I swallow hard as I let his words drip into my brain like honey. He cares about me. I always knew he cared – we’re best friends, of course he cares – but he’s telling me he wants to know me in a way no one ever has before. No one except Laurel. I take a deep breath as I think about what to say next, but my train of thought is interrupted by the screech of a car horn.
“Fucking wanker,” says Ethan, his eyes fixed on his rear-view mirror. I look forwards to see a huge gap has built up in the traffic, and we get Nessie to drive at a whopping seven miles per hour for a good thirty seconds. “Yeah yeah, mate, tooting your horn like a fucking geriatric Mr Toad will get you to your destination all of ten seconds quicker. Well done for being a prize bellend.”
I peek in the mirror at the guy behind us. The silver-haired Volvo driver does look rather amphibian, in a bloated, warty, wide-mouthed kind of way.
“So, do you accept you need to fix your own life first?” Ethan says.
“When I told you about Laurel I said I’d managed to get over what happened by myself. I’ve already fixed that.” He sighs and shakes his head. I’m telling him the truth, but he doesn’t believe me. “There’s no rule to say I have to share my secrets with the world. Talking about my feelings doesn’t come easily.”
“Why not?”
I can’t think of a decent answer. Which is crap considering my livelihood revolves around my ability to arrange beautiful words into meaningful, coherent sentences. I shrug and pull my left knee up, resting my chin on it. “You’re viewing me through your own lens, Ethan. You share and talk and have a huge support network of friends, but that’s not me. I prefer to sort my own messes out. By myself. In private.”
“You don’t sort them out though. You just bury them and pretend they don’t exist.”
“Maybe. But you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about last week.”
His jaw stiffens and the interrogation ends. He pops his sunglasses back on, puts the car back into gear and travels another inch down the road. This time the inch turns into yards, and the seconds turn into hours, but we’re no further forwards. At least the Ford Focus pissed off towards Blackpool at the last junction, saving me from having to get out of the car and give the mooning, piggy-snouted kid a piece of my mind.
“Are you finished with that bottle of water you bought at the service station?” asks Ethan as we come to another dead stop.
“Yeah, sorry. Are you thirsty?”
“No, I just want the bottle. I really need to pee. I’ve been holding it for over an hour.”
“Ew, you want to pee in the bottle?”
“Yes. Can I have it, please?”
“No! That’s gross. Plus, as soon as you stick your . . . erm . . . knob in it, you’ll create a vacuum and there’ll be pee everywhere. Do it outside.”
“What? I’m not peeing outside. Everyone will see.”
He looks out over the central reservation and I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not recommending you pee onto oncoming traffic, Ethan. There’s bushes and trees our side.”
“People will still see me. And know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll see you if you do it in here, and believe me, the last thing I want – and Nessie wants – is to be covered in urine splashback.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting. Can you not keep it in?”
“No, I’ve got a pain now.” He opens the car door and gets out. “Right, I’m going for it. If the traffic starts moving and Mr Toad starts beeping his horn again, just beep back at him.”
I look in the wing mirror and watch him dodge through the cars and choose the bushiest hedge at the side of the road to relieve himself into.
And then the traffic starts moving.
Shit.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
I look frantically behind me as Ethan stands, open legged, at the side of the road. How much pee does he have in there?
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Jesus Christ, Mr Toad has instigated a riot! Three or four angry drivers are beeping behind us now, which is ridiculous. After two hours of deadlock, the cars in front are only moving down the motorway marginally faster than I can walk. Idiots.
I check back in my mirror; Ethan is still peeing. What the hell did he drink today? Half a reservoir?
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Oh, for crying out loud.
I glance in my mirror again. Finally! Ethan zips up his trousers, and thirty seconds later he’s back in the driver’s seat.
“About time,” I say. “Was it worth the wait?”
A smirk appears on his face. “You could say that. Nothing like an al-fresco piss. Now, adventure awaits, so let’s get up to the Lakes before nightfall.”
