One Night to Remember

by Kate Hardy

  ‘Bedroom,’ Harry said, gesturing to the one closed door. ‘And the bathroom.’

  The claw-footed free-standing bath was perfect, its outside a soft dove grey that toned with the darker grey walls and the white marble fireplace.

  He ushered her back to the kitchen. ‘Can I offer you coffee, tea or champagne?’

  ‘Actually, a cup of tea would be really lovely, please,’ she said.

  He smiled at her, filled the kettle, and rummaged in the cupboard. ‘Do you prefer builder’s tea, Earl Grey, green tea, or something that looks like pot-pourri?’ he asked.

  ‘Builder’s tea is perfect, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll let you add your own milk,’ he said. ‘Um—would you mind if the milk was straight from the carton, or shall I try and find the milk jug?’

  ‘Straight from the carton is fine,’ she said. She was more used to drinking from a chipped mug balanced on the edge of a trench or among the papers on her desk, rather than from porcelain, and with the tea made from a tea-bag rather than loose leaves in a matching porcelain pot with what looked like a solid silver strainer.

  ‘OK. Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He let the tea brew, then poured two cups and handed her the carton of milk. ‘To an unexpected evening,’ he said, raising his tea cup in a toast.

  ‘An unexpected evening,’ she echoed, doing the same—no way would she risk chinking her cup against his and chipping it.

  ‘Shall we go through to the sitting room?’

  She followed him through, and couldn’t resist looking out of the window. Even though it was dark, the street lights outside showed her how lovely the view must be in daylight.

  ‘Ferdy gets a view of the sunset from here. It’s gorgeous.’ He paused. ‘Holly. Just so you know, I never invite people back to wherever I’m staying, especially when I’ve only just met them. It’s just...’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. There’s something about you.’

  ‘I don’t ever go off with total strangers either,’ she said. ‘But tonight...’ It was the same for her. An instant connection she’d felt between them. Something strange and new and irresistible. Possibly much too soon, given that she’d only been officially single for three weeks; then again, if she looked back she could see the cracks in her relationship even before Simon’s secondment to New York, and apart from that brief weekend she hadn’t seen him for six months.

  ‘Can I ask you something pushy?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘Could I ask you to play something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ He took the cello from its case, then checked the tuning and looked at her. ‘What would you like me to play?’

  ‘Anything you like. Your favourite piece,’ she suggested.

  ‘That rather changes with my mood,’ he said.

  ‘OK. Your favourite piece right now,’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘Do you mind something really flashy and showy-offy?’

  ‘Bring it on,’ she said.

  He proceeded to play something that was the equivalent of cello pyrotechnics; she recognised the tune but couldn’t name it.

  ‘That was amazing,’ she said.

  ‘Paganini’s “Caprice No. 24”—it’s a lot of fun to play,’ he said. ‘Given that you sat through our entire set, I assume you like classical music?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t hear much live,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to a couple of Proms, but that’s about it. This is a huge treat.’

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and played something much slower for her.

  ‘I really like that,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘“Hushabye Mountain”, from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,’ he said. ‘It’s a gorgeous arrangement.’

  He followed up with a song she recognised as an eighties classic: ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’.

  Harry was the least forgettable man she’d ever met. Not that she was gauche enough to say so. ‘That was great, too,’ she said when he’d finished.

  He smiled and put his cello away. ‘My turn to be pushy. Will you dance with me again?’ he asked.

  She nodded, and he connected his phone to Ferdy’s audio system; then he dimmed the lights as soft music flooded into the room, and placed both of their cups on the low coffee table.

  Again, he made her feel as if she was dancing on air. And this time, when they kissed, there was nothing to make her hold back.

  ‘Holly.’ His eyes were almost black in the low light. ‘Stay with me tonight.’

  A night with no strings. A night of pure pleasure. A bubble of time outside her real life. She could be sensible and call a taxi back to her hotel—or she could follow her impulses for once.

  But she still had enough common sense to check something, first. Because she had no intention of hurting someone else, the way Simon had hurt her. ‘There’s no one who could be hurt by this? You’re single?’

  ‘I’m single,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Then, yes, I’ll stay,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and led her out of the living room. Still holding her hand, he opened the door to the bedroom. The walls were painted deep red, but the thing that really drew her eye was the bed: a half-tester in dark wood with deep red and gold hangings. Her mouth went dry.

  Then he lifted her up and carried her across the threshold, for all the world as if she really was a demure Regency maiden.

  ‘Holly,’ he whispered, setting her down on her feet. ‘Are you quite sure about this? Because you can change your mind and it will be OK. I can drive you back to your hotel.’

  The sensible thing to do would be to accept his offer of a lift home.

