The Time of Our Lives (27 page)

I bite my lip.

‘At least she was. Her brother is a shop assistant and has been made redundant . . .’ I bite a nail. ‘And her elderly mother – who has cancer – can’t afford
the rent on her apartment so is about to be thrown out.’

My jaw is now open. ‘Oh God, please tell me there’s no more.’

‘Well, her other brother has cerebral palsy, her fiancé recently dumped her and . . .’

‘STOP! Please stop.’

‘. . . and she broke her toe at the Camp Nou stadium.’

I look in the direction of the window. It’s not the altitude that’s making my head do the breaststroke now. It strikes me that not only do I have no evidence that he’s a
philanderer, but everything points instead to him simply being a nice man.

‘She just needed someone to talk to, that’s all,’ he adds.

I sigh. ‘I am the worst person in the world.’

‘I doubt that. But you did jump to conclusions.’

This sentence hits me like a tidal wave. I remind myself that all he did was ask me for a drink, yet I’ve walked in here throwing accusations at him as though we’re betrothed.

Mortification overwhelms me. He must think I’m a bunny boiler, whereas the plain truth is that I’m so hopelessly unused to dealing with this sort of thing I feel like some dippy
work-experience girl who can’t manage a bit of light stapling without falling to pieces.

‘You’re totally right,’ I mumble. ‘I think I’d better go.’

He hesitates, as if he’s about to say something, but simply nods. ‘I understand.’

I’d rather hoped he’d protest, grab me gently by the arm and tell me that he really, really wanted me to stay. I turn to leave.

‘I did see that you’d found someone else.’ He shrugs as I turn back. ‘These things happen. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

His words filter through my brain and I realise what he’s talking about. ‘Oh . . . the Italian? No. He’s not for me. Honestly.’ I consider telling him he’s a
self-confessed wanker, but I stop myself. ‘The thing is . . .’

I don’t even know how I’m going to finish the sentence when my phone rings. I realise I’ve had the sound turned on low, so it’s only quiet, but once I’m aware of
the noise, it’s all I can hear.

I stand immobile, telling myself I’m not going to answer it. I
can
ignore this phone, I absolutely can. It’s my choice, after all!

And if I don’t, then maybe, just maybe, Harry will reach out and pull me into a
Casablanca
-style embrace, gifting me that kiss I’m only now realising how desperately I
want.

The problem is, it keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

I grab it from my bag and answer it with the sort of force you’d use to poke your worst enemy in the eye.

‘David’s sent me a text message,’ begins Carmel, as my heart sinks.

I pace in small circles as she tells me she’s consulted a divorce lawyer who’s informed her she’s entitled to the house, the yacht, the two dogs and obviously the children.
She’s decided she’ll let him have the rabbit.

I try desperately to get rid of her, but it takes a good five minutes and only then because I tell her there’s a bomb scare and I’m off to take cover in the wet room.

I end the call and look at Harry through anxious eyes. ‘As I was saying . . .’

My phone rings again which, judging by the calls I’ve missed, it’s been doing for a while. I hesitate, ignoring it for an infinitesimal moment before caving in.

It’s David. He tells me he’s still refusing to buy the papers but has heard an outlandish rumour about a quote I gave on the radio, but I’m not to worry as he knows I’d
never say such a thing.

The next call is from Cosimo, who’s still in Buenos Aires but has heard that the story’s out because a friend of his ‘Liked’ a link to it on Facebook.

There follows another message from my mother, this time to inform me that when she tucked Florence into bed, she noticed she’s burping a lot and feels I should insist the GP refers her to
a gastrointestinal specialist as soon as I’m home.

I pause for breath during a momentary ceasefire in the calls and realise Harry is looking at me, torn between astonishment and pity. ‘Is this what your life is always like?’

‘Not all the time,’ I mumble, then wonder why I’m lying. ‘Yes.’

‘Even on holiday?’

I plonk down on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands as blood rushes to my face. ‘Yes.’

I am vaguely aware of him crossing the room to the champagne bar. I hear the pop before he turns round and, even without confirmation of its source, it’s the most wonderful of sounds
– crisp and resonant, full of promise . . . I look up and he’s pouring two glasses.

