Page 11 of The Last Night in London
There was something in his voice that made me look away, feeling as if I’d just been scolded.
“Why did you decide to become a freelance journalist? At university, you and your camera were never apart. I thought you wanted to be a famous photographer.”
“I did. Once. And I still love taking pictures—I actually brought my Hasselblad with me, and I’ll take photographs of Precious and the clothes for inspiration. I know Arabella will use the magazine’s professionals for anything that will go in the actual issue. But I still love photography—can’t really imagine ever stopping.” I took another sip of my coffee, feeling the steam brush my nose. “I guess atsome point I realized that the written word is sometimes needed to complete the story that a photograph has begun.”
I allowed a smile to creep across my face. “I’m surprised you remembered that about me.” I’d almost used the word “embarrassed.” Not because he had remembered so much, but because I hadn’t remembered very much about him. That had been intentional. Because there was a lot about Colin Eliot that I’d wanted to remember and hold on to. Or would have if life was different and I was meant to have long-lasting relationships.
“Like I said, I have a good memory.” As if to change the subject, he said, “I forgot to mention—there are several boxes containing miscellaneous items that belonged to my grandmother Sophia stored at my parents’ town house in Cadogan Gardens. Papers and letters, maybe a few photographs—that sort of thing. Arabella thought they might be helpful for your article.”
I nodded eagerly. “Definitely. They could provide some background for the era. When can I go collect them?”
“It would be easier if I brought them here—I still have my ancient Land Rover.”
I smiled in surprise. “I remember that—your parents gave it to you when you went to university. And it was practically prehistoric back then, right?” An old memory hit me. “I remember being driven back to my room more than once from the local pub. You were always the designated driver, I think.” I stared at him, recalling something else. “Did you drink?”
He reached for my empty mug and turned his back to refill it so I couldn’t see his expression. “Someone had to be sober. You couldn’t even manage a pint before your knees went soft. You’re also rather talkative when you’ve been drinking.”
“I am?”
“Quite,” he said, facing me again and returning my now-full mug. “You once accused me of being a misogynist for carrying you up to your room when your feet didn’t seem to be working properly.”
“I don’t remember any of that. What else did I say?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking. “You talked a lot about someone named Rob. You’d been engaged, I believe.”
The light seemed to dim in the kitchen, but I knew it had nothing to do with the ceiling fixture or the clouds outside. The gloom came from inside of me, from the dark place that I liked to keep hidden. Until someone said something and dimmed the light.
“I told you that?” I asked, my voice sounding thick and unnatural.
“Yes, you did.”
I turned away, spotting a small fishbowl on the counter by the sink, two fat goldfish swimming around inside, happily oblivious that they were headed right back to the place they’d started. “We broke it off.”
“I gathered.”
“He’s married now with a baby girl. He has my dad’s old job teaching English at the high school and coaching the football team.”
“And that’s not the sort of life you wanted.”
I slid my chair back and stood before rinsing my empty mug in the sink. “No,” I said softly.
Colin didn’t ask why, as if he knew I wouldn’t say any more. He joined me at the sink and placed his mug next to mine. “Well, then. I need to get to work. George is with Laura and Oscar, and Arabella will be here soon. I’ll see you later this evening.”
I nodded, not ready to meet his eyes, waiting for the light to return to my own.
He paused in the doorway. “Look. Madison.” He cleared his throat. “I’m about as thrilled at this situation as you are. Should we just make a truce to be on our best behavior so you can do your job and be done?”
“Sure. Of course.” I nodded like a bobblehead, unable to stop. The tension between us hummed like unseen radar, bouncing against our invisible walls. I needed to make it stop, or I’d never be able to focus.
“So... ,” he began.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, feeling the need to clear the air so thatthe little ball of guilt didn’t clog my throat every time I looked at him.
He raised an eyebrow.
“For not saying good-bye. I don’t like good-byes, so I avoid them. It wasn’t personal. And to be honest, I didn’t really think you’d notice.”
“Duly noted,” he said. “And apology accepted.” He didn’t smile, but at least he wasn’t frowning at me anymore.
