Page 21 of The Man Who Didn't Call
‘It feels like the most extraordinary act of providence – there I was, sitting on the village green, talking to a sheep – and you just marched into my life, as if you’d been waiting in the wings for a cue. And then you came to the pub, and you . . . liked me.’ He smiled. ‘Or at least you seemed to.’
‘Very much.’ I reached round and slid my hand into his shorts pocket. ‘Very much indeed.’
Outside, the song of a blackbird fluted down from a branch. We both turned to listen.
‘Final time,’ he said. He handed me a flower of hawthorn blossom from the pot on his windowsill. Spring had been slow, and the flowers were still blanketed across the trees like Eton Mess. ‘Final time. Should I cancel my holiday?’
‘You should not,’ I made myself say. I twirled the tiny stem between my fingers. ‘Go and have a wonderful time. Forward me your flight details and I’ll be at Gatwick a week today.’
‘You’re right.’ He sighed. ‘I must go on this holiday, and I must actually enjoy it. Normally I’d be over the moon at the thought of a week in Tarifa. But I can call you, can’t I? From Spain? I don’t care about the cost. Let me take your mobile number, and numbers for everyone you’re likely to be near until I can see you again. We can FaceTime. Or Skype. And talk.’
I laughed, squinting through cracks to put my number in his mangled old phone. ‘It looks like you’ve driven over this on a tractor,’ I said, putting the little sprig of blossom on the windowsill.
‘Put in the landline at your parents’ house,’ he said. ‘And the landline where you’re staying in London. What’s your friend’s name? Tommy? Put his address in, too, so I can send you a postcard. Although you’re going up to Leicester to see your granddad first, aren’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Well, give me his number and address, too.’
I laughed. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to end up on the phone to Granddad.’
I handed back his phone.
‘Let’s make friends on Facebook, too.’ He opened his Facebook and typed in my name. ‘Is this you? Standing on a beach?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Very Californian.’ He looked at me and my stomach pitched. ‘Oh, Sarah Mackey, you’re lovely.’
He bent down and kissed my shoulder. He kissed the crook of my elbow. The pulse at the bottom of my neck. He pulled my hair up and kissed my spine as it dropped into my vest.
‘I’m crazy about you,’ he said.
I closed my eyes and smelled him. His skin, his clothes, the soap we’d used in the shower. I couldn’t imagine surviving without this for seven days. And as much as I’d loved Reuben, I had never seen separation from him as a matter of survival.
‘I feel the same.’ I held him tightly. ‘But I think you know that. I’ll miss you. A lot.’
‘And I’ll miss you.’ He kissed me again, pushing my hair back off my face. ‘Look, when I get back, I want to introduce you to my friends and my mother.’
‘Great.’
‘And I want to meet your parents, and your British friends, and your terrifying granddad, if he ends up coming to stay.’
‘Of course.’
‘And we’ll work out what to do from there, but it’ll involve us being together somehow, somewhere.’
‘Yes. You, me and Mouse.’ I slid my hand back into his pocket, felt the little wooden key ring.
He paused. Then: ‘Take her,’ he said. He pulled out his keys. ‘Keep her safe until I get back. I’m always scared of losing her on the beach. She means a lot to me.’
‘No! I can’t take your lovely Mouse. Don’t be mad . . .’
‘Take her,’ he insisted. ‘Then we know we’ll see each other again.’
He placed Mouse in my palm. I looked at her jetty eyes, then at Eddie’s.
‘OK.’ I closed my fingers around her. ‘If you’re sure?’
