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  I take off my makeup and climb into my pyjamas, then open the bedroom windows. The evening is kind of humid, and the city is due some rain. The clouds hang low in the sky, overheating the city and making its inhabitants restless. My Uber driver included. I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I have open in the fridge, then grab my tablet to send my mom an email and a couple of photographs I took while walking around the city the other day.

  Sir Lancelot brings his heavy self to lie on the end of the bed, so I point the remote at the big screen TV on the opposite wall—one of the few things that truly denote that this is a man’s home—as my instructions as dog sitter included Sir L’s preferences for the occasional show on Animal Planet. Seriously.

  And that’s the last thing I know until it’s eight o’ clock in the morning. I seem to have turned the TV off, or maybe it’s set on a timer. Whatever. Because the technology gods have blessed me further this morning as I wake, bleary eyed, to the sound of a text from my phone and something else a little more surprising than that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SADIE

  Wake up, plum. How are you doing? I rub the sleep out of my eyes, smiling as I open Will’s text, though a lingering sense of unease is quick to follow.

  I stretch, then type back my one-word answer. Peachy. As far as answers go, it isn’t a very honest one.

  While there’s a definite peachy quality to your bottom, you’ll always be a plum in my eyes.

  And you’re a fruitcake, I respond.

  Hungover? Great, the man thinks I have a drinking problem.

  Nope. Not one bit, I type back.

  I didn’t drink a lot last night because, as a rule, I’m not a big drinker. Crazy Sadie doesn’t need airing too often. But also, I wanted to maintain a little alert around Ella. Not that she noticed; she was so relaxed, she might as well have been horizontal. But I like her. What you see certainly seems to be what you get. No hidden agenda, in other words.

  Why, are you? I add as an afterthought.

  Unfortunately, no. I’ve been up to my elbows in cervix most of the night.

  Eww! Gross.

  I jump as my phone begins to ring.

  ‘I just thought I’d qualify my previous statement,’ Will’s deep voice purrs. ‘I meant it in the most literal sense, though not in the sexual sense.’ There’s a definite bedroom quality to his voice this morning, despite the subject and the ambient background noise. The wail of an ambulance sounds distantly, the clip and scuff of shoes against the pavement.

  ‘It’s a little too early in the morning for throwing the word cervix into polite conversation, even for a doctor.’

  ‘If I’d truly been up to my elbows in cervix, I’d have very short arms.’

  I laugh. Dammit. Why is it so hard to resist being sucked in by his silliness? His ridiculous sort of charm?

  ‘Whatever tickles your pickle,’ I retort, which, given his words, makes no sense. I rub my eye with the heel of my hand, biting back a yawn.

  ‘My pickle is officially pickled this morning.’ A car alarm beeps, the solid sound of a car door closing following quickly behind. ‘There’s nothing like guiding new life into the world to brighten the dullest of mornings.’ He sounds tired but happy. And I can suddenly imagine him sitting behind the wheel of his car. Maybe his eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the leather headrest, just as he’d been when I lowered my head to his lap.

  I inhale sharply at the memory, a breathless, tingling sort of sensation overcoming the length of me.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ My answer is immediate. ‘It’s just so warm.’ I kick the sheets down to my feet, suddenly overheated. I roll onto my side to face the window and, hopefully, a little air. The sky outside looks pretty dull and grey; the weatherman’s promise of rain undelivered. And worse, it’s almost as humid as it was last night.

  ‘Are you still in bed?’ The low-pitched tone of his voice brings back a rush of memories. Open your legs. Show me what’s mine.

  ‘No comment.’ I frown, forcing myself to sound unaffected.

  ‘Spoilsport.’ Seems I managed on that front.

  ‘Did you call for something in particular, not that it isn’t wonderful to hear you talk shop and cervix before breakfast. Or should that be cervixes?’

  ‘I did want something in particular. I wondered if you were hungover and if I could offer you a little of the hair of the dog that bit you. Or maybe just a little of the dirty dog that wants to bite you. All over. Repeatedly. Little nibbles and sucking marks all over your pale skin.’