“Ooh, ‘adventure awaits’? ‘I love to sail forbidden seas and land on barbarous coasts.’”
“Eh?”
“Moby-Dick . . . you know . . . adventure awaits and all that.”
His expression is blank. “Never read it.”
“Just drive on.”
17
THE HAYFIELD HOTEL IS SITUATED on the banks of Lake Windermere, offering spectacular views of rolling green hills, mossy banks and woodlands. There are sailing boats moored in a tiny harbour, and a small wooden pier where a family with young children wearing brightly coloured wellington boots have congregated with fishing nets.
I had just enough time to change into a figure-hugging turquoise floral dress before dinner. I head down to the bar but nobody is there. Terrific.
I order a Pimm’s with lime, fresh strawberries and a sprig of mint from a good-looking, dark-haired barman dressed in a striped waistcoat and bowtie.
“Oh my goodness, Vee-o-let! You’re here, finally.”
My heart sinks as I recognise the throaty Brazilian accent. It couldn’t be, could it? I turn around and . . . Oh my god, it is. “Delfina, how lovely to see you again. Um . . . have we hired you?”
“Yes, you have. I was working on a photoshoot for Stella McCartney in Milan when Lucinda gave me the call. My Ridley couldn’t believe it. Of all the models in London, what is the chance you pick me for one of your TV adverts?”
Delfina’s jet-black hair, olive skin and striking Amerindian features are certainly going to be perfect for our shoot tomorrow. But having to work all day up a mountain with a girl whose husband tried to blackmail me into having sex with him? Not the nicest coincidence I’ve ever experienced.
“How perfect,” I say as she glides over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “You have the exact look we need.”
“You’re so kind, but I’ve been feeling horrible recently. I put on five pounds over the last two weeks. Ridley says I eat too much rice and potatoes. I hope I still look okay for you.”
Oh god, the woman occupies a whole different universe, doesn’t she? Five bloody pounds? I feel like telling her she has far more important things to worry about than that – like the fact her husband is a lying, cheating, creepy sexual predator – but then I look at Delfina’s innocent dark eyes, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched over natural long lashes that Bambi would envy, and I can’t summon any dislike for her, only pity.
“Don’t worry. You look absolutely stunning, as always,” I assure her, and her face lights up.
“You’re so kind, Vee-o-let. And so pretty too.” I thank her, just as Stuart appears at the bar. “Stuart, Stuart, come over here for a minute,” she calls out. My stomach groans – and not just through hunger. “I was just saying to Vee-o-let how pretty she is. Don’t you agree?” She turns back to me. “Poor Stuart has just broken up with his girlfriend. Why don’t you two sit together at dinner and get to know one another?”
“We’re already acquainted, thank you,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m just in here to get another beer, Daphne,” adds Stuart.
Delfina tuts and tosses her mane of shiny black hair over her shoulder. Her skin is bronzed, with light golden fr
eckles, and she’s wearing a white backless top with dark skinny jeans that ruffle at the ankle. “My name is Delfina. Del-fee-na – it means ‘dolphin’ in Portuguese.”
Stuart makes a brusque apology, grabs his beer and heads outside.
“What is the matter with him?” asks Delfina, her voice filled with genuine hurt.
If I were the type of girl who has friends who are girls and has experience of talking about girl stuff, then I would be telling her all about Stuart right now. But as I can’t be bothered to indulge in female bonding, I don’t.
“He was so lovely on the drive up here. He told me how sad he was about breaking up with his beautiful girlfriend. Did you ever meet Adele? He showed me a photo. She looks just like Gigi Hadid – simply gorgeous – and Stuart’s so adorable.”
I have no idea who Gigi Hadid is, but I have a vision of puking up my still-beating heart at the thought of anyone describing Stuart Inman as adorable.
“Come on, Vee-o-let. Everyone is outside enjoying the warm evening.”
