cloth over his shoulder. “It’s a chilly one.” He flashes me the ‘bar man’ smile, everyone knows that smile, as he breaks the ice.

  I nod. Up and down. Up and down. Silent. Is this how it’s going to be until the end? I’m going to become a robot of destruction. I will terminate. I will terminate.

  “A Pinot Grigio isn’t it?”

  My cheeks warm up, mouth parting. “I only come in here every six months. How on earth do you remember what I drink? Or do I just look like the kind of woman who drowns i
n Pinot for survival?”

  I probably do, and I have no plans to deny it.

  He winks, all Irish charm, as I peel some flat snakes of wet hair away from my forehead, feeling the steady spring of frizz set in. “I always remember the pretty ones,” he says.

  “Oh please.” I laugh, shifting back on my stool, gaze lifting. You’ve got to love a barman’s wile. I’ll miss that too. “You say that to every woman who walks in. I’m guessing you have a fifty/fifty hit rate with that line.”

  He breaks out a laugh with a sly grin, shaking his head, his muscles flexing. “It’s true. You come in every six months. Always on a Friday. Normally it’s earlier than this though.” He eyeballs my drenched hair. “You look like you’ve been duck diving in the river.”

  Ah, now that would have been a better way to spend the afternoon. Anything other than having that conversation, inside that place, otherwise known as the prison of dreams.

  “Here you go, although you look like you need a brandy to go with it.”

  Ugh. Cringe. “No thanks. Brandy is the devil’s drink. He offers it as a test to see who should be let into hell.” I take a restrained sip of wine and then put it carefully on the bar. My fingers are tingling with the cold, my face stinging as the warmth of the bar melts my frozen mask.

  The shape next to me pivots slightly. I didn’t notice it was an actual person before, because honestly, it’s a bit like sitting in the shade at the foot of a mountain.

  Navy suit, crisp white shirt.

  Beautiful.

  Okay, random thought about the stranger, and I’ve only had one sip of wine.

  With a flick of his wrist, he motions for the bartender, while I catch a glimpse of long, beautiful hands. His face is only in profile, shadowed from the overhead lights, so while the overall first impression is one of startling beauty, I can’t actually confirm this as fact until he turns. He doesn’t. Instead, he beckons again to the barman. “Excuse me.” The barman shoots me a sheepish glance before hot footing it over there.

  They whisper, lots of gesticulating and stabbing of pointy fingers at the spirits lined at the back of the bar. The man with the fingers still doesn’t turn fully. Disappointing. I sip my Pinot, maybe a little fast, as I wait to find out if my guess is true. Eventually, the barman shoots me another glance before sloping off to the bottles he clinks around.

  The man mountain in navy doesn’t look at me. His attention on the broadsheet he has spread along the bar. Jeez, he’ll have to move before the evening rush. He’ll be like Moses parting the sea. I don’t think he’s going to move though, and I feel sorry for anyone who tries to make him. You’d put your back out.

  I sit on my stool, twisting slightly from side to side until I happen to glance forward to follow the barman turning mysterious bottles. A dark gaze is watching me in the back mirror behind the bar, one dark and expressive eyebrow curved.

  I am not disappointed. No.

  Disappointment, what’s that?

  Midnight eyes; full lips petulant below angled cheekbones. He’s a shopping list of perfection.

  Michelangelo could be crying in heaven because he failed to sculpt a masterpiece like this.

  Face an elegant symmetry, there’s a dark soulfulness in the shadows of his face, the hollow curve under cheekbones, the shine of midnight, the plump fullness of lips. I wonder what they’d feel like to kiss?

  I’ve been caught staring. He stares back. It’s okay though. I’m going to die anyway. This can’t get uncomfortable and cause me to squirm forever because there isn’t a forever to squirm through.

  The barman comes back and slides me a short glass. “This is what you need, apparently.” He shrugs while his face says: please don’t be ill all over the floor after drinking it.

  “Is that so?” I peer into the glass at the purple-hued liquid. “What is it?”

  The man mountain shifts, spinning long legs around on his stool to face me. “It’s best to just drink.” His voice is heavily accented. All: It’sa besst tooa shust drink.”

  Is that French? Shoot me now for not paying attention in French GSCE. I’d go to night school just to learn how to wrap myself around those vowels with him.

  Oh wait. I’m dying. French will serve me no purpose on the other side unless there’s an Artisan bread stall I need to concern myself with. “Petit pain, Monsieur.”

  Focus, Julia.

  I lift the glass, sniffing gently, scrunching my nose as my nostrils tickle, watching those full lips curve at the edges. I tilt the glass at him, feeling very Film Noir sat at the bar talking to a tall, dark, and bangingly handsome stranger. “Merci.”

  He nods and then turns back to his newspaper. Okay, so maybe not that Film Noir.

