by Daisy James
As she sipped on her third glass of wine, the alcohol began to soothe her tattered edges and calm the indecision ricocheting around her head so that she was able to organise her emotions into some semblance of order. She realised her short-lived spurt of self-confidence and optimism had been a direct result of Matt’s relentless positivity – his continual insistence she should reach for her dreams because no one knew what tomorrow had in store.
Where was he at that very moment? What was he doing and who with? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She didn’t have to delve too deep to know the answer to that last question.
She tipped her head back to rest on the sofa and as she did so, she noticed for the first time that the little red light on the answerphone was blinking. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had left a message on the house phone. Who could it be? She pressed the button and Brad’s voice blasted into the silence.
‘Emilie, where are you? You should be back from your Cornwall trip by now! Listen, I need your help. On the way back to the hotel last night I was robbed. Didn’t realise until this morning. Bloody thieves! Anyway, they stole my passport. I need you to find my driver’s licence and fax a copy across to me at the Baglioni so I can sort this out at the consulate and fly home. I’ve got the Rolex shoot in Edinburgh Castle tomorrow and I can’t risk being late. Ring me when you get this message.’
Emilie stared at the phone and was unsurprised to feel not a smidgeon of sympathy for Brad’s predicament. There was no apology for his behaviour over the Venice shoot, nor any reference to a certain skinny lingerie model. And no mention of his theft of her camera, making him no better than the petty pickpockets he’d just denounced. Neither was there a ‘please would you help me out’ nor ‘thank you for going to the trouble’. Just a list of demands to save his skin.
She pressed the erase button. She had no intention of continuing to be cast as a supporting artist in the drama of her life as Brad’s, or anyone else’s, general dogsbody. From now on she would star in the lead role with her head held high and confidence rushing through her veins. She reached for her laptop and plugged it in to charge.
The urge to check her email proved too difficult to resist so she switched it on. As she waited for it to fire up, she scrolled through the messages on her phone and saw that, as well as six ever-increasingly urgent text messages from Brad for her to call him, she had a voicemail from Matt. Her finger hovered over the dial button, but she could resist anything except temptation and the dulcet tones of her voicemail told her she had three messages.
The sound of Matt’s voice sent shock waves through her whole body. She saw that the first message had been received only an hour ago. In this one-sided conversation Matt had inform her that he’d been discharged from hospital, that his father had arrived to drive him home and whilst he was disappointed about the way things had ended, he understood and wished her well for the future. He had even thanked her for giving him the opportunity to be part of the epic road trip and told her she had been instrumental in reigniting his passion for writing and that he intended to pursue his dream of seeking publication of his book on the diverse beverages of the UK.
But what caused the tears to stream down her cheeks was what he told her at the end of his message.
‘I want you to know that you have inspired me to resume production at the microbrewery. I’ve been running away to Cornwall for too long. I’ve hurt my parents, I realise that now, but I’ve also been punishing myself for something that, as you told me, was not my fault. So…thank you, Emilie.’
She sat in her chair waiting for the tears to slow. By that time, she could only muster enough energy to flop onto her bed and drag her crimson mohair throw over her head in a futile attempt to blank out the harshness of the outside world. She had to be honest and admit that she would miss Matt’s constant cheerfulness and enthusiasm for life in Cornwall – despite the sadness his absence had heaped on his family – and she fervently wished their paths had taken a different route.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She woke the following morning to the insistent sound of her phone ringing in the kitchen where she’d left it charging. She groaned and rolled out of bed, cursing the caller for their inconsideration for choosing to disturb her at… What time was it? Oh, ten a.m. on a Sunday morning. Her heart leapt to her mouth as she anticipated hearing Matt’s smooth, upbeat tones.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, Emilie, at last! Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Have you read my emails?’
Emilie glanced over to the coffee table where she had left her laptop, which she hadn’t returned to after listening to Matt’s voicemails.
‘Erm, no, not yet Lucinda. Sorry. Just give me a minute whilst I…’
‘It doesn’t matter now that I have you on the phone. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve arranged a meeting for you with a friend of mine next Thursday. He loves the work you’ve been doing on the Lucinda Loves…Desserts cookery book and wants to talk to you about a possible collaboration on his own culinary masterpiece, which will take in recipes from his childhood around the south coast of Italy and Sicily. If I recall correctly, Italian cookery is a specialism of yours. I assume you’ll be available for such an assignment?’
‘Er, yes, yes, of course, thank you, but how…’ Emilie grabbed her hair and tossed it behind her shoulder as she scrambled to the kitchen bench to find a pen to take down the details.
‘Now, make sure you take a careful note of the arrangements,’ preached Lucinda in her familiar straightforward tone. ‘Carlos Romani has a busy schedule, so please make sure…’
‘Carlos Romani? Wow! But how does he… Who…?’
‘Surely even you’ve heard of the celebrated movie star turned Michelin-starred TV chef?’
‘No, no, that isn’t what I meant. Of course I’ve heard of him, but how did he find out about my work? I haven’t even sent any proofs of the Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot over to you yet.’