  ‘Delivering babies makes you hard?’ I ask oh, so reasonably. Okay, taunt.

  ‘No, thinking about you makes me hard.’ He sighs. ‘But if I can’t interest you in being my breakfast, I wondered if you’d like to meet me for breakfast.’

  I want to say yes because, apart from making me feel desirable, spending time with Will is fun. Mostly. And in a lot of respects, it’s a little like walking Sir Lancelot. As long as I keep the lead tight, I don’t get humped too many times.

  But I also need to remind myself that we’re on a timeline. And the more I see of him, the harder it might be to leave him in the end. And then there’s what Ella said last night. Will’s background just blows my mind.

  ‘Have you gone back to sleep?’ Will’s teasing tone brings me back to the phone in my hand.

  ‘No, I was just thinking about what I have to do today.’ Which is nothing. I’m on vacation. ‘Could we rain check on breakfast?’

  ‘That’s fine. I should probably go home and get some rest. I look so devilishly handsome in my scrubs and bristled chin, you probably would’ve dragged me out of the café and into your bed. And I do need my beauty sleep.’

  ‘Because I absolutely can’t resist you,’ I deadpan.

  ‘Being this handsome is a curse.’ Will sighs. ‘I probably shouldn’t stop for a takeaway coffee for the exact same reasons.’

  ‘Are you trying to make me jealous?’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ Okay, a little bit.

  ‘I’m glad to see you fared better than Ella.’

  ‘Why? What happened,’ I ask immediately.

  ‘According to his babysitting parents, she rolled in last night.’

  ‘Yeah?’ My reply is tinged with laughter. ‘Not surprising, maybe. She’d already started last night before I arrived. I hope she was okay?’ It’s not quite an afterthought, but a sudden concern.

  ‘She was in very good spirits, apparently. Maybe less so this morning. I imagine it’ll take her a while to live down her antics.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘She was under the impression she’d rescued a piece of countryside wildlife.’

  ‘Not a baby fox?’ I’ve heard there are urban foxes in London, though I wouldn’t be surprised to find one nearby, given the amount of parks around here. That’s not to say I wouldn’t be surprised if Ella had found one and taken it home.

  ‘Not a baby fox,’ he answers. ‘Not a baby anything. She very gingerly carried home what she thought was a baby hedgehog. Turns out, she’d been nurturing a large pine cone in the cab on the way home.’

  I laugh so hard, I find it hard to catch my breath.

  Despite Will’s teasing promises, he’s worked all night. He also has a couple of appointments this evening. I think it’s a case of the will being strong, but the body of Will being sleep deprived. Before we hang up, I may make a promise to hang out sometime later this week. Hang out. Right.

  Okay, so it’s not only my will that’s weak. Weak willed about Will. So sue me.

  But this is a vacation fling, not a romance.

  I pull up my electronic tablet in an attempt to send the email home I’d planned to last night—before I’d fallen asleep, that is. I flick open the email app when something in my inbox catches my attention

  FROM: Julian Cork

  SUBJECT: Was I dreaming?

  Dear Sadie,

&nbs
p; I’m not sure where to start, but I have this awful premonition that I’ve slighted you. Perhaps ruined something lovely before it had the chance to begin.

  Saturday was my birthday, which I’d hope you would know after receiving my invitation. It was sent with hope that you’d attend, but not much expectation. After all, how could I know that our meeting two months ago would have the same impact on you?

  At the risk of sounding like a song, I can’t get you out of my head. Ours was a chance encounter that has affected me more profoundly than I’d ordinarily care to admit. But I’m doing so now after waking from my hedonistic birthday weekend with the sinking feeling that I’ve somehow ruined any chance I might’ve had.

  You see, I’m either going mad or I dreamed that you were at my birthday party. And I want to believe you came all this way for me so very badly, while also desperately hoping your apparition was just that—a fantasy. Something my brain had conjured up from the much-imagined meeting of minds we’d had in the less than salubrious surrounds of Dulles airport. Who knew cupid walked among the travel weary?