‘Is this all paid for?’ I’m not sure I could accept it after doing Delfina such a disservice.

‘No, this one’s on me. It’s absolutely necessary. Medicinal, in fact.’

He sits next to me and places a glass into my hand as I find myself looking at his knees again, just the outline of them through his stone-coloured trousers. I can’t remember ever being
quite so taken with a man’s knees before. ‘This is no way to live,’ he tells me.

‘I know. I’ve actually started to hate my phone. I mean properly
hate
it. I’m no technophobe, but part of me misses the world before texts and 4G and all that malarkey.
It doesn’t seem to have enhanced much, not in my life, anyway.’

He shrugs. ‘I actually love my phone, and my tablet, and my MacBook and all those other things. I do miss letters, though. Proper ones, on paper.’

‘Oh God, so do I! Nobody writes letters these days, do they?’

He shakes his head. ‘There was something in
The Times
the other week saying that the love letter has been virtually obliterated by text and instant messaging.’

I tut. ‘Both have their place, but it hardly compares. There is nothing like a bona-fide, bells-and-whistles love letter.’

He grins. ‘All this technology wouldn’t have done for Lord Byron, that’s for sure.’

I take a sip of the champagne, feeling its tiny, exquisite bubbles disintegrate on my tongue.

His closeness feels intoxicating and I experience a surge of pleasure just looking at him. I am bursting with lust, every bit of me wanting this man to lean over and kiss me.

His face moves towards mine and I realise that
this is it
. The first man I’m going to kiss in five years. My pulse thunders in my ears as I feel the softness of his breath against
my skin and I lower my glass onto my lap to stop my hand trembling.

My phone rings. The spell is broken.

I go to answer it when Harry grabs my hand, preventing me from reaching it. The grip of his fingers on my skin makes my heart race again.

‘What would happen if you turned it off?’ he asks, his expression serious.

‘I . . . I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I . . . because, honestly, Harry . . .’ I squirm. ‘There’s so much going on at the moment and—’

‘But you’re on
holiday
. Being good at your job, or being a good mother or daughter . . . it doesn’t mean you can’t have a life.’

The phone’s ring seems to become louder and more urgent.

‘Seriously,’ he says, ‘what would happen if you turned it off? For . . . I don’t know – let’s say twelve hours. That’s all.’

I blush at the question, wondering if he’s suggesting I could spend the next twelve hours with him. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘You do know. You know that
nothing
would happen. They’d all just have to get on with things all by themselves. To stop relying on you constantly, and use their own brains.
It’d do them all good.’

I pause for a second. I actually
don’t
think he’s right. Then I do. Then I suddenly don’t care if he is or isn’t. I decide to stop thinking. Because all I want in
my head is not work, or my mother, or the dentist or any other bloody thing except the thought of kissing this man.

I pick up the phone and recognise Elsa’s number as it rings off. Then, clutching it between both my hands, for the very first time since I got here, I press ‘Off’.

I inhale woozily and take a large mouthful of champagne. ‘What now?’

He doesn’t answer with words. He takes my glass from me and puts it on the table beside us, before cupping my face in his hands and kissing me as the world around us tumbles into
silence.

I am having sex! I AM HAVING SEX!

Those four words flutter through my head, over and over again, until I’m cheering internally so loudly I can barely think.

It is quite simply a mind-blowing and monumental thought that I (yes, me,
me
, ME!) am doing what everyone all around the world does, but I haven’t for so long that it wouldn’t
have been a shock if my lady bits had rusted up.

Strictly speaking, we’re still at the foreplay bit, despite hours having passed since my first item of clothing slipped to the floor but, as you can imagine, that’s nothing to
complain about. Not when I’m busy contemplating the swell of his buttocks against the palm of my hand; his mouth on my breasts as I arch my back, alive with desire.

Desire
. I’d almost forgotten its existence, considered it virtually extinct. But, here it is, exploding into my life in the form of this man, naked and godlike, whose hand is buried
between my legs as I groan with pleasure and part them without hesitation. I am drunk on passion as much as the champagne, which I’ve downed enthusiastically all night, although not so much
that I can’t enjoy every second of this.

