Page 47

The flight home was miserable. I tried reading my book, hoping a page-turning thriller would distract me from thoughts of him, but it didn’t work so I stared out the window listening to Lewis Capaldi instead, allowing myself to feel sad.

I walked through Gatwick Airport like a zombie, and the first time I managed a smile all day was when I saw that my mum had surprised me by coming to pick me up so I didn’t have to get a taxi.

When she gave me a hug and I buried my face into her shoulder, I almost cried.

I hate feeling like this.

I decided to give myself a week to be down about it. I would pretend to be shut away in my flat working when I was wallowing in secret, then I would shake off Leo Silva and whatever he’d done to me and go back to being the busy, no-nonsense, positive person I am. That felt like a great plan.

But almost two weeks later and I can’t stop thinking about him.

I’ve done well to hide it, brainstorming ideas that I’ve pitched to various publications and bringing in several commissions, and I’ve plastered on a smile to attend press events and at the pub with friends.

I’ve even managed to find the strength to all but finish the feature, waiting for the results of the contest to add the finishing touches.

That was the hardest thing to do: write about him.

I couldn’t hide away from my feelings then.

And my feelings… they’re muddled, to say the least.

The truth is, there are things I really do miss.

I miss the way he looks at me when I walk in a room, like I’ve just made his day.

I miss how he smiles, the crinkles that appear around the corners of his mouth, and I miss his laugh, the proper one where his whole face lights up.

I miss our conversations, the ones about something and the ones about nothing.

I miss sitting on my balcony writing, the words flowing freely, knowing I would get to see him later that day.

I miss the way he held me, how I felt so secure and warm in his strong arms, so safe there.

I miss kissing him. I miss sleeping with him.

I miss the early mornings as we scrabbled to get ready so he could go surfing, laughing and teasing, both fighting the urge to jump back into bed and lose ourselves there together.

I miss how he made me feel and how he made me laugh.

I miss the fact that for a small period of my life, he made me reckless. I miss him.

He’s been messaging me since I left. At first, they were cute, light-hearted updates, like Meeting Marina and some friends to go surfing this morning, beautiful day for it!

or, I just got coffee from your favourite place.

Jealous? Messages that didn’t go anywhere near addressing the giant elephant in the room, notes I could reply to without having to imply any kind of answer.

But the last couple of days, in the lead up to his trip, they’ve got more meaning behind them.

I can’t stop thinking about you , his message yesterday said.

I replied the truth, because he deserves it:

I can’t stop thinking about you either.

Then I tossed my phone away on the other side of the bed and screamed into my pillow, wishing that things were different.

And now he’s on a plane to Australia. If things were different, then I’d be with him. Instead, I’ve come to Mum’s for lunch to try to distract myself from the constant ache that’s slowly but surely sinking my heart.

Mum, on the other hand, is in a good mood. The house has officially gone on the market and there’s been loads of interest. She’s had an offer already, but after a load of eager viewings yesterday, she’s waiting to see if anyone tops it.

She’s ready to move on.

About ten minutes ago, I presented her with the pages I’ve written on the feature about Leo so far.

If something is really important to me, often I’ll print it out so I can bring it along and ask her to cast her eye over it to check for any glaring errors.

She is thorough and won’t hold back on giving her opinion – she’s great at telling me which paragraphs I’m waffling my way through and which ones need a good chop.

In another life, she would have made a great editor.

‘Iris,’ she says, coming into the living room where I’d retreated to flick through a magazine while she read the feature in the kitchen.

I lower the magazine, my face falling at her expression. It’s hard and serious, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together in such a thin, straight line, they’ve almost disappeared. As she sinks into the armchair opposite me, I sit up straight.

‘You hate it,’ I croak, reading her expression.

She takes a deep breath. ‘No, darling,’ she says. ‘Quite the opposite.’

‘Oh! Phew.’ I heave a sigh of relief, breaking into a smile. ‘Jesus, Mum, it looked like you were going to say something bad then. I know you have a good poker face, but you might want to work on lightening your expression if you’re pleased with something.’

‘I’m pleased with the words, but I’m not sure I’m all too happy with you.’

I blink at her. ‘Huh?’