  The first sip is sweet, so I take another, gasping as my insides set alight, pure rocket fuel slipping down my oesophagus. It might be melting.

  MY OESOPHAGUS IS MELTING, PEOPLE.

  I glance up and find midnight eyes staring back at me in the mirror. It looks like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, but it’s hard to focus due to the all-out body burn I’ve got going on.

  Well, if you’ve got to go, I’d take staring into those eyes any time.

  3

  A Shrug in French Means Anything

  What the shit was in that drink? My face is on fire. I can’t look in the mirror above the bar in case he catches me checking out the heat damage.

  I can’t stop looking at him either. My eyes are involved in some major eye-fuckery as I throw him some side eye. Thighs stretching navy. The white cotton is taut around some pretty hefty muscles… those ones in your arms. What the fuck are they called?

  That drink has melted my brain.

  “Biceps.”

  “Pardon?” he asks, but it’s all pardonne?

  “Oh. Sorry.” My face is nuclear.

  I could be used as a clean energy power source.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” I give one of those British smiles—tight-lipped, containing lots of unspoken words—and then zip my lips shut in case I blurt out any other body parts. Attempting to act unaffected, I stare down at the blurred menu I have positioned on the bar. I say blurred, because what I’m sure was English during my last visit is now in… well, actually, I don’t know. I zoom it closer to my face and then back out again. I should put my glasses on.

  He turns, man hulk spinning on his stool so he can look at me better. Please don’t look at me, I think I’m purple. “Are you eating?”

  “Not right now.” My gaze drops to his lap. It’s a total dick sweep. I have no shame.

  I think I might be in shock. After all, I’ve just received some bad news… it’s likely my brain will struggle to compute the information it’s been given. What was that news again?

  Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m busy working out bulges under navy.

  You’re going to die, Julianna. Oh yeah, that.

  That buzzing fills my ears again and I clutch onto the brass rail around the bar while my vision tinges with black. I’m pretty sure the man mountain sighs. “Would you like to share a meal?” Would shuu like to zare ameel?

  “With me?” I look up, so navy trousers are replaced with navy eyes.

  “We are both sitting here together, no?”

  “Ugh.” The fire from the drink evaporates, my tongue dries, head pounding around the edges of my sanity. I can’t think of a single word I know. “Ugh.”

  Say no… Say no…

  But… Julianna… you’re going to die remember? There’s a loud voice sitting on my right-hand shoulder, but I can’t remember if that’s the devil side or the angel side. You could have sex… No! Dinner! With a beautiful Frenchman. I mean…

  Pretty sure the Freudian slip came from the devil.

  I nibble my bottom lip. I’ve taken too long to answer his question now. He is beautiful, I debate with myself. I’m not into insta-attraction. That’s for romance books and people who’ve taken too many drugs and have melted their brain. But he is beautiful, nonethele
ss.

  “I don’t share chips.”

  He smiles. My God what a smile. With his hand leaning on the bar, he waves long fingers for the barman. “A bottle of mineral water please, and then a table for two.” He holds up two long fingers like he’s talking to a small child.

  The barman looks between us and then pouts in my direction. I know, buddy. I’m not sure what’s happening here either.

  The water arrives fast, and Man Mountain pours me a glass and slides it across the shiny wooden surface of the bar. “Here, I think you might need this.” His long fingers loop around the glass bottle. “I didn’t realise the brandy would put you on your ass.”

  “Ugh, brandy. I hate that stuff.”

  “You drank it.” An expressive eyebrow lifts. Can eyebrows be expressive? Is that a thing? He makes it a thing.

  Despite not moving his stool, he’s in my space. The back of my neck is prickling and I’m having to tilt my head to roam my gaze across the surface of his face. And believe me I’m roaming—I’m 4x4’ing that damn landscape with barely concealed scrutiny.

  Holding out his hand, he opens his mouth. I guess he’s going to do the polite thing and introduce himself to the woman he’s just invited to share a meal.

  Except, I don’t want to be that woman. She no longer has a future. She no longer has anything.

  “No, wait.” I hold my hand palm up. “Can we, ugh.” How to say this without it sounding various levels of wrong. “Not do names?”

  Well, that doesn’t sound wrong at all… not.

  That eyebrow dances, his full lips curving at the edges and making me lean forward unwittingly. There are soft lines around his mouth, lines made with smiles and laughter. Scattered in the skin stretching from the corner of his eyes to his hairline are more crinkles, each one I’m sure has a story to tell.

  “No names?” Laughing, crinkling those eyes, he pushes a hand through his dark hair, teasing it into a military stand of attention with his long fingers.

  What it would feel like to touch. Silk. Satin. Something soft and ticklish?

  With a shrug, he reaches out to shake my hand and my heart pounds as I slip my small hand into his large bear paw.