Page 95 of Coming Home to Wishington Bay
The following few weeks went by in a blur of painting, clearing and design, all heavily laced through with large doses of Hot Australian Doctor. Sally had loved the pieces I’d created and wanted those as well as the ones from the guest room I’d shown her. Laughing, I’d had to tell her that those ones weren’t for sale, not just yet anyway. That would all depend on if I sold the house furnished or not. But that wasn’t something I wanted to think about right now.
More and more I was wondering whether selling it was the right thing. Maybe my life didn’t have to be in London. Maybe it really could be down here. I’d have to sort out a job. The house was all paid for and if I sold my flat, I’d certainly have enough for a while but I’d rather have an income and I’d considered renting my flat instead. It was in a good location and I’d always kept it nice, so I knew there’d be no shortage of interest.
But Sally was keen for more pieces, and I’d made a decent profit on the pieces I’d sold her, and then there was Reg who already had a few more clients lined up for me to see with him, as the feedback from the previous couple had been so positive. He’d insisted on paying me this time, doing due diligence as to how much it would cost to hire an interior designer. I’d protested that I’d not had the training some of them had had, but both he and Dotty had dismissed that, saying that a piece of paper didn’t prove anything or make one person better than another. What proved it to them was a happy client, and they were building up quickly on Reg’s books.
The work on the house was nearly done, and I was thrilled with the result. Downstairs was now modern and spacious and social but still had all the character of the Art Deco home in the fittings and features. It was the perfect mix against the wall of glass that was now the back wall, giving an uninterrupted view of the bay. I loved it and I knew that Gigi would have too.
* * *
‘I’m nervous.’
‘Why on earth are you nervous?’
‘Because … I don’t know. I’m just worried that the dinner won’t come out right or the pudding will be soggy or—’
Gabe cut me off with a kiss. ‘It’ll be delicious, as always. Just like you.’
‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘That my real girlfriend was previously a pretend one?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will. I don’t know whether it’ll be tonight.’
‘OK. I feel so relieved I’m not fibbing to them now but I’d sort of prefer it if they knew the whole story just so that I don’t trip over any old fibs.’
‘No, I know. You’re right. They should know. If I don’t do it tonight, I’ll still do it this week, I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ I smiled, reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
‘Coooeeee! Aah, look at the little lovebirds. I hope we haven’t interrupted anything!’ Her laugh was infectious and I was already giggling as I hurried towards her.
‘Martha! George, come in, come in!’
* * *
My nerves were for nothing as dinner went smoothly and the tropical meringue was perfectly crisp on the outside and delightfully chewy on the inside. As we sat with our after-dinner coffees on the sofas, looking out to sea, a warm southerly breeze rustled the leaves of the black bamboo and palms I’d added to the patio.
‘I love this new look you’ve given it, Holly. It’s like a show home!’
‘Thank you! I’m really pleased.’
‘Have you decided if you’ll sell it or not?’
‘Umm, no. Not yet. I’m just enjoying it for the moment.’
‘Just as you should. You’re going to have your work cut out when you look for a house back home now, aren’t you?’ She laughed, turning to Gabe. ‘Holly’s upped the stakes. Still, it’ll be lovely to have something of your own together, that you can put your stamp on.’
Gabe gave a tight smile and a noncommittal shrug, barely lifting his eyes from his cup.
My head was spinning.Back home? What did she mean back home?
‘I have to say we were a bit surprised initially when he talked about coming home. He loves his job at the hospital here, as you know, and it’s such a beautiful area.’
I nodded, struggling to pull my thoughts along, feeling as though I was dragging them through the sea outside. With George and Martha momentarily distracted by the dog, I grabbed the opportunity to exchange a glance with Gabe. Except that I didn’t. His eyes were still firmly fixed on his cup.
Maybe I’d got it wrong? Maybe she just meant that Gabe was looking for a place for when he went back to Australia on visits, instead of staying with his parents. His own flat or something. Some sort of base that he could rent out when he was home. And by home, of course, I meant here. As I’d thought he did. If Gabe had been planning to return to Australia permanently, he would have told me. Not when we were play-acting necessarily, of course. There was no reason for him to have shared much at all with me then, even though he had chosen to.
