Page 46 of One More Day
‘The one on the bedside locker,’ she continues. ‘He’s a lazy sod most of the time but he does like to chew things if they take his fancy, so there’s no other way to say this. He shredded the book to pieces.’
Now it all makes sense.
‘I was loving that book! I was wondering where—’
‘I ordered a new one to this address for you this morning, so hopefully it will be here by tomorrow. I’m so sorry! Dogs, eh?’
Well, at least I’m not going totally round the bend. I spent ages last night looking for that book in every corner of the bedroom.
‘I suppose this makes us even,’ I say to Rose, as beads of sweat form on my forehead even though the house is only just about lukewarm at this time of the morning.
My head is spinning a little.
‘I suppose we are, yes.’
‘Or the dogs are even. But either way, let’s draw a line under this and move on with our arrangements.’
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘Back to texting. And late-night notes on the fridge door.’
For a few seconds we stand there like two gladiators in a ring, staring at each other with our mouths tight and our stance tighter, then the washing machine lets out a loud whoosh which makes us both jump.
I look at the bra, whirring around on its own in a blur of turquoise lace. It is a very nice piece of underwear, I must admit.
My eyes catch Rose’s. She smiles with a look that goes right through me, like a bolt of lightning. I blink, trying to unsee the images that are now running through my head. I tell myself it’s only the unexpected encounter with her soft touch and her underwear that has stirred me up like this.
‘I’m going to go have a shower,’ I mumble to Rose, who is now fetching a cup for her own morning coffee as if nothing happened. ‘The coffee can wait. Have a lovely day.’
Chapter Thirteen
Rose
When Charlie finally leaves the cottage after breakfast, I spend the day reading a juicy romance by the blazing fire with George by my feet, glad to be swept up in a fictional world where old memories are in another faraway parallel universe, if only for a few hours.
Every now and then I’ll think of the whole bra episode and I’ll giggle to myself, remembering the fearful look on Charlie’s face, and the desperate attempts we are both making to stay out of each other’s way.
You’ll be glad to know I don’t need reimbursement. It’s as good as new after the wash.
I don’t want any tension between us, so I thought I’d put his mind at ease. I’ve no idea where he is today, but it’s a lot easier when we’re not here at the same time. In fact, the peace when I’m here alone is glorious. The fire is lit, a flurry of snow sits on the windowpane, and with only a snoring George and the tick tock of the clock, I’m finally beginning to unwind and enjoy my time here.
My phone bleeps. It’s Charlie.
Great. My dog likes bras, yours likes books. They both have excellent taste.
The afternoon slips in and I enjoy some hot soup for lunch, and after an enjoyable stretch of the legs around the forest I’m back by the warmth of the fire with my book, but I can’t concentrate. My mind drifts back to a memory I’ve been desperately avoiding of how Michael and I had dreamed of spending a romantic weekend here, but I’d never got round to making it happen. I never had the courage to ask Rusty if I could stay here until now, but I know it would have been perfect.
I imagine how we’d have laughed, cooked and danced in the kitchen. I imagine how we’d have shared meals around the little wooden table, how we’d have cosied up in the local pub or by the fire in the cottage, locked away from the world as it snowed down outside.
Some days it seems like he’s been gone forever. Some days it feels like only yesterday.
George barks at a bird on the windowsill which is enough to shake me out of my daydream, and when I follow his gaze outside I notice how the sun has already melted most of the snow today, which means I really should go out and get some more fresh air instead of staying here cooped up indoors with only my over-running imagination for company.
I haven’t ventured down to the lighthouse just yet. I’m not ready to do so, as I know once I walk around I’ll be overcome with memories of happier times with Michael.
It was a tradition we’d stumbled upon one New Year’s Eve when we’d set off on a road trip on our first year together. We kept it going every December 31st after that, for two more years until our time together was up.
‘My Granny Molly used to come here to put the world to rights when she was little,’ I’d told him, and it sparked off an idea to share some of our own resolutions.
The following year we made a little ceremony of it, all wrapped up in our winter woollies with a shot of whiskey in a hip flask to keep us warm. I remember the bitter cold wind stinging my fingertips as I rustled in my bag for my own handwritten resolutions while Michael waited with his in his hands. His writing was so individual, and I knew he’d spent quite a while preparing his with the greatest thoughts and intentions.
