Page 29 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘In that case, send her something to read and give yourself a break.’

‘I don’t want to send anything at all until I’m sure of what I’m doing,’ he says.

‘You’re still not sure?’ I’m shocked. ‘But if you’ve written loads . . . well . . . what happens if you’re not sure?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘If you send it to her, won’t she be able to tell you whether it’s OK?’

‘I’ve taken a fresh approach. Maybe I need fresh criticism.’

‘Surely if it’s good it’s good,’ I say.

‘You’re so naïve. Come on.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Come on where?’

‘With me.’

He pulls me towards the pathway. There’s an unexpected firmness in his grasp; I feel the dryness of his palm and a surge of electricity between us. Not sexual electricity. He’s old enough to be my father. (Although not really. Dad is sixty-five. According to Wikipedia, Charles is nearly fifty.) Nevertheless, there’s a connection that’s real. I don’t know if Charles feels it too.

He pushes open the white gate that leads to his private villa, then slides the patio doors apart and shows me inside

It’s gorgeous, all marble tiles, modern furniture and mood lighting. The sort of decor I’d love to have in my own house, if only I could afford a place of my own. There’s also a small kitchen, divided from the living area by a granite counter. Charles’s laptop is perched on top, still open. There’s a pile of printed paper beside it.

‘I get the hotel to print out the draft every day,’ he tells me.

‘I’d’ve thought it’d be safer to read it onscreen,’ I remark, remembering the incident in the cove.

‘I like to see hard copy,’ he says. Then he thrusts the top pages at me. ‘Here.’

‘You want me to read it?’ I look at him in astonishment. ‘Your actual book?’

‘Not the entire book,’ he says. ‘The first chapter.’

‘This is what you were working on in the cove?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Well, yes. But I’ve reworked it.’

I take the pages from him and sit on the comfortable sofa.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ says Charles.

‘Decaf,’ I tell him. ‘Otherwise I’ll be awake all night.’

He says nothing, but busies himself with the machine.

I look at the first page and begin to read.

I’m still reading when he brings the coffee and puts it on the glass-topped table in front of me. I glance up, but carry on until I finish the chapter.

‘Well?’ he asks.

‘Not bad.’

‘Not bad!’ He sounds affronted. ‘Just not bad?’

‘It’s very different to Winter’s Heartbreak.’