  But in all seriousness, if you are somehow in London, and you were present on Saturday, I would beg you to contact me. That you would give me a chance to redeem myself. A fool only turns thirty years old once in his life. And a fool I was in so many ways on Saturday night.

  Yours in hope,

  Julian.

  My email to my mom goes unsent for the second time. How does a person attempt to digest the words after the fact—after I’d already decided the kind of man he was? The kind of man I thought he was.

  And like a timebomb at the bottom of his letter, he’d listed his cell.

  Call me anytime. Whenever. Even if you feel you need to point out what a weirdo I am.

  I get up. Shower. Make a little breakfast, then take Sir Lancelot out for his morning run. And all the while, I can’t help but think of his email. Should I ignore it? Reply and reassure him I wasn’t there? You know, just to play it safe. Or should I call him out? Tell him I’m in London? That I saw what went down?

  By the time I get back to the apartment, to say I’m angry is hitting the mark short.

  Try furious. Try at boiling point, as I pull out my tablet once more.

  FROM: Sadie Evans

  SUBJECT: Did I have a nightmare?

  Juju,

  What can I say? I came. I saw. I was appalled.

  I’d tell you to lose my number, but we didn’t even get that far.

  Best,

  Sadie.

  I’m not watching for a response—I’m not—as I toss my tablet on the silk ottoman in front of me. Screw him and the silicone implants he rode in on. I also refuse to feel embarrassed. I’m not the only woman to be hoodwinked by a man, and I can’t be the only woman who’d ever travelled across the world for the chance of love.

  I am woman. I might not be roaring, but I am getting pissy.

  Tea. I think I’ll make a cup . . . then my tablet pings.

  FROM: Julian Cork

  SUBJECT: Just shoot me. Put me out of my misery.

  Dear Sadie,

  What an absolute tool you must think I am. And, as of last Saturday, you’d be right. I don’t have excuses adequate enough to explain my behaviour, but as I’m a man, I’m going to try anyway.

  I truly wasn’t aware you were at the party. I’d thought I’d conjured you somehow in my brain. A sort of desperate need, if you will. Because there’s no way I could have forgotten someone as special to me as you.

  In forgetting you, there is no defence. But I may have been a little off my face.

  A little off my face on cocaine, I hasten to add. I’m not a habitual user, but it’s not often a person turns thirty. It was a watershed day, and I was trying to forget. Pressures of aging, achievement, and questions of the existential and ridiculous kind, however;

  There is no excuse for not recognising you.

  There is no excuse for recreational meds.

  My choice of companion was probably questionable. She was no Sadie, true. But haven’t you ever made the wrong choice, just because you thought the right person wasn’t available to you?

  Forgive me, please. Let me see you again. I’ll walk over broken glass just to be given a second chance—I’m at your disposal. I’m just a boy emailing a girl, asking her to give him a second chance.

  Pick a time and a place, and I’m there.

  Yours,

  Julian.

  That’s . . . an awful lot to take in. And a little close to home.

  I’m immediately thinking about what Will would make of this, and that kind of thinking is just wrong. He’s not my boyfriend and barely even a real friend. And I don’t need to wait for dawn to break back home to hear Kallie’s take on the situation.

  She’d tell me to listen to my gut. That perhaps I need to see him face to face for closure, if nothing else.

  I could ignore his emails. Have the last word before cutting contact. But that seems childish. I am angry, and he was a total douche, but everyone makes mistakes. The bigger thing is trying to correct those mistakes. To heal the hurt.

  But on the other hand, I don’t want to be that girl. The fool for love.

  But on the other, other hand, he was the reason I came to London—didn’t I travel all the way here for the chance of love?

  I hope I don’t hate myself . . .

  FROM: Sadie Evans

  SUBJECT: A time and a date.

  Julian.

  I’ll be in Café Cordoba on Marylebone High Street in an hour. I’ll be getting my coffee to go.