Delfina takes my arm and leads me out to a garden which backs straight onto the lake. Daniel is sitting next to Stuart, looking the epitome of cool sophistication in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans. He meets my gaze and smiles warmly as I approach. For the hundredth time I wonder why I didn’t try to make a go of dating him.
The three film crew guys finish their beers and say they’re foregoing dinner in favour of heading out to search the area for a great shoot location. I don’t know the guys well, but one of them is called Dave Handcock, which I don’t think I’ll ever stop finding hilarious.
Wendy Smith, our TV producer, is dressed in her usual casual trousers, vest and open shirt with a trio of brightly coloured bead necklaces draped around her neck. The bangles, woven fabric bracelets and politically charged rubber slogan bands around her wrists complete her look, as does her cropped grey hair, which is wispy and feathered around her face. Wendy is too young to be grey, but she’s a vegan, a Green Party activist and the single mother of twins, so I guess her hair perfectly complements her whole “peace and love” hippie-mum look.
Wendy introduces another model, Alyssa, who is married to an actor called Richie Robbins. I pretend to know who Richie is, but I don’t have a clue. The very mention of his name makes make-up artist Chip, a girl with a dyed-pink pixie cut, swoon like a teenager. As I listen to them gush about Richie’s recent stint in a daytime soap I’ve never heard of, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Stuart.
“Hi. I wanted to talk to you about last week. You’ve probably heard Adele and I have broken up for good. I have no excuse for my behaviour, but things have been really rough for me. I hope . . . I mean . . . I want to make it up to you.”
“I’m not going out with you again, Stuart.”
“No, I know that,” he says. I catch Daniel glancing my way protectively. He’s trying his best not to look like he’s listening, but he has no choice given he’s sitting right next to us. Stuart leans in closer and lowers his voice. “I know I’ve blown it with you, and I know I’m a total prick—”
“Are you just going to tell me things I already know?”
He leans back in his chair and gulps another mouthful of beer. His strong jaw is clenched and I can tell he’s annoyed. Maybe I should ease up on him.
“I just want us to get on. We still have a couple of months left until our contract ends. And I’m truly sorry for what I did.”
I glance back over at Daniel, who gives me a friendly wink, before returning my attention to Stuart. “Okay, you’re forgiven. And I’m sorry for throwing wine over your head. Well . . . on balance, you did deserve the wine, so I’m only a tiny bit sorry.”
“That’s good enough for me. Can I buy you another drink?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Okay. Erm . . . we’ll talk later then.”
I look up as Ethan descends the few small steps from the hotel bar to the garden area. He’s wearing a fitted grey t-shirt with pale jeans, and as he sits down between me and Stuart, I inhale his cologne; sea breeze mixed with peppermint – perfect. He starts up a conversation with Stuart about Carly, and I overhear that she’s staying with her parents in Southampton. She was discharged from hospital yesterday and Stuart says she’s taking a six-month sabbatical from work.
Shit and bollocks.
I was hoping she’d be around in case I needed her to help me with Ridley. Which, in hindsight, was stupid considering she hates me, but the option was at least there. Except now it isn’t.
We’re called to the hotel restaurant at nine. I sit next to Wendy at dinner and she shows me photos of her adorable kids – a boy dressed in a Motörhead t-shirt with the same woven bracelets around his wrists that Wendy wears, and a girl in pigtails wearing a bright-pink bicycle helmet and braces on her teeth.
“They’re gorgeous, Wendy. I don’t know how you manage a family on your own and do your job so well. Who’s looking after them now?”
“My parents live close by. They’ve been great with the twins. Carl has always been so close to his Grandma, while Isla only has eyes for Gramps.”
Wendy smiles with pride as she talks about her family. I try to remember what happened to their dad. I’m sure he was a wrong’un, but I can’t remember the details. I don’t mention him just in case there’s a tragedy I’ve forgotten lurking in the background. “You’re so lucky to have them.”
