Page 11 of The Island of Hopes and Dreams

‘London.’

‘You couldn’t really get much different!’

‘That was the point.’ Lola pulled the material of her dress away from the sticky heat of her back. ‘What about you moving away from Wales to, I presume, Bristol?’

‘I couldn’t wait to have some independence. I’m the youngest of three and longed to have my own space and the freedom to do what I wanted. Not that I ever craved city living, but I wanted excitement and that student lifestyle.’ He sighed as if remembering those good times. He glanced at her. ‘I presume that’s how you know Mirabel, then, from London?’

‘Yeah, we work together.’

‘You’re in the music biz too?’

Lola nodded. ‘A PR manager at the same record label.’

‘Until Mirabel permanently moves out here.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ Lola wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m trying to forget she’s leaving. I’m going to miss her so much.’

‘It’s an exciting time for her and Fabs.’

‘It certainly is.’ Lola stared at the dark shimmering sea, the only light coming from the moon and the lights glinting across the bay where the island curved.

Mirabel was starting a whole new chapter, on an adventure with the love of her life, and what a place to live. Lola had barely seen any of it yet, but Sardinia promised a laid-back lifestyle of white-sand beaches and sun-kissed living. She wasn’t jealous – well, no more than any normal person would be – but she did feel as if she was losing out on more than her friend moving away. Perhaps it shone a light on Lola’s own life. She’d never experienced the kind of loving and supportive relationship Mirabel had with Fabs; she’d never been in love with someone she’d considered to be her best friend. What Mirabel had found was what Lola had missed out on – being loved for who she was.

The silence dragged. The heat was oppressive, but it was a little fresher by the water. The only sound was the slap of the sea against the jetty and the distant music from the party dancing on the night air. Laughter cut through the stillness.

Rhys cleared his throat. ‘What you said before about your friends meddling, it’s happened before?’

‘Oh yes, with disastrous consequences.’ She rested back on her hands, leaning on the sand-scuffed boards, and appraised him. ‘You mean you haven’t heard the story about what I got up to at the wedding I went to earlier this year that I willneverlive down?’

‘No, can’t say I have.’

‘Well, that’s refreshing.’

‘Are you going to tell me?’

Lola laughed. ‘Oh, you actually want to know!’

‘Um, yes. You can’t tease me about a story you’re never going to live down, then not give me the juicy details.’

‘It’s pretty gross, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Now you’ve managed to intrigue me even more.’

Lola crossed her legs and leaned her elbows on her knees. Salt spray dampened her skin. ‘My friends, who are all determined to find me a guy, sort of set me up with another poor sod of a singleton at this wedding and we spent most of the day together because we were the only two without plus-ones. We chatted, we drank – a lot – and flirted. Our friends encouraged both the drinking and flirting and it was safe to say we both fancied each other. So, um, later that night, way after the first dance but before the bride and groom were waved off, we took ourselves to a quiet spot outside and made out.’

‘Okay.’ In the moonlight, Lola caught Rhys’s frown. ‘Sounds like an unsurprising outcome.’

‘Yeah, it was all good up till that point. What you have to remember is that I wasverydrunk and I’d done a lot of travelling to get to the wedding, so it was a mortifying combination of travel sickness and drinking too much after eating food that was way too rich. Because I was sick on him right after kissing him.’ Lola put her face in her hands. ‘Actually, kissing him was what made me sick.’

‘Oh, wow, that is bad.’

‘It got worse.’

‘What on earth could be worse than that?’

‘I’m glad you’re finding this amusing.’ She pursed her lips, but her own rising giggles made her realise that it was funny as well as mortifying. ‘Me being sick made him sick and he puked on my shoes. Let me tell you, diamanté heels with the contents of a three-course dinner all over them is not a good look. Neither is a pale grey suit and white shirt after I’d been drinking red wine. We had the look of horror movie characters nailed. He was annoyed, like out-of-his mind incensed – he’d invited me up to his room to, um, continue somewhere a little more private when I puked. If you’re not aware of what the biggest turn-off is, then someone inviting you to “come up to my room for a bit of nookie” followed by being sick on them is it.’

Rhys reined back a laugh. ‘And he was really sick because you were sick?’

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