‘There’s not much to do; we kind of make our own busy, but I think that’s what people love – the quiet.’ She kept her voice low. It was the truth, and yet thousands of people flocked there every summer, as if wanting to confirm this for themselves; thousands of people who wanted to escape the cities and spend a fortnight making their own busy too. ‘Unless you like the sea and boats and fish.’
‘I don’t. Not particularly. Much to the annoyance of my dad, who is a bit boat crazy, always talking about his adventures on the high seas.’
‘So what do you like?’ She shook her head, trying to make her hair fall alluringly over her shoulder. This, too, she had practised in front of the mirror in the bathroom.
‘In no particular order, I like fast cars, ice cream and tennis’ – he held the racket up – ‘and sleeping and the works of Thomas Hardy, not his novels, although yes, those too, but his poetry.’ He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, as if inhaling the words in his memory, as if they were soft cake or a good soup. ‘Do you read Hardy?’
Digby Mortimer thought she was a girl who might read Hardy! She felt like his equal, this rich boy who had all of life’s advantages.
‘I don’t really read much at all. Or play tennis, and I’ve never been in a fast car. But I do like ice cream.’ She latched on to the one thing she could relate to.
‘Then we should eat ice cream together. For sure. Let’s do that today . . . let’s find a place and sit and eat ice cream, even if it rains. We can find a spot to shelter and wait for the sunshine. If you’d like?’
Merrin squeaked and nodded, like a compliant mouse, but one who wanted nothing more than to sit with him and wait for the sunshine. ‘Merrin?’ her mum called from inside the house. ‘You cleaned that downstairs lav yet?’
Again she shook her head, as if her shimmering locks could distract him from her mother’s shout.
Even now the memory of that spark, that attraction, was enough to ripple through her loss like warmth, like happiness. With a muddle of thoughts and her blood sugar low, she pushed on up the path towards Reunion Point and . . . and there he was . . .
Her brain, it seemed, had not caught up with the disastrous events of the day, and the sight of his broad back hunched inside his linen shirt sent a shiver of longing deep into her core, which was at once both harrowing and confusing. Her shoulders sagged with the familiar feeling of relief at seeing him.
Slipping off her trainers, she let them dangle from her fingers as she took a moment to push her toes into the spongy grass beneath her feet, instantly anchoring her, allowing her to feel connected to something bigger than what was happening between her and Digby. The perfect distraction from the fact that a few dozen mini trifles were at that very moment probably spoiling, and the dainty hand-made chocolates with their piped initials had no doubt been abandoned on the edge of warming saucers.
‘We are doing this once, Merry, and if Mademoiselle wants hand-crafted chocolat, then Mademoiselle shall have it!’
Not that the detail mattered; none of it did. Her only preoccupation was sorting things out with the man she loved and figuring out what forces had been at play to bring them to this point. There was one thing of which she was certain: what they shared was recoverable, it had to be; it was her whole future. The strength of their love was enough to overcome just about anything. The way she felt at the sight of him enough to confirm this.
Ridiculously, she felt shy about calling out his name, this man with whom she had shared her body, her love and her dreams for her future. The man with whom she had run through a list of possible baby names and then giggled with delight at the absurdity that it was even under contemplation.
‘Horatio? You have got to be kidding me!’ she had howled.
Digby Mortimer, who she loved with a strength that made the consideration of a life without him a painful thing. Her stomach bunched and the breath caught in her throat. She did her best to swallow the sickness that again threatened.
As she drew closer he seemed to sense her presence and turned his head. His expression was hard to fathom: nervous, certainly; upset, possibly. Either way, he carried the air of a stranger and this fact alone was enough to cleave her heart in two. His face didn’t break into a smile at the sight of her and his eyes didn’t glaze with longing. The biggest shock was how quickly this change had occurred.
Instead of reaching out for him – Merrin felt, even in such a short amount of time, as if she had lost that privilege – she sat down next to him awkwardly, wearing a cloak of embarrassment, buttoned with grief, and folded her hands in her lap. Close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he so desired, but not so close that they were automatically touching, which had always been their default position, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, hand in hand, her head resting on his shoulder, her foot on his leg, her mouth seeking his. She missed him already, missed what had slipped through their fingers.
It was easier to talk to him if she kept her eyes trained over the water, concentrating on the breaking waves, the shifting clouds, the boats bobbing on the horizon – anything other than his face and the suggestion of betrayal that glinted in his eyes. Her loss was complete, her pain physical and her spirits sank lower than she knew was possible. There was one fleeting second when she peered at the waves cavorting over the jagged rocks and recognised the unpalatable, brief thought that to jump and land among them might bring an end to this misery.
‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ Her words coasted out on a burble of nervous laughter.
‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ His tone was short, alienating her further still.
She waited, hoping he might say more, and when he didn’t, she drew on every bit of strength she could muster and took the lead. ‘It’s been the most terrible day . . .’ She whispered the understatement.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you, erm . . . did you get nervous?’ She’d hoped he’d speak freely, and she resented the fact that she was having to prise answers from him. ‘Was that it?’ She hated the note of hope in her question, knowing that she needed answers, no matter how painful.
She didn’t have to be looking at him to see him shaking his head in her peripheral vision, and awareness of this slowly pulled the plug of hope from her gut.
‘I . . . I just don’t understand,’ she began.
‘It’s complicated.’ He swallowed.
‘It’s not really, though, is it? Or at least it shouldn’t be.’ She cleared her throat, her spit thickened with nerves. ‘You asked me to marry you. You told me you loved me. We planned the wedding. I put on a massive frock and you didn’t show up.’
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know if I can deal with this.’
‘You don’t know if you can deal with it?’ She felt the first flash of anger and it cracked open her kindness and her desire to figure this out civilly. Maybe Bella was right: the reason he hadn’t shown was because he was a coward and a knob. But if this were true, she felt diminished by the fact, knowing he was her great love and that she had picked him to marry. ‘You don’t have a choice, Digby! You can’t do something so bloody awful to me and hope it all just goes away! You have to deal with it. This is Port Charles, not London – I can’t hide away or lie low until it blows over! This is a tiny place and what you have done to me is big news.’ Her chest heaved at this truth. Everyone would be talking . . . everyone . . . It was a thought as monstrous as it was unbearable.