I have never felt so bad in such a joyful way. Not for a moment am I embarrassed to be naked. I wanted him to peel off my underwear and bury his head into my neck as his hands went on a voyage
of discovery over my skin. And I wanted him naked too, even if heat shot up my neck when I saw him towering above me as he kicked off his underwear and rolled me into the bed, our legs entwining
and his lips meeting mine.

His kisses have been interspersed with the sweetest whispers, odes to my gorgeousness that sound beautifully dirty when applied to the bits of me to which he’s referring. I feel worshipped
and I feel wonderful. And, as his kisses become more passionate, I hear myself vocalising the need I’ve had since the first moment our lips met – a need that hasn’t abated despite
the fact that I’ve come twice already.

‘Have you got a condom?’ I whisper.

He gazes into my eyes and nods, pressing his lips against mine before he gets up. I try not to gawp. I lie back and pull the smooth, cotton sheets over my body as he finds his wallet and rips
open the packet.

I am tingling as he approaches, my insides aching for him. He begins by kissing me again as he moves to be on top, caressing me as I nuzzle my face into his neck, so breathless and hot that
it’s almost to my own surprise that I take matters into my own hands.

My fingers trace the small of his back as I wriggle closer to him. He gazes into my eyes as I push him slowly inside me and groan with intense pleasure.

Afterwards, I feel like I’ve taken a happy pill, tiptoed through fairy dust and pranced across meadows singing ‘The Hills Are Alive’.

‘I don’t know what’s come over me.’ I shake my head as I loll in the Jacuzzi, fuzzy from champagne and post-coital delirium. ‘I never do this sort of
thing.’

He laughs and leans in to kiss me on the cheek. ‘You mean you haven’t got a Jacuzzi in that flat of yours in Wandsworth?’

‘No, but I think I’m going to have to get one.’ I grin, feeling more smug than I’d thought possible. ‘I’m now convinced that these things are the main reason
celebrities get into so much trouble.’

‘What, Jacuzzis? As opposed to appalling judgment and reckless levels of testosterone?’

‘Absolutely. You simply can’t have a Jacuzzi in a bedroom and
not
get it on with someone.’

He smirks. ‘Though as I recall, you didn’t need the Jacuzzi for encouragement.’

‘No,’ I splutter with laughter, ‘I didn’t, did I?’

He puts down his glass and edges towards me, putting his big arms around me. His naked skin is slippery against mine and sends a rush of heat through me. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed
it.’ He swallows, looking momentarily vulnerable. Then he reaches over and brushes a hair out of my face, decisive again. ‘I think you’re amazing, Imogen,’ he says
simply.

‘Oh, give over,’ I reply, rolling my eyes. The more I’ve got to know Harry this week, the more my view that he must be a raging lothario has shifted. But I refuse to believe
this is anything other than Instagram Eyes, caused by the sex, the alcohol, and him wanting a bit more of both.

‘I’m serious.’

For a fleeting moment, I believe him. But I do so in the realisation that it’s only because I
want
to believe him.

I look down at my glass. ‘You know, this has been the first time since . . .’ I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

‘Since Roberto?’

I nod.

‘That must have felt strange.’

I shrug.

‘Well,’ he begins, formulating his thoughts. ‘I want you to know that I’m honoured that I was the one you chose.’

I reply with a smile, but it’s a forced one this time. Because the reminder about why it’s been such a long time since I did this intimate, intense thing chills the blood in my
veins.

Suddenly, I feel as though everything’s changed. I look down and try to push various unpleasant thoughts out of my head. Then I throw back the last of the champagne and wonder what to
say.

‘I’d better get out. My fingers are shrivelling up.’

It’s gone 3 a.m. and I plummet into sleep surprisingly quickly, my final thoughts registering only how strange it feels to have a man’s arms around me in bed.
I’m so used to sprawling out in the middle, alone and unfettered, that it takes a moment to get used to the protective warmth of human contact.

But that’s not the whole story. Although exhaustion drags me towards dreams, they’re unsettled from the beginning. I wake several times during the night, before registering where I
am and pushing away consciousness again.

As dawn creeps into the room, the events being played out in my head become increasingly distressing. I drift in and out of thoughts about Roberto until, finally, as sunlight shears through the
cracks of the hastily drawn curtains, they turn to his funeral.