  Best,

  Sadie.

  As I power down my tablet, just hope I’m not making a huge mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  SADIE

  The knot of anxiety in my stomach feels like a lead weight of doom.

  Why the hell did I say I’d meet him here for? Or at all, come to think of it?

  I join the short line at Café Cordoba’s counter, telling myself Julian has the exact amount of time it takes for the dreadlocked Australian barista to take my order and for the skater girl to make my drink before I’m out of here. Dust. Blocking his email. And I feel sort of sick when I think about explaining my motivations to Will.

  ‘What can I get you, darl?’ The tan Aussie leans on the high ledged counter, giving me the look. You know the one—where they, they being men, guess your dress, bra, and shoe size all within the space of a couple of blinks.

  I place my order, forgiving him his non-leer and his crappy ironic t-shirt, which reads; What the frappe!

  Café humour for the lolz.

  I smile, playing nice, because sensible people are nice to those responsible for or close to their food and beverage purchases. I pay, move along the line, all while silently counting down the seconds until I’m out of here.

  Gone. Split. Probably vindicated. Back to enjoying Will and my vaca—

  A hand lightly touches my shoulder from behind, and I turn.

  —tion.

  ‘Sadie.’

  He says my name like it’s a relief. A relief to find me here. And this Julian isn’t the man from the party; all slick suit and perfect hair. This Julian is the same one I met in the airport. A pale blue button-down and jeans. Is it a coincidence that he’s dressed exactly the same, or is he seeking to remind me? Geek-chic dark framed glasses, a mop of dark hair, soulful brown eyes, and a complexion that makes him look like he’s on the verge of blushing almost constantly.

  He’s cute . . . and a little geeky. And that sort of did it for me.

  He doesn’t say another thing, just stands there smiling at me and shaking his head like a total goof.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re actually here.’ His tone is filled with a sort of wonderment that makes my insides turn immediately to goo.

  But I’m more practical than that, I remind my mushy self. And this man has a lot of ’splaining to do. And even then, there are no guarantees I’ll want to maintain contact with him, even as a friend.


  Maybe I just want to see what possible excuse he could have for Saturday. But also, a tiny part of me wants to prove to myself that it was him, and nothing to do with me.

  Pathetic, right?

  ‘Non-fat caramel Frappuccino for Sadie!’ skater girl sings.

  Julian seems to come to with a snap. ‘Oh, would you like to grab a table, and I-I’ll bring your drink order over? Would you like something to eat? Maybe a muffin or a panini? Or maybe you’d like to go for a walk? The weather is lovely . . .’ He bites his lip as he frowns, and just like that, I see the man I came originally to see.

  I try not to smile as widely as I currently want to, and as he begins to speak again, I say, ‘A walk would be nice.’

  He’s profusely apologetic for his actions on Saturday, reiterating the things he’s said in his email. I’d be lying to say it still didn’t smart, but as he tells me of the awful year he’s had, my frostiness begins to thaw. Our conversation-filled stroll turns to lunch at an Italian restaurant, where I drink only water. I’m worried I’ll miss social clues because of my track record so far.

  It’s safe to say we don’t run out of things to speak about; after all, we have so much in common. We’d discovered this in Dulles that day. We’re both big readers—mysteries and biographies for him, mostly thrillers for me. We like some of the same bands and both hate house music. And we’re both a big fan of movies and have been since childhood.

  He’s travelled a lot, and I want to, and we spend an hour talking about all the places we’d like to visit someday, eventually finding ourselves in Regent’s Park after Julian insists he’ll walk me home.

  ‘It’s been hard,’ he says, sighing, his gaze lost for a moment as he watches a pair of ducks skim the water of the boating lake as they land. ‘When my mother died last year, things just . . . got on top of me. My job is pretty demanding, and I just wasn’t on form. The way I looked at it, it was either antidepressants and a shrink, or a little cocaine to pick me up at the weekend. Something to get me off the sofa and out into the world.’