“I know,” she says with a beaming smile. “I’m truly blessed. But what about you? Is there anyone special in your life at the moment?”
Oh god, here we go. Cue everyone around the table telling me I should be out dating and enjoying myself. “Actually, I’ve sworn off men for the foreseeable future.”
Delfina overhears and shrieks so loud her voice echoes through the hills. “You can’t! You’re too beautiful to be on your own! It’s such a waste. You’re so talented and clever and funny . . . and you have an amazing figure. Tell her, Ethan.”
Okay. Awkward on a scale of fucking infinity . . .
“Nobody can tell Violet anything,” Ethan replies. His tone is firm and his expression is serious.
What? What the hell does that mean? I’m just about to question him further when Delfina says something stupid again. “My Ridley is such a gentleman. He is handsome and successful, and he treats me like a princess. You need to find your own Ridley, Vee-o-let.”
Don’t tell her to fuck off. Don’t tell her to fuck off. Don’t tell her to fuck off.
“There’s only one Ridley Gates in this world, Delfina. You won the jackpot.”
Ethan shoots me a look that could make sugar turn sour. It wasn’t so much what I said, but the way I said it. I hope my sarcasm gets lost in translation.
“What is a jackpot?” she asks in her breathy accent.
“A prize,” I say.
“Oh,” she replies, sadness and confusion in her voice. I’ll have to watch my mouth. Using sarcasm on Delfina is like pulling the wings off a butterfly – it’s very easy to do, yet heartbreakingly cruel.
Stuart finishes his drink, stands up and smooths down the crumples in his shirt. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”
“Oh no, why are you leaving so soon, Stuart?” Delfina asks. She still sounds sad and confused.
“Busy day tomorrow.”
“Have you got a date with Mrs Palm and her five daughters?” asks Ethan, grinning mischievously. But Stuart isn’t laughing.
“What do you mean? Who is this Mrs Palm? Have you met a new lady already, Stuart?” Delfina says as Ethan chuckles away at his own childishness.
“You’ll have to forgive Ethan. All he thinks about is sex and he’s probably been wondering if he’ll get any tonight.” Touché, Stuart, touché. Ethan smirks and takes the retort on the chin, but unfortunately Stuart doesn’t leave the matter alone. “It’s just a shame he tends to wait until women are smashed out of their skulls before he screws them.”
Oh my god, why? Talk about fighting a lit
match with a nuclear bomb.
Ethan is on his feet before I have time to calm him down. “What the hell did you just say to me?” he yells, squaring up to Stuart. “Repeat it!”
“You heard what I said the first time,” Stuart says flippantly. Ethan moves towards him.
My insides twist themselves into a knot and fear forces me to my feet. “Ethan, leave it!”
To my great relief Daniel places his body between them. “Both of you need to calm down, right now. Remember we’re here on business and you’re both representing your companies.”
Stuart fixes his gaze on Ethan, refusing to be the first to back down.
Ethan throws his arms up in the air and takes a step back.
Delfina starts to cry.
“As I said – time for me to turn in.” Stuart takes a final swig of beer and swiftly leaves the restaurant. Ethan mutters “Wanker” under his breath as he watches him leave, his jaw clenching tight.
“Is this my fault? I don’t even understand what this is about . . .” bawls Delfina. Wendy leaves her seat to throw motherly arms around her while Alyssa and Chip make soothing “there, there” noises.
Ethan retakes his seat. “I’m sorry,” he says to the table. I should be angry with him, but his sorrowful expression, coupled with his refusal to make eye contact, makes my heart ache.
“Why did you have to be so rude, Ethan?” Delfina says. “Stuart has been so sad about Adele, and who is this Mrs Palm?”
“Just leave it, Delfina. I’ve said I’m sorry,” says Ethan.
I interject quickly, hoping to move the conversation on. “We’ve all had a bit of a rough time recently. There’s still some friction between us and the client.”
Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 16