Page 50 of Love from Pretty Beach

B y the end of the afternoon, Darby was not sure what to think about the tiramisu incident.

There was one good thing that had happened, though: the courtyard looked completely different.

She’d finished the jet washing and struggled to move terracotta pots around until she’d grouped them beautifully and now, instead of a weed-covered courtyard area, she had bay tree-filled pots and clean bricks.

She’d planted some lavender in other pots and after jet washing the white cast iron table and chairs, everything looked a trillion times better.

Sitting on top of the table, a small clustering of white pots held hyacinths, and she had even strung bunting she had found in the hospice shop from the porch to the tree in the corner.

Overall, her effort had resulted in a job well done.

As she finished pushing and moving the pots around, she continued to think about Archie and the tiramisu and had wondered whether or not she had done the wrong thing.

It was too late now, though, so rather than dwell on it, she’d put her head down and carried on with the job in hand.

After the courtyard was finished and Darby was exhausted by the day’s work, she decided she would stroll along to the pub.

Not able to face cooking anything, she opted to throw caution to the wind and go out.

Whatever their Locals Only dish was, she would have it.

A meal for one and a nice glass of wine or gin would do her well.

She’d also decided, after videoing her progress in the courtyard garden, that the footage of her strolling along to the pub after her day’s work would be a good ending to the storytelling of her video.

One of the things she hadn’t realised about videos was that actually making them was quite creative, and she was enjoying more and more the storytelling side of it.

As her videos had increased and she’d learnt a bit more about what she was doing, she’d relished being artistic, adding audio clips here and there and watching the story unfold in front of her.

Therefore, she’d decided that a stroll to the pub would kill two birds with one stone.

She’d be fed and watered and she’d be able to finish her story.

After putting the jetwash away and not even bothering to get changed, she had a quick wash and was soon strolling along the lane, videoing for a couple of minutes on her way to the pub.

Once inside, she took a seat at the bar, scanned the menu for the Locals Only dish, ordered it and a large gin and tonic.

It had been the best decision and as she watched the video back and then took some more footage of the pub, she was actually quite enjoying herself.

Musing on what had happened with Archie, she nodded.

Actually, she was pleased with her reaction.

There was no way she was just going to say yes to a man who thought he could click his fingers and do whatever he wanted with her by way of tiramisu.

She simply had way too much self-respect for that. At least, that’s what she told herself.

After drinking her gin, ordering another one and then thoroughly enjoying her fish and chips, she took an intake of breath as the door opened.

In walked Archie. Of course he did. On the far side of the bar, she turned, hoping he wouldn’t see her.

Her hopes were dashed. He ordered a pint and came to stand beside her.

‘How’s the tiramisu?’

‘Funny.’

‘You’re not going to forgive me?’

‘I am not.’

‘Come on. I’m worth it.’ Archie joked.

Darby stared into her gin and tonic, watching the ice cubes bob against a slice of lime. The second drink had definitely taken the edge off her day, though whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. She could smell him. ‘Let’s leave it.’

'I brought you tiramisu.’

'You brought me tiramisu and then told me I was an entitled blow-in who thinks the place exists for my entertainment. One rather cancelled out the other.'

Archie winced. 'I shouldn't have said that.'

'But you did say it and I suspect you meant it, too.'

Archie turned his pint glass in slow circles on the bar.

Darby had no idea where the conversation was going to go.

Part of her was secretly enjoying herself.

Someone at a nearby table was explaining the intricacies of local fishing regulations to his companion and the fruit machine in the corner kept playing its electronic tune every few minutes.

Archie held one hand up. 'I was angry about the video.’

'So you mentioned. What I don't understand is why you were quite so angry about appearing in a blurry video that most people wouldn't even notice.'

'It was the assumption.'

Darby frowned. 'What assumption?'

'That you could just film me and put me online without asking. That my privacy didn't matter.'

The gin was making Darby feel both more relaxed and more confrontational, an interesting combination.

'It was the Night Markets, Archie. You weren't exactly hiding in your bedroom.

I'm struggling to understand why a grown man would get quite so worked up about appearing in the background of someone's video about buying cheese and listening to folk music. '

‘I told you I don't do social media and then you put me in your content without even thinking to ask.'

'You weren't identifiable.'

'I was to people who know me.'

Darby could hear her own heartbeat. ‘I am sorry about not asking. I should have checked with you before posting anything.'

'Thank you.'

'But you were still horrible to me in the street.'

'I was.'

'And you called me entitled.'

'I did.'

Darby turned to look at him. 'Are you going to apologise for that bit?'

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So, what now? Do we pretend this never happened? Do we go back to polite nods when we pass each other in the street? Do you continue to avoid me whilst working thirty feet from my front door?'

'I haven't been avoiding you. I brought you cake.'

'Before that. You absolutely have been avoiding me. I saw you duck behind a van the other day when I came out of my gate. I just want to know where we stand so I can plan accordingly.'

'Plan accordingly?'

'Pretty Beach isn't exactly vast. We're bound to keep running into each other.'

'We could try being friends again.'

Darby nearly snorted into her gin. 'Friends! You are not a friend! We slept together multiple times. We’ve had dinners and conversations and you cooked for me and I have spent nights at your house.

I don't think we can just rewind to being anything like friends.

Are you actually kidding me? It doesn't work that way.

At least, not for me.' Darby narrowed her eyes.

Was he genuinely asking to be friends, or was he saying that so that if and when the occasion arose or when he was bored or lonely, he'd have someone to sleep with occasionally? Her track record with men suggested the latter was more likely. ‘Sorry, I don’t do friends.’

‘What do you do?’

Darby realised how much more it was for her than friendship. She wouldn't be telling him that. ‘What I am saying is it’s all or nothing. I’m not half-assing around with friendship when I basically jumped into bed with you way too quickly. Nah, not happening. No.’

'So, what are you suggesting, exactly?'

‘I don’t know.’

‘How about I buy you another gin and tonic?’

'Even though I'm an entitled blow-in, who thinks the coast exists for my entertainment?'

Darby picked up her gin and finished it.

The sensible part of her brain, the part that had learned caution through years of disappointment, was telling her to politely decline and walk away.

She'd already been hurt once by this man, and there was no guarantee it wouldn't happen again.

But the gin-influenced part of her brain, the part that remembered how good it had felt to laugh with someone and wake up next to someone and have someone to text when she saw something funny, was telling her to open the door. Wide.

Darby looked at him, this man who had made her happier than she'd been in years and then hurt her more than she'd expected to be hurt.

The sensible thing would be to say goodnight and go home alone, to take things slowly and see how they went.

But the gin and the warmth of the pub and the way he was looking at her told her to go for her life.

'I suppose I should try the forty-pound tiramisu. For research purposes.'

'Trust me, that tiramisu will be worth it.’