‘It’s brilliant,’ she reiterates, placing the pages down carefully on the coffee table in front of her. ‘One of the best features you’ve ever written.’

‘Wow. Thanks.’ I hesitate. ‘So why aren’t you happy with me?’

‘Because you lied.’

‘What?’ I look at her in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘When I picked you up at the airport, I could tell something was wrong,’ she recalls, staring me down so intently, I feel like a teenager who’s been caught rifling through her alcohol cabinet – which, incidentally, did happen once or twice.

‘I asked you on the journey home if something had happened, and if you were okay, and you said to me you were fine.’

‘Mum—’

‘Over the past two weeks, when you’ve been moping about the place, I’ve asked you several times if there’s anything wrong, and you’ve said that everything is fine .’

‘Yes, because everything is fine,’ I say with a nervous laugh.

She tilts her head at me. ‘Iris, I’m your mum. You can pretend with everyone else, and most of the time, I’ll pretend along with you if I think that’s the way you want to handle it. But not this time. This time, I’m calling you out.’

I give her a strange look. ‘Okay, what is happening here? I have no idea—’

‘You like this man,’ she says, gesturing to the feature print-out. ‘Don’t you?’

My jaw drops open. I’m stunned into silence.

‘I thought there was something different about the way you talked about him on the phone when you were out there,’ she continues, swiping non-existent dust off the knee of her cream trousers.

‘Something about your voice and your tone, it felt that he was… becoming someone to you. More than an interviewee. You have this wonderful ability to capture the essence of someone in your writing – it’s a real talent, you know – but in this piece, you’ve captured more than that. ’

‘Mum, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I croak, my weak smile wavering.

‘There’s so much heart in this piece,’ she says plainly, causing my breath to catch. ‘Did you fall for this young man, Iris?’

‘No, no, course not.’ I run a hand through my hair.

‘Gosh, if you’re reading all this into it then I have some major editing to do.

I mean, I admire him, sure. He’s an amazing athlete and a really…

a really beautiful surfer.’ I get to my feet to start pacing back and forth, too fidgety to sit still.

‘And you can tell from his quotes that he’s smart and kind – guarded at first, who wouldn’t be?

When you’ve been through what he has. But then, beneath that he’s…

he’s wonderful. A really wonderful person. ’

Mum doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t moved an inch.

She’s watched me tread up and down the room, her back straight, her hands clasped neatly in her lap.

As ever, my mother is unfazed. I, on the other hand, have become flustered, desperate to get out of this conversation.

Putting my hands on my hips, I glance at the clock on the mantlepiece.

‘Anyway, time for lunch? I’m starving,’ I lie, knowing I couldn’t eat a thing.

‘Iris, you told me that I could talk to you about the house and the divorce if I needed,’ Mum says, giving me a stern look.

‘I know that saying things out loud often means accepting them, and that is daunting. But I really appreciated you letting me know that when it came to it, you would be there. I need you to know that that works both ways. So, here I am, sitting in front of you, telling you that it’s okay. ’

‘What is?’

‘To open your heart to someone else.’

I swallow, my chest tightening so badly, I place a hand against it to try to ease the growing anguish. I feel jittery and unsteady. Moving back to the sofa, I lower myself down.

‘If you really don’t want to talk about it, then that’s all right, I understand,’ Mum continues. ‘But if ever you do want to talk to someone, I’m here. And I don’t care how much you deny it,’ she gives me a sly smile, ‘I know you like him.’

I grimace. ‘God.’ Resting my elbows on my knees, I sink my face into my hands. ‘I can’t believe it’s that obvious in the feature. I’ll have to re-write it.’

‘It’s not obvious to anyone but me,’ she assures me.

‘Flora might catch on. But to anyone else, this is a fantastic article about a remarkable person, nothing more. The thing is, I know you, Iris. I know how you write and I know how good you are at keeping a distance. But in this case,’ she sighs, ‘you let yourself go all in.’

‘I’m such a fucking idiot,’ I say, my voice muffled in my palms.

‘ Language ,’ she scolds sharply.

‘Sorry.’ I lower my hands to look up at her with an apologetic smile. ‘Mum, I made a big mistake.’

‘How so?’