‘Ah, that’s where I have a little confession to make. I have to admit to being astonished at how much your work improved throughout the Cornwall assignment, Emilie. I don’t mind confessing that I was dismayed at your initial haphazard approach to the shoot when you arrived in Padstow, never mind the debacle when you fell onto the floor with a cardboard box attached to your foot. But over the weeks, your work and your attitude improved beyond all expectations.
‘I suspect your photographic talents were already there, lurking below the surface, but we don’t need to go into the reasons for that. You have the capacity to be a highly sought-after photographer, whether you decide to stay at the Dexter Carvill agency or go freelance. Yes, Marcus did tell me you about your dilemma. However, I didn’t want to build up your hopes before I’d had the chance to talk to Carlos, so I borrowed a few of your photographs…’
‘You borrowed a few of my photographs…? How?’
And for the first time since she had met Lucinda she heard a hint of embarrassment creep into her voice.
‘Forgive me, Emilie. I should have asked your permission first but, as I said, I didn’t want to cause you any disappointment. I took the liberty of copying a selection of your best photographs from your memory stick whilst we were staying at Craiglea Manor and then returned it the next day. I didn’t think you’d notice, and if Carlos decided your work wasn’t to his taste then there was no harm done. It is still far from a done deal but he’s very enthusiastic. I predict a bright future is on the horizon for you.’
‘No…harm…done…’ Emilie faltered, her emotions swinging from euphoria at the approaching meeting with the hottest TV chef on the screen at the moment and the chance of a lifetime to work on his foreign shoot before crashing back to earth as she realised what Lucinda had done in order to pull off the surprise.
She was grateful, but mingled with that was annoyance at her presumptuousness, relief that it hadn’t been Matt who had borrowed her flash drive, then finally a harsh whoo
sh of guilt that she hadn’t trusted him. She didn’t know what Matt had been doing in the camper van that night. However, she should have known he would never have used her work without seeking her express permission beforehand, whilst perhaps it was exactly the sort of thing Lucinda would do, although, as it turned out, with the best of intentions. And, at the end of the day, Lucinda was paying for the photographs anyway so they were hers to borrow.
‘Thank you, Lucinda. I’m…’
‘No need to thank me – the credit is all yours. All the details are in my email. I’m looking forward to perusing the final shots of the trip when they’re ready.’
‘Sure.’
Emilie slumped back onto her sofa and stared out at the London skyline for a long time. Her thoughts were in turmoil as excitement and optimism chased guilt and regret until she could no longer think straight. The only fact that sped around her brain on a continuous loop was that it had been Lucinda who had removed her memory stick, not Matt, and if she hadn’t been so eager to cast Matt in the same mould as Brad and the other men she had shared her life with in the past, she would have been able to conclude that Lucinda was a more likely culprit. Hadn’t she seen her lurking behind the camper van the morning the stick went missing?
She felt sick at what she had done. Her unfounded accusation had caused Matt’s fall and his subsequent injuries. She had abandoned him at the hospital just so she could escape having to face him and hear his explanation, or his denial as it happened. She was a despicable person who didn’t deserve Matt’s friendship or his forgiveness.
She had no idea how long she sat staring out of the window berating her knee-jerk actions, exploring her reaction to Lucinda’s news. But before she had chance to dip any further into her pit of self-focused despondency her phone rang again. She toyed briefly with the idea of leaving it to go to voicemail but curiosity proved too much. She glanced at the screen to see it was Lucinda again and she knew she couldn’t ignore it.
‘Hi, Lucinda.’ She tried to appear upbeat but even to her, her voice sounded lacklustre and lethargic.
‘Sorry to bother you again, but I forgot to mention it before. Marcus is already nagging me for a copy of the photograph you took of the crew at the Eden Project and he mentioned something about a recipe for the chocolate cocktail? Could I trouble you to email one over to him today? Something about showing off to his Twitter followers, I think.’
‘No problem.’
‘Emilie, is there something the matter? Forgive me, but you don’t sound like a person who has just been offered a fantastic overseas shoot with a handsome Italian chef. I could be wrong but you sound miserable. Has something happened?’
Emilie let out a long sigh as she wrestled with whether to share her unforgivable error with Lucinda. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, except I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.’
‘What are you talking about? What have you done? Can I help?’
Emilie was too upset to be surprised at Lucinda’s unexpected offer.
‘Basically, I’ve accused the only guy who took the time to get to know the real me of using my work without asking me. And guess what? As you have just told me, it wasn’t even him!’ Hot tears had begun to flow down her cheeks and the muscles in her stomach had clamped together so tightly she felt nauseous.
‘Do you mean you thought it was Matt who had borrowed your flash drive?’
‘Yes. I ran out on Matt when he needed me most after everything he’s done for me throughout the whole “Great Cornish Culinary Voyage”.’ She gulped down her tears and wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. Somewhere in the back of her mind she understood that she was talking to Lucinda Carlton-Rose, not Alice or Lauren, that she should perhaps not be sharing the details of her most misguided behaviour, but she needed to formulate what she had done into words so she could come to terms with the enormity of it.
