if he thinks I’m coming on to him? What if he’s – I swallow hard as panic begins knotting my stomach – horny?
As the terrifying thought strikes, so does another: What if Kate’s been right all along and he is trying to get back with me?
Oh shit, I know . . .Quickly remembering the Strategy, I stuff my finger up my nostril and start picking my nose, just to be on the safe side. I needn’t have worried, though. A look of terror flashes across his face and immediately he scuttles as far as possible to his side of the bed.
‘Well, night,’ I say, forcing myself to sound all breezy.
‘Um . . .yeah, night,’ he says gruffly.
I glance across at him. He’s pulled up the covers tightly around his chin and is lying teetering on the far side of the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief, I remove my finger from my nostril. Thank goodness. For a horrible moment there I thought I was going to have to eat it.
Shuddering, I turn off the light.
It’s going to be a long thirty-six hours.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When I wake up the next morning, I find myself alone in bed.
He’s gone!
For a split second joy pierces my heart like a silver bullet. Kate, you star! You were right! The Strategy worked! Overjoyed, I spread out starfish wide, relishing the feeling of space, freedom, triumph.
His suitcase. It’s still here. Shit.
Feeling a clunk of dismay, I stare at it resentfully, before peeling back the covers and climbing out of bed. Oh well, like he said, it’s only for a couple of days. It’s not like it’s for ever.
Or so you hope, reminds the voice of doom in my head.
Oh, shut up.
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. Reaching over, I pick up. ‘Hello?’
There’s a brief pause and then a female voice says briskly, ‘Oh, I must have been put through to the wrong room. I’m sorry to bother you.’
‘No worries.’ I stifle a yawn. ‘What room do you want?’
‘Um . . .’ I can hear the rustle of papers. ‘I believe it’s the shell room.’
‘No, you’ve got the right room.’
‘Oh . . .’ She sounds confused. ‘I was looking for Nathaniel Kennedy.’
‘You mean Nate? He’s already gone out—’ I suddenly have a thought and break off. ‘Hang on. He might be in the shower . . .’ Putting down the phone, I quickly jump out of bed and try the bathroom door handle to see if it’s locked. It’s not, and the bathroom is empty. ‘No, sorry. Can I take a message?’
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
‘Or you can try him on his cell phone. Do you have his number . . .? Hello?’
She’s hung up. I feel a snap of annoyance. I hate it when people do that. It’s so rude.
I stare at the receiver for a moment, feeling rankled, then determinedly shoving all thoughts of Nate and his rude friends out of my brain, I put it back on the cradle and dash into the bathroom. I have my big meeting with Artsy this morning. I can’t be thinking about anything but that, I remind myself, as I quickly shower and get ready.
Nerves twist in my stomach. According to the article I read on the plane, he’s described as ‘an eccentric recluse’, which, having dealt with lots of artists, is most likely the journalist’s polite way of saying he’s difficult, unfriendly and completely weird.
And I have to make friends and persuade him to show at the gallery, I think, giving up on my hair and rushing outside to my waiting taxi. Considering no one has yet managed to do this, it’s not going to be easy. Perhaps impossible, I brood, thinking about Magda and how she’s pinning all her hopes on this meeting.
The cab pulls out of the drivù€ut of the‹€rivù€ut eway, and as it heads along the coastal road towards Aquinnah, the most remote part of the island, at the southwestern tip, I can feel my spirits sinking to my default setting of Mancunian pessimism. My mind runs along ahead to a terrible meeting, unsuccessful outcome and breaking the news to Magda that I’ve failed, it’s all over, she’s out of a home and I’m out of a job.
Whoa!!!!
Screeching the brakes on my negativity, I quickly try to rally. This is no good at all. I can’t turn up with that attitude. I’m supposed to be cheerful, hopeful, positive. Just the fact that Magda managed to get Artsy to agree to a