  But right now she didn’t feel very sensible. Right now, she could see the whole point of Natalie’s view that the best way to get over someone was to have a fling with someone else. No strings, no promises—and nobody to get hurt, because she and Harry were both single.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she whispered back, wrapped her arms round his neck, and kissed him.

  * * *

  The next morning, Holly woke to the scent of coffee. Sunday morning. The memories of the previous night rushed through her head.

  Oh, help. How did you behave the morning after a mad fling?

  She could get dressed, creep along the hallway to grab her bag from where she’d left it... In the kitchen, where from the smell of coffee in the air she presumed that Harry was busy. Not to mention that this was an old building and, despite modernisation work, the floorboards probably creaked. Creeping out clearly wasn’t an option.

  Get dressed and brazen it out, pretending that she did this sort of thing all the time? Again, that wasn’t an option, because she’d admitted to him the previous night that she didn’t usually do this sort of thing.

  Before she could worry about the situation any more, Harry leaned round the door. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’ She gave him an awkward smile. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and his hair was damp, so clearly he’d already showered and dressed.

  ‘I have coffee brewing and I just picked up some freshly baked croissants from the deli round the corner. Help yourself to anything you need in the bathroom. Ferdy keeps a bath robe for guests on the back of the bathroom door, if you need it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ So at least she wouldn’t need to have breakfast in her Regency dress and risk spilling something on it and wrecking it before it went back to the hire place.

  ‘And there’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet,’ he added.

  Harry’s friend Ferdy kept his bathroom very well appointed, and Holly managed to shower without getting her hair wet. Wearing the borrowed bath robe, she padded barefoot into the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ Harry said, pouring coffee into a mug and putting it in
front of her.

  He’d laid the table with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a bowl of fresh strawberries, yoghurt, butter and jam, as well as a large glass jar of granola; he took the still-warm croissants from a paper bag and put them on a plate.

  ‘This is really lovely,’ she said shyly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m guessing right now that you feel as weird as I do.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t make a habit of this,’ he said. ‘But I don’t regret last night.’

  Neither, she discovered, did she. ‘Snap.’

  ‘Then let’s just ignore the awkwardness,’ he said. ‘Are you busy today?’

  ‘I’m due back in London this evening,’ she said.

  ‘So theoretically we could have lunch together, and maybe do something touristy? There’s an amazing park not far from here, or we could follow in Jane Austen’s footsteps and walk through Sydney Gardens to the canal.’

  Meaning that last night might not be just a one-off?

  Though Harry was a professional musician. He probably toured a lot. They might live hundreds of miles apart, and seeing each other could be difficult.

  Then again, there was that connection between them. Maybe they should give it a chance and see where it took them. He’d told her last night that he was single; and, thanks to her broken engagement, so was she. There was no reason why they couldn’t spend today together and see what happened.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Though I really need to go back to my hotel and change first.’

  ‘Of course. I can give you a lift, when you’re ready to go,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I don’t mind walking,’ she said. ‘So are you staying in Bath for a few days?’

  ‘Sadly not. I’m driving to Birmingham tonight,’ he said, ‘because I’m recording tomorrow.’

  Whereas she would going back to mark dissertations and be on hand to calm her students down before their exams. Their lives were very different. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So do you know Bath well?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘My best friend is a huge Jane Austen fan.’

  ‘Have you been to the Roman Baths?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, not wanting to admit that she’d also done some work on the site because it sounded a bit precious. ‘And I’ve taken the waters.’

  ‘They’re absolutely vile. Or maybe I’m biased because the only time I ever tasted them I had a hangover, and Ferdy insisted on using the Bath cure.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘No.’ He grimaced, and then gave her a boyish grin that put the most appealing crinkles at the corners of his eyes. ‘Though I’m pretty sure that Bath water tastes like bathwater, and Ferdy only told me it was a hangover cure so he could see my face when I tried it.’

  She grinned back, enjoying the pun. Not only was she attracted to Harry the cellist physically, she liked him. And that ridiculous pun made her relax with him enough to really enjoy breakfast and just chat with him.

  He insisted on clearing away while she changed back into her Regency dress.

  ‘Are you quite sure I can’t just drop you at your hotel?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in an hour, outside the Pump Room.’

  ‘Let’s swap phone numbers in case either of us gets held up,’ he suggested.

  She took her phone from her bag, but it refused to switch on. She winced. ‘Sorry, I’m utterly hopeless with my phone. It’s out of charge—again.’ She gave him her number and he tapped it into his own phone.

  ‘See you in an hour,’ he said, and kissed her at the door.

  Back at the hotel, Holly put her phone on charge, and it started to beep with incoming texts. Most of them were from Natalie. Holly quickly texted her back.

  Sorry, my phone went flat. Hope you’re feeling better. I took your advice!!! Tell you more later. Love you. x

  She sent a couple of the photographs she’d taken the previous evening, then changed into her normal clothes, packed, checked out, and left her luggage with the hotel’s concierge to collect before she had to catch her train.

  While she was walking down the High Street on the way to the Pump Room, she saw a sun hat blowing into the road, and seconds later a small child darted in front of her after it. The little boy’s mum was frantically trying to find the brake on the baby’s pram and screaming out to her son to leave the hat and come back.

  There was a car zooming down the road, and the driver clearly hadn’t seen the child because he wasn’t braking.

  Acting purely on instinct, and because she was the nearest person to the little boy, Holly stepped into the road to grab him. She heard the screech of brakes, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Grabbing the child and pulling him out of danger. The car, moving closer and closer. The thud of the impact as the car hit her.

  And then everything went black.

  * * *

  Harry glanced at his watch, frowning. They’d agreed to meet in an hour and he’d been a couple of minutes early. Maybe Holly had been held up. He’d give her a few minutes. From his spot outside the Pump Room he could see most of the area outside the cathedral door to his right, and then across part of the narrow street to his left, so whichever way she came from he’d see her quickly.

  It was a gorgeous bright sunny day and he was looking forward to getting to know his mysterious lady in red a little bit better. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really clicked with someone like this; despite his usual reluctance to get involved, he found himself hoping that this might turn into more than just a weekend thing. Holly was very, very different from Rochelle. In fact, she was different from all the women he’d dated; he hadn’t told her anything more than his first name, so refreshingly she hadn’t seen him either as someone in the public eye or as the youngest son of Viscount Moran. She’d just seen him as one of the musicians at the ball. An equal. And definitely not a means to financial security.

  He was dimly aware of the sound of a siren somewhere beyond the cathedral, but didn’t take much notice of it.

  There was still no sign of Holly.

  Harry waited for another half an hour.

  OK, so he didn’t actually know her very well, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t the type of woman who would ghost someone. Maybe something had happened to hold her up. And, because her phone had died, she didn’t have his number; so obviously he’d have to be the one to call her to see if she was OK.

  One ring, two, three—

  ‘Hello?’

  That definitely wasn’t Holly’s voice; it was male and had a strong Glaswegian accent.

  ‘I must have the wrong number. Sorry to have disturbed you,’ Harry said, cut the connection, and tried again.

  The phone rang twice before the Glaswegian man answered again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying to get in touch with Holly.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Holly, pal,’ the stranger said.

  ‘This is the number she gave me this morning.’ Harry had typed it in as she’d said it. ‘Her phone had died so she gave me her number.’

  The Scotsman laughed. ‘It sounds as if she made it up, pal, and you’re out of luck.’

  ‘I guess. Sorry for bothering you.’

  ‘No bother, pal. I’m sorry your girl let you down.’

  Harry ended the call, flooded with disappointment and feeling thoroughly rejected. He’d never been ghosted before, and it made him feel as if he was worthless. Just like his dad always made him feel whenever George spoke about Harry’s career.

  Holly had been at pains last night to check that he was single and nobody could be hurt by them getting together; maybe it had been a warning sign that it hadn’t been the case for her. He didn’t think she seemed to be the cheating type, b
ut then again it was now forty minutes since they’d been supposed to meet here, she hadn’t shown up and the phone number she’d given him had turned out to be not hers.

  No wonder she’d refused to let him drop her back at her hotel. Clearly she’d had no intention of actually meeting him.

  He gritted his teeth. What an idiot he’d been. OK. He’d deal with his feelings the same way he always did—playing certain pieces of music to burn out the anger and disappointment—and then he’d drive to Birmingham now and start rehearsing. Last night had been a one-off, a bubble in time. His path was unlikely to cross hers again, and it was pointless trying to find her. Holly might not even have been her real name.

  Holly. Often as prickly as my name.

  She hadn’t been prickly with him. She’d been warm and sweet and funny, and he’d really, really liked her.

  Just a pity she clearly hadn’t felt the same way about him.

  And it would teach him not to give in to ridiculous impulses in future. He should’ve learned from his time with Rochelle that relationships weren’t for him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘HI, THERE. HOW are you feeling?’ a voice asked.

  Sore, tired, and with a massive headache. Where on earth was she? Why was she in bed? The last thing she could remember...

  ...was a complete and utter blank.

  ‘Where am I?’ Holly asked, opening her eyes and wincing at the brightness of the light.

  ‘Hospital.’

  She’d already worked that one out herself from the nurse’s uniform, but it wasn’t fair to be rude to the woman. ‘Which hospital?’