‘Do you know, I couldn’t have done any of it without him. Not only was he there to help me with setting up the props and the equipment, he made it his relentless mission to boost my confidence whenever I succumbed to a bout of insecurity. And how did I repay him for his kindness? By accusing him of stealing my work to use on his blog and in his Great British Beverages book.’
‘Oh, Emilie, I’m so sorry. I should never have interfered. It’s all my fault.’
‘No, it’s my fault. I should have checked his blog myself before I said anything. But it doesn’t matter. I won’t ever have to see him again. I’ll put it down to my continuing struggle with trust issues. From now on I intend to throw myself into my work and deal with my propensity to leap to conclusions.’
‘But, Emilie, you have to put this right! Even I noticed that you have a connection with Matt. You have to tell him you made a mistake. You have to explain what happened and apologise. You can’t let things like this just fade into the past.’
‘I can and I will.’
‘No! In fact, if you don’t call him right now then I will.’
‘Lucinda…’
‘When I met Grant I knew he was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Just being with him, doing nothing, made me happy. When we meet someone like that we have to hang on to them. When I saw you chasing each other along the beach in Newquay, I could almost taste your exhilaration. I knew something had happened between you in St Ives; it showed in the pictures you took that afternoon. I knew it was no accident that your photography zinged with added vibrancy. You might not agree with me, but I think you’ve fallen in love with him. You mustn’t waste the chance to put things right.’
‘But what if he hates me…’
‘He won’t. If I’ve learnt anything during my dealings with people over the years it’s that Matt Ashby’s not the sort of person who holds a grudge. Life’s too short, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You know I’m right. Is it true then?’
‘Is what true?’
‘That you love him?’
Emilie laughed for the first time since she stood at the window in her suite at Craiglea Manor and glanced down at the Satsuma Splittie in the car park.
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘Then go get him, Emilie!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Grab the next train out of King’s Cross and tell him in person. Explain to him what happened, apologise from the bottom of your heart and ask for his forgiveness.’
‘Erm…’ Emilie couldn’t believe she was listening to Lucinda, the consummate professional, the avid perfectionist with a line in scrumptious desserts. It just went to show that people aren’t always what you see on the surface. She thought back to the way Lucinda had glowed when she had been at Grant’s side at The Risings and she was again forced to adjust her opinion of her client.
‘You think I should go up to Northumberland? I’m due back at the office in the morning and I need to work on the portfolio from the shoot.’
‘I’ll speak to Dexter. I’m sure he’ll agree to a day’s leave. After all, haven’t you just completed a two-week marathon of an assignment covering the whole of Cornwall with the most demanding of clients and survived intact? It’s the least he can do.’
She heard Lucinda laugh but she wasn’t convinced that she should go haring off north.
‘But what if Matt refuses to meet me?’
‘Don’t tell him, just go. Go now, before you overthink it. Go, go, go!’
‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’
‘And, Emilie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell him you love him!’
‘Okay.’ She laughed as excitement replaced the dread that had been lurking in the pit of her stomach about what her life would be like without Matt’s smiling face to wake up next to every morning.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The three-hour train journey up to Northumberland seemed to take half the time as the anxiety over meeting Matt face-to-face became an imminent reality. She rehea
rsed what she was going to say over and over until it became a continuous stream of gibberish. When the impressive sight of Durham Cathedral flashed by on her right, she gulped down her nerves and gave herself a stern talking-to.
Then something else occurred to her. In her haste to catch the train she had overlooked the fact that she had no idea where to find Matt. She didn’t have his address, which meant she had to call him. She stared at the phone in her palm, willing it to reveal the information, but of course that wasn’t possible. So, with trembling fingers she dialled his number.
As she waited for him to pick up, her courage deserted her. She was about to disconnect when a voice answered, but it wasn’t Matt’s, it was female.
‘Erm…’
‘Hello? Can I help you?’
‘Hi. I was trying to contact Matt Ashby. Perhaps I have the wrong number.’
‘Oh, no, dear, this is Matt’s phone. He was in such a rush to get out this morning he left his phone charging in the kitchen. I’m his mother, Ruth. Would you like to leave him a message?’
‘Yes, please. It’s Emilie, Emilie Roberts. I’m a friend of his. I’m…’
‘Oh, yes, you’re the girl who saved his life on Bodmin Moor, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I saved his life…’
The woman laughed. ‘Well, whatever you did, Matt is very grateful. If you need to talk to him he’s where he always is on a Sunday afternoon whenever we’re lucky enough to be graced with his presence – at the Surfers’ Club in Tynemouth. Can’t keep away, even with a broken arm. The juniors meet there for coaching every week and he loves getting involved. You’ll definitely catch him down there.’
‘Okay thanks. Yes, I will.’
‘Goodbye, dear.’
Emilie felt the train slow. She gathered her belongings and joined the crush at the door. She jumped down onto the platform and made her way to the taxi rank. As she waited in the queue, a feeling of intense disorientation engulfed her. What was she doing here? Would her journey turn out to be a fool’s errand?