only one frigging tow-truck.’ With a face like thunder he slides on to the barstool next to me.
‘Maybe we can call a cab,’ I suggest.
‘Oh, silly me! Why didn’t I think of that?’ He thumps his forehead in a sarcastic ‘eureka’ moment.
‘I was only trying to help,’ I reply archly.
‘Well, don’t,’ he deadpans. ‘There’s, like, one cab service on the island and it’s busy. We’re just going to have to wait.’
‘So, what can I get you guys to drink?’ interrupts the barman cheerfully.
‘A vodka tonic, please,’ I say, thankful of the interruption.
‘Make that two,’ says Nate gruffly.
The barman moves away and there’s an ugly silence. I cast around for something to say. ‘Oh, by the way, some woman called the room for you this morning,’ I remember. What with everything that’s happened today, it had totally slipped my mind. ‘She didn’t leave a message.’
‘Huh, it was probably Jennifer, my real-estate agent,’ he tuts. ‘That woman’s like my stalker.’
You mean Jennifer who you were shaking hands with earlier and chatting to about under-floor heating, I’m tempted to point out, but I’m not going to go there. Instead I steer clear of his bad mood and, noticing ‘Fisherman’s Blues’ has finished and the bar has fallen silent, ask, ‘Do you have any change for the jukebox?’
‘Fishy tplly.0“> height=”0“ width=”14“ align=”justify">For a moment he looks as if he’s going to make a sarcastic comment. Then, seeming to think better of it, he reluctantly digs in his pockets and holds out some quarters.
‘Thanks.’ I force a bright voice and, leaving him sitting at the bar, dive off to the jukebox. I feel a wave of relief to be away from him. He’s in a foul mood.
For the next five minutes I browse the playlist and choose songs. It’s really quite fun. There are some absolute classics on here: the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Sister Sledge . . . and ‘You’re So Vain’ by Carly Simon. I love that song! Humming away to myself, I pick some of my all-time favourites and then make my way back to the bar.
And Nate, who’s sitting by himself, nursing his drink and scowling at his iPhone, as if willing it to work. ‘So what did you choose?’ he grumbles, looking up.
‘Oh, a bunch of stuff,’ I say vaguely, and reach for my drink. Boy, do I need this. Dispensing with the straw, I take a large gulp . . . and nearly choke as vodka blasts my tonsils. Wow, I always forget how strong the drinks are in the States compared to back home.
‘Like what?’ he persists.
‘Wait and see,’ I reply, refusing to be drawn. No doubt he will hate all my music and take great pleasure in telling me so. I don’t like his taste either, though. Last time I was at his penthouse he was playing Hootie and the Blowfish.
I wait expectantly for the jukebox to start playing. I’m not sure what order my songs will go in. Oh, here we go. I hear the opening chords of a song strike up. Violins start blasting. Great. The Verve, ‘Bittersweet Symphony’. One of my favourites. Only, hang on, this isn’t the Verve. Isn’t this—
‘INXS?’ snorts Nate derisively.
‘What? I didn’t choose this,’ I say in confusion, as Michael Hutchence starts singing.
‘You must have,’ retorts Nate.
‘No, I didn’t.’ I shake my head. ‘There must be some mix-up. The jukebox must be faulty.’
Nate looks at me, quite obviously not believing me. ‘Jesus, I hate this song,’ he complains.
‘Really? I love it,’ I retort. Still, it’s really weird. I honestly didn’t choose this . . . Suddenly a thought stirs. ‘Wait a minute, what’s this song called?’
‘Erm . . .’ Nate crinkles his brow.
‘“Never Tear Us Apart”,’ says the barman from across the bar.
Nate and I exchange looks as goose bumps prickle my arms.
‘Talk about apt,’ he mutters.
‘Yeah, isn’t it,’ I murmur, feeling a shiver running up my spine as Michael Hutchence belts out the lyrics. What? Even the jukebox is in on this now?
‘I’m beginning to feel like nothing can tear us apart,’ he adds, through a mouthful of ice.
‘Me too.’ I nod.
‘It’s like we’re stuck together.’ He sighs gloomily, staring into his drink. ‘For eternity.’
My ears prick up. ‘Did you say “eternity”?’
‘Well, it sure feels like it, doesn’t it?’ he says, taking a slug of his drink.
I look at him. Suddenly my heart is thumping like a piston. I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything. ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that . . .’